There are some days you need to treat yourself. Feel Good Friday. Sunday Funday. Thirsty Thursday. Whatever you want to call it, there are days for decadence.
In the middle of a never-ending shift at one of the restaurants I find myself in far too often, one of my dear sweet friends, turned to me adorned in her Egyptian-inspired apron/smock and asks “Do you want to go out to dinner?”
Yes. Of course yes. She tossed a few ideas around, but really they all landed on the same name at the end of her catalogue. “Here, here, here, or there?” “Oh, I had an idea, there!” “I would love to get a cocktail and a few snacks here or, really, there.”
With a few friendly phone calls, we were in at 9 o’clock at night for a feast that would leave us waddling out of the restaurant a half hour into the next day.
We got out our restaurant around seven, so with a glass of wine in us, we got ready, listened to the best and worst of current music, and headed over.
From the moment we walked into the restaurant, we felt important. It was the atmosphere of sophistication and a presumption that we, that is all of us that roamed and mingled around tables for two lit by small Tiffany-impersonating lamps, belonged there; we made it in life and could spend frivolous moneys on small portions of huge flavors.
Since the beginning of my endeavors, my journeys, into the food worlds – I have wondered what exactly was the preferred way to go about eating the perfect meal paired with adult imbibements. Cocktail, sparkling, white, red, dessert, espresso? Sparkling, cocktail, white, bigger white, red? Should hard liquor even play around with the amuse-bouche? Should alcohol even be around food – if the food is good enough, why even tamper with it?
That last question, in the face of true eaters, gastonomes, all over is a laugh. Even the revered Gopnik claims “Dinner with water is dinner for prisoners” (31, The Table Comes First).
In any case, we took to the first option: a cocktail at the bar with her in heels and a fur and me in snazzy shoes and a collared shirt. Gabbing about nothing and musing about our shift and those around us – how exactly do so many 20somethings have enough money to afford SoHo lofts and TriBeCa two-bedrooms – we spent fifteen minutes soaking up the higher class.
Once at our table, a small table for two in the corner of what looked to be a French brasserie, carpeted red and cushioned with comfort, we told the server – a joyous man – to choose our menu. We were hungry and ready to see what people really get for all of the hype and accolades. First, playful starters. Second, delicate seafood. Third, decadence. Fourth, gluttony. The food was outstanding playing around with fleur de sel, foie gras, truffles, fruit de mer, butter, homemade cheese, and chocolate. Poach, Roast, Braise, Brine, Sear, Mandolin, Julienne, serve raw and true. Radishes and Cauliflower, Chicken and Mozzarella, Uni and Brussels Sprouts – really this menu did no wrong. Paired with a half-pour of beautifully crafted wines for each course – the accolades stood tall and my wallet couldn’t handle this more often than a few times a year.
We walked our ways through the emptying restaurant to coat check, put our winter wardrobes back on, and exited back into the real world, escaping what seemed to be a secret, satiating hideaway.