today

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It's hard not to sound pretentious about some things in my food life. These are actual events, and this is how I stitch them together. I count my blessings.

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When people working in food media and the chef crowd go out to a restaurant, this can happen.

Someone says, 'let's order everything on the menu,' or a restaurateur will say, 'we'll take care of you.'

It's often a cue to prepare for more food than you're into. And it can go on.

Sometimes I'm up to it. More often, I'm not.

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At Frenchette, in New York, I had three courses. My companions took the other road.

The cooking was sublime, but my world came to a tire-smoking stop when this Tarte Tatin was set in front of me. I can't look at that dimly-lit picture without gasping a little.

Pastry talent in the kitchen. My heart beating. Loud.

We're seated in a banquette, and I was concentrating—not like exam-level—because French cooking is what I trained in. I have expertise. All my senses open.

Sometimes I want to get to know a restaurant quietly. Have space to give the food and room thought and attention. Remain alert to the subtleties. Be good company.

Too much food on the table in any restaurant, and the thread starts unravelling for me. 

Too much time at a table can mess with the business too. FOH staff wondering when they can go home already.

What if that Tarte Tatin was set in front of me after ten courses? The gasp might have been different.

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I ate at Restaurant Pic the year Anne-Sophie won three stars. The thrill of that journey—an abundance of wonder and thankfulness. 

Unnerving too. It was 2007. The event put an end to a fifty-year blackout for women working in French restaurant kitchens.

The shoulders she stood on. 

​The red Guide Michelins in the foyer. Walking past the open kitchen.

Everyone at the table wanted the tasting menu. I had to play. Those are the rules. Timing and all.

What I remember most is how little I remember. There were so many astonishing courses and gorgeous wines for my companions.

At some point my capacity to take it in froze. 

***

I took notes at Saturday night dinner at Milkweed Inn.

Who doesn't want to record the details, scribbling like a poet or anthropologist, when you're eating Iliana's food.

I can flip to the pages in my notebook when my spirit needs an infusion of beauty and hope.

It's a peaceful and quiet place. The company that night was so fun.

Dandelion yellow light seeping from windows into a squid-ink sky. Stars sparkling. Laughter a thread in the wild night noises.

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Long menus can feel overwhelming. Sometimes tiring. Sitting in a restaurant for hours can be torture.

Sometimes I do not want to be dipped in hot butter.

Give me three or four beautiful things, please. 
​
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Signs of love and welcome from friends in the kitchen are nice. Never expected. 

Make it amuse-sized—pre-dessert, and I'm ecstatic. 

Maybe this is me getting older. 

I don't need the gesture. But if it happens, make it small and place it well. 

It lands deeper that way.

***

I'm currently gorging on this man's music. *wink*

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2020