Crazy nights and lazy mornings

“Probably one of the most private things in the world is an egg until it is broken." – MFK Fisher

I woke up this morning with no prompting, and stumbled out of bed with that youthful vigour of trying something new. These occasions get rarer as you grow older, but once, every so often, you feel a fleeting bolt of what can only be called gusto, and the invincibility that comes with the innocence of youth. It was a brisk autumn morning, one of the best kind, and one could almost smell the coolness in the air. Clayton was already pottering around the house and we exchanged pleasantries as we each fumbled around trying to wake up completely. He put a pot of coffee on as I put my feet up on the couch and mused to myself that the secret to a good day – a good life, even – must indeed lie in not having to hurry in the mornings.

Clayton moseyed off to grab the paper and a bagel and sit in the coffee place two blocks away, that he had stolen and laid claim to after I had kindly introduced him to it; but I wanted to stay home, make myself an omelette and eat it on the couch while reading the New Yorker. I was better off without him anyway; I am of the opinion that an omelette is a personal thing and should not be shared. One person, one omelette; if you have two, then two omelettes – and so forth. It is the reason – apart from laziness – an omelette is the perfect dish for when you have to eat alone. I offered to make one for him, but for some unknown reason – quite frankly incomprehensible and bordering on the sacrilegious – Clayton does not like eggs.

As I prepped to make the omelette it felt immensely comfortable to shift into a familiar gear, or a familiar series of motions. Over the years I have made many omelettes, at all times of the day; and while I do not claim to possess all the many little secrets to making the perfect one I have picked up a couple of tricks. To start: a clean non-stick pan or a cast-iron skillet. That it is clean is imperative if you do not want your omelette to stick, but you can also temper your pan with salt before you use it. By this I mean that you heat the pan over high heat and sprinkle it with salt, shaking the crystals around until they begin to brown. Discard the salt and keep the pan on high heat.

I make a three-egg omelette, adding two sloshes of milk or cream and one of beer if I have a bottle open. Then I like to poke the yolks open with a fork before I whisk them, adding paprika, red pepper flakes, salt and pepper. As I went through these motions this morning I opened the kitchen cabinet to reach for the paprika and found it in its usual place – right at the front – it occurred to me how often I use this particular spice. Every cook has his or her crutch – that one ingredient that they turn to all the time; that screams to be added when the cook tastes his or her simmering sauce to correct for seasonings. Garlic, I feel, is a universal crutch. Lean too heavily on your crutch, and everything you make will start to taste the same.

But I figure that when one is cooking for oneself, one has all the liberty in the world to make every dish taste the same, if that is the way one likes it. So I do not hold back on the paprika, and soon I am ready to make my omelette. I took the pan off the burner and turned the gas down to medium low; with the pan off the heat I added a pat of butter to it. I swirled the fat around as the kitchen filled with that familiar woody scent of burning butter. Placing the pan back on the fire I poured the egg mixture in with a great flourish, and the five-minute adventure had begun.

I swirled the pan to make the edges of the egg rise up against the side of the pan – these will brown first and tell you when to flip one side over. As the centre slowly began to harden I watched for the whitening of the egg white and then threw in my ingredients – made simultaneously in another skillet. Today it was bacon bits and mushrooms with onions and red pepper. The thin crispy edge of the egg mixture on the side of the pan then began to pull away from the edges of the pan, and with a surgeon’s precision I peeled an entire side of the omelette and folded it over the rest of the egg mixture, itself not yet cooked solid. As anyone who has ever made an omelette will tell you, this is the World Cup, the Superbowl, the World Series, the shot as time expires. It is the moment every athlete trains towards – his or her one chance at glory. All the planning and prep will count for naught if this is not executed just so. There is immeasurable satisfaction at success – a perfectly folded omelette that slides neatly onto your plate – and considerable anguish at failure – a runny mess that looks more paint splash than culinary creation.

It turned out well for me today, and as I sank back into my couch with my fork in one hand and my plate in the other – my coffee on the table in front of me – there was not much else I desired at that point. Sitting cross-legged, I balanced my plate on my lap and picked off it as I read my magazine. I had nowhere that I had to be, and nobody that I had to meet, for quite a good while more, and that was exactly the way I wanted it.

