Pre-dinner limoncello aperitif in my kitchen.Unconsciously in my mind, I was preparing for a date with dinner; my preposition choice here is key. Some girls in their lives take a date to dinner. In my life, sans viable dates, I spend a romantic evening with a fine meal. The waiter usually is the facilitator, chaperone, or third-wheel of this date. And since these meals are usually the first of their kind, this waiter-role isn't inappropriate or awkward. But these aren't the desperate longings of a single girl; these are the longings of an amateur food critic who wants her waiter to stop acting like he's about to nervously ask her to prom.
It occured to me tonight that being a single girl dining out is also like volunteering to go on a blind date with your waiter. You want to be paid attention to, flattered, get the same treatment as other girls/patrons concurrently on other dates, have him notice small details, and be comfortable, conversational, and genuine. And this is the life after bourbon, where service may never be as singularly attentive. But I've always expected more from a guy with a plastic ear piercing plug thing: that he'd skated with all manner of righteous, diverse dudes so he'd be at ease with any patron, or would admire the uniqueness of a woman dining out, like a rock fan is proud of the young woman who makes her way to the front of a Tool concert.
I didn't get this. I sort of got the treatment of a grandmother who might pick up her grandson in her pink minivan in a very public spot after his having a successful shopping trip at Hot Topic. My waiter presumably wasn't embarassed of me or disappointed in my lack of ostentatious black ear decor, but he certainly didn't treat me as the sophisticated diner my flowery dress should have suggested to him that I was.
I didn't get the specials, my amuse bouche was delivered by the water boy, my bread didn't come until my dinner (unlike other diners), my waiter tried to steal my amuse bouche before my bouche was fully amused, he was terrible recommending items on the menu (damn equivocating men), and was just generally awkward. I define generally awkward as the act of forming sentences that begin at about 2 words a minute then quickly crescendo into a fevered pitch of a question in a tone too urgent and uncomfortable for most men to replicate.
To begin, just after ordering, I got a mini stein of chicken broth. I thought the water boy said it was argula and pasta, but I think it was chicken broth, garlic, and maybe a head of Parmesan. 0 for 1, but raw garlic makes me thankful I'm single so I don't have to excercise restraint in eating it.
For my appetizer, and after a series of follow-up questions posed to my waiter as to what I was eating, I had rabbit "porchetta." It was pretty impressive. On the left is the "porchetta": a melange of rabbit meat and aromatic herbs, encased in a rabbit body. So, like bunny sausage. Except I wasn't reminded of the cuter, more Disney-esque word for rabbit until just now, so I could indulge in peace. A sourdough cracker formed the dividing wall to a celery remoulade. My waiter told me it was a fennel salad. 0 for 2. The salad had too much dressing (some sort of mustard-based mixture); its consistency--dense, watery, crisp, and cool--made it fun to eat, but not quite as fun as pickled pearl onions. I was 2 for 2 on consuming every last bit of bad-breath-giving food.
But I got bored. There was no one around, I was sitting in the corner where the sideways glances of passers-by somehow reminded me of being a lady for rent in a red light district (I was right against the window), and I might as well have been my waiter's least favorite English comp teacher, so I took a photo of a light.
At some point, I accidentally flipped the lights off with my shoulder blades during my dinner and another waiter came by to turn them back on. I lose a point, but my waiter doesn't get one because he didn't turn them back on. Score.
Dinner, however, was fabulous. As the plate was set down, the waiter reminded me I ordered halibut and I cursed to myself that I did it again: ordered flavorless, pallid fish (a fear motivated by my repeat ordering the same fish as my last dinner but not by the appearance of tonight's dinner). But this fish had much more personality than my waiter: it was smeared with fish guts ("scraps" or some other nicer word) and then pan seared, so it had the crisp exterior my waiter promised. It was resting atop smashed fingerling potatoes (really smashed but still intact), cipollini onions, delicious greens (tasted as delicious as freshly-cut grass smells), all in a red wine-butter sauce. It was a triumph.
And just as a bad first date doesn't catch hints, my waiter didn't pick up that my fork and knife were arranged in a parallel fashion at 3:00 on the invisible plate clock. For longer than a waiter should. He immediately noticed, of course, when I finished my wine and asked if I wanted another. The stud I encountered only appears to have been in his ear.
Dessert was delciousi: I had a yogurt "parfait," which was a series of small poppy cake squares (dense but shallow pieces), perched on mounds of lemon curd, blueberries, and granola, with some sort of blueberry sauce and an inkling of yogurt drizzled around. It was innovative, delicious, deconstructed but easy to reassemble, and fresh. I was Roxane to the chef's Cyrano de Bergerac, with the incompetent waiter/emissary getting in the way.
