Hook: Basqueing in Sablefish Glory

Please forgive me for beginning my first post with an unforgivable pun. But, I might be trying too hard. I mean, I am starting off with an account of Hook, a sophisticated, M Street, virtuous-touter-of-sustainable-fishes-on-menu restaurant. This is the type of restaurant that ex-sorority girls in sundresses extol to their visiting mothers as "the" place (as I found out on Sunday while on the metro). And I'm taking liberties in chronology by reaching back in my gastronomical history a bit (5 August); I'm writing this from Cosi, my local bakery chain with free wireless, and recounting tonight's mediocre salad, the conversational inanities of the blind date at the nearby table, and the waitress singing along to a Jamaican-ish version of Van Morisson's "Brown Eyed Girl" isn't excellent fodder for a new blogger trying to impress.

So, Hook. Since my dinner was two weeks ago, I can't gush with the same gusto as I would have that night, after enjoying grilled calamari with a walnut pesto, a Basque (region in Spain) white wine, sablefish with an eggplant (tahini?) sauce, and the Lingonberry Linzertorte (dignified name for a tart) with a hazelnut crust and Italian cheese ice cream. However, I can attempt to describe the liberating feeling of dining alone at a fancy restaurant, an experience not unlike attending a comedic movie alone on a Friday night or sitting at a bar before friends arrive.. but remarkably more dignified and eventually more satisfying.

There's a little bit of hostess incredulity at first: you're dining alone? And then a little bit of forced self-preoccupation to assuage the occupants of nearby tables that you really aren't interested in their conversation. And then, the strategic diversion of your eyes from the entire restaurant staff so they don't notice that you are trying to notice everything. But then the stiffness wears away... At good restaurants, you partially suspect that the hostess might envy you for enjoying the restaurant in all its glory. You can play the game of "is this __ in my __?" with the waiter without interrupting your dining partner's conversation. You can create the time-consuming but perfect bite by laboriously selecting an element of everything on your plate. And then, if you're really enjoying yourself, you can get mildly curious glances from that observed wait staff who wonders for whom you are a food critic (and now I have an answer to their silent inquiries!). At this particular restaurant, my friendly Mexican waiter patiently indulged all my inquiries into the make-up of every dish, from the dessert's port-reduction sauce to the tablespoon of sauce underneath my fish. He attentively poured from my French press--with only a smile--and left me to my journaling. And my fellow diners were so equally engrossed in the ecstasies $28 fishes can yield, I was able to reign as princess of my meal, manager of every fork and cup on my small table, and head editor of the most verbose journal-turned-blog ever.