Für Elise

Union Square Cafe
21 E 16th St
New York, NY 10003
212-243-4020

Birthdays are a curious thing. I like mine, because it means people have to be nice to me – regardless of how badly I may treat them. I also like to celebrate mine by breaking bread with good friends. There is perhaps nothing more enjoyable than a good dinner with your nearest and dearest. The question remains though – do I break bread with them because they are my good friends, or am I good friends with them because we break bread together? A happy dilemma, but one nonetheless.

I was on the road for my birthday this year, but fortunately to New York City, that haven of fabulous restaurants and home to some of my favourite people in this world. Morgan could not make it for dinner, but Camille, Emi and Elisabeth all indulged me on my special day as I finally made it to Union Square Café – a mainstay of the dining scene I had wanted to try for quite some time.

It was early when I got into the taxicab to go to the restaurant, but as I sat in the back of the car I grew curiously anxious and got the way I feel when I am late to an engagement. Every stop at every light felt interminable, and the silence in the car was almost oppressive. I got off a few blocks away from the restaurant on purpose so I could walk through Union Square, for there is a certain something about the neighborhood that lifts me no end. There is a growing bounce in my step as I near my destination, and with it my companions for the evening.

The hostess kept us standing at the front desk for just long enough to have a proper, light conversation; and not so long that we would get tired of waiting. This put me in a good mood as we were shown to what I thought was the best table in the house: a fourtop nestled in the corner of the room, with full view not only of everyone else in the room but also the entrance to the restaurant. One could see everyone coming and going in and out, but not be noticed at all in the bustle of the restaurant. It was prime people-watching space and I enjoyed it immensely. One would think that with good food and good company, there should be no need to keep looking around, but it is the human condition to, even when entirely satisfied, look around for someone who is perhaps having better food or better company or is enjoying themselves more than you are. I am no less human.

Elisabeth, apart from being one of the lights of my life, is also one of the most graceful people I know and has perfect posture. She sits up straight in her chair, and does this charming thing where she cocks her head gently forward when she cannot hear the conversation, listening intently and always smiling. She does not rest her hands or elbows on the table, and handles her cutlery in a wonderfully delicate manner and with expert finesse. She has a languid ease about her, and never looks the least bit awkward or ruffled. With friends as beautiful as these, who needs to people-watch?

So Elisabeth sat to my left, and Camille to my right, and they both had the arugula salad as an appetiser. It came smothered in fresh parmesan, which Elisabeth loves, and indeed it pleased her no end. Not technically a vegetable but an herb, arugula is nevertheless one of my favourite greens – it has a distinct peppery taste that works well with vinegar. But instead I had the homemade fettucine with roasted lobster and chanterelles in a basil and orange olive oil. Fresh pasta has such a sweet doughy goodness, I am ashamed that I do not make it from scratch more often. I am the world’s biggest fool for chanterelles and the orange was an interesting touch, and the dish was light and simple like all good pasta dishes should be. And like all good pasta dishes, it was gone too quickly.

Once I had seen it on the menu there was really only one choice – the duck – I was ever going to make for my main course. It was only fitting for a special occasion as this was – duck being quite possibly my favourite meat. I was a little wary at first – why does everyone pair duck with baby bak choy? Regardless, the duck came seasoned with lemon and pepper and could perhaps have afforded being done a little rarer, and it came in an intensely flavoured peach-fig chutney which was quite out of this world.

As we all plowed into the dessert that we shared – a peach tart made with some very buttery pastry – I could not help but wonder why the restaurant had had such longevity and become so well-loved by New Yorkers. The service was warm and hospitable, but there was little that was markedly unique about the restaurant and it did not lend itself to a particular personality. It was a little too large to be intimate and a little too small to be grandiose. I suppose, then, in conclusion: if you keep making food as good as Union Square Café does, then people will keep coming.