And while tonight's service was disappointing--as most first dates are--it's some consolation to me that I have paragons. While I look for a man like Mr. Darcy, I'll quest for a place with Bourbon Steak-style service. A girl's gotta dream.
It occured to me tonight that being a single girl dining out is also like volunteering to go on a blind date with your waiter. You want to be paid attention to, flattered, get the same treatment as other girls/patrons concurrently on other dates, have him notice small details, and be comfortable, conversational, and genuine. And this is the life after bourbon, where service may never be as singularly attentive. But I've always expected more from a guy with a plastic ear piercing plug thing: that he'd skated with all manner of righteous, diverse dudes so he'd be at ease with any patron, or would admire the uniqueness of a woman dining out, like a rock fan is proud of the young woman who makes her way to the front of a Tool concert.
I didn't get this. I sort of got the treatment of a grandmother who might pick up her grandson in her pink minivan in a very public spot after his having a successful shopping trip at Hot Topic. My waiter presumably wasn't embarassed of me or disappointed in my lack of ostentatious black ear decor, but he certainly didn't treat me as the sophisticated diner my flowery dress should have suggested to him that I was.
I didn't get the specials, my amuse bouche was delivered by the water boy, my bread didn't come until my dinner (unlike other diners), my waiter tried to steal my amuse bouche before my bouche was fully amused, he was terrible recommending items on the menu (damn equivocating men), and was just generally awkward. I define generally awkward as the act of forming sentences that begin at about 2 words a minute then quickly crescendo into a fevered pitch of a question in a tone too urgent and uncomfortable for most men to replicate.
To begin, just after ordering, I got a mini stein of chicken broth. I thought the water boy said it was argula and pasta, but I think it was chicken broth, garlic, and maybe a head of Parmesan. 0 for 1, but raw garlic makes me thankful I'm single so I don't have to excercise restraint in eating it.
For my appetizer, and after a series of follow-up questions posed to my waiter as to what I was eating, I had rabbit "porchetta." It was pretty impressive. On the left is the "porchetta": a melange of rabbit meat and aromatic herbs, encased in a rabbit body. So, like bunny sausage. Except I wasn't reminded of the cuter, more Disney-esque word for rabbit until just now, so I could indulge in peace. A sourdough cracker formed the dividing wall to a celery remoulade. My waiter told me it was a fennel salad. 0 for 2. The salad had too much dressing (some sort of mustard-based mixture); its consistency--dense, watery, crisp, and cool--made it fun to eat, but not quite as fun as pickled pearl onions. I was 2 for 2 on consuming every last bit of bad-breath-giving food.
But I got bored. There was no one around, I was sitting in the corner where the sideways glances of passers-by somehow reminded me of being a lady for rent in a red light district (I was right against the window), and I might as well have been my waiter's least favorite English comp teacher, so I took a photo of a light.
At some point, I accidentally flipped the lights off with my shoulder blades during my dinner and another waiter came by to turn them back on. I lose a point, but my waiter doesn't get one because he didn't turn them back on. Score.Dinner, however, was fabulous. As the plate was set down, the waiter reminded me I ordered halibut and I cursed to myself that I did it again: ordered flavorless, pallid fish (a fear motivated by my repeat ordering the same fish as my last dinner but not by the appearance of tonight's dinner). But this fish had much more personality than my waiter: it was smeared with fish guts ("scraps" or some other nicer word) and then pan seared, so it had the crisp exterior my waiter promised. It was resting atop smashed fingerling potatoes (really smashed but still intact), cipollini onions, delicious greens (tasted as delicious as freshly-cut grass smells), all in a red wine-butter sauce. It was a triumph.
And just as a bad first date doesn't catch hints, my waiter didn't pick up that my fork and knife were arranged in a parallel fashion at 3:00 on the invisible plate clock. For longer than a waiter should. He immediately noticed, of course, when I finished my wine and asked if I wanted another. The stud I encountered only appears to have been in his ear.Dessert was delciousi: I had a yogurt "parfait," which was a series of small poppy cake squares (dense but shallow pieces), perched on mounds of lemon curd, blueberries, and granola, with some sort of blueberry sauce and an inkling of yogurt drizzled around. It was innovative, delicious, deconstructed but easy to reassemble, and fresh. I was Roxane to the chef's Cyrano de Bergerac, with the incompetent waiter/emissary getting in the way.
And while tonight's service was disappointing--as most first dates are--it's some consolation to me that I have paragons. While I look for a man like Mr. Darcy, I'll quest for a place with Bourbon Steak-style service. A girl's gotta dream.
1 comment:
I was just attracted by those pictures. Now Im hungry.
I'm reading your posts from the start so I wont be able to keep up with the recent ones for a while....
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