The well-laid plans of mice and men

Sometimes planning a meal can be almost as exciting as actually making it and – very rarely – actually having the meal. Certainly for me it feels like the longest stage in the entire process: how many courses, what ingredients and what methods to use, what wines to drink and obviously most important of all – who to invite. Yesterday I finally threw a dinner party that had been in the works for close to a month; I had talked Laura and Amanda’s ears off about what I would make and it was time to deliver.

Part of the planning process, I feel, and especially with a multi-course dinner, involves choosing your courses carefully so that you have a comfortable mix of dishes that can be made in advance and dishes that have to be made a la minute. I had made vichyssoise earlier in the day and was going to serve it as a starter; the lamb would take four hours and so had to be started early too. The bread pudding would be served as dessert and could cook while we were eating. Really the only things I had to make by the time dinner actually rolled around were the pasta and the couscous. At two points last night I actually stood in my kitchen and twiddled my thumbs as I wondered what to do next.

To start we had vichyssoise, a cold potato-leek soup which I was cooking for the first time. I threw in a splash of truffle oil, which felt like cheating to me but it did wonders for the soup. Morgan had told me to use more butter and fewer potatoes for a thinner, lighter soup; I followed his advice and it turned out well. I had vaguely remembered reading somewhere that one should always over-season chilled soups, and I sadly did not heed this pearl of wisdom to the extent it was intended. I made the soup and it had tasted powerful before I chilled it, but when dinner came it had distinctly lost a little of the flavour it had before and was in desperate need of salt and pepper at the table. Natalia brought a bottle of Muscadet (Muscadet Sevre et Maine, Domaine des Dorices, France, 2004) to pair with the soup, and it was a delightful course nonetheless.

After the vichyssoise we had what I thought was the best course of the night, cappellini with clams in a variation of regular pesto that had spring onions and honey in it. This had a compelling and exotic flavour, and if Natalia ate red meat I would have definitely added pancetta to it for some smoky goodness. Hunter brought a delightful, clean and crisp white (Sauvignon Blanc, Montevina, California, 2003) which was almost buttery in its smoothness, and went wonderfully with the pasta.

As everyone finished up their primi I exited to the kitchen to whip up the couscous for the next course. In the oven I already had lamb shanks braised in red wine for everyone but Natalia – for whom I made portabellas stuffed with asparagus and breadcrumbs. Laura, who could not attend, had sent on a full-bodied red to go with the course (Cabernet Sauvignon, Tisdale Vineyards, California, 2004). An Old World wine may have worked better here as I had used a Burgundy Pinot in the making of the dish but Laura’s wine was more than adequate. We also had Amanda’s bottle of Bitch wine but we never got to drinking that – I will save that for another special occasion.

At this point people were rubbing their bellies but there was one course to go yet, and miles to go before we slept. I had wanted to recreate the Portuguese sweet bread pudding at Mill’s Tavern, but unfortunately had no access to sweet bread here in DC. So in desperation on Friday I had baked my own with a recipe I found online, and promptly burnt the crusts to a deep mahogany brown. I have a feeling my oven’s temperature control is – how does one put it – not quite so reliable. The bread itself tasted good though, and I went ahead with the plan. It did not turn out quite like regular bread pudding – there is a lot of work yet that I have to do on this recipe – but I made a cognac sauce that I drizzled over it and it was sweet, sassy, saccharine goodness like all desserts should be. Matthew brought port (Porto, Taylor Fladgate, Portugal, 2000) like I asked him to, and I drank perhaps a little too much of it. One never knows when to stop when drinking port.

The conversation had not yet begun to die when the night crept up on us, and it was soon time to go. As fall and winter approach so will those awkward moments before parting ways where you have to button your jacket, or wrap your scarf, or pull on your boots at the door before making your exit. I never know what to say during those few uncomfortable seconds. Fortunately this can all be resolved quite easily with hugs and kisses and handshakes, and it was a good thing there were plenty of those to go around last night.


Cappellini with Clams in Spring Onion and Honey Pesto

2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 shallot, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
I can clam meat
½ cup spring onions, coarsely chopped
½ cup basil leaves, coarsely chopped
¼ cup pine nuts
1/3 cup + 2 tablespoons olive oil
¼ cup honey
2 tablespoons heavy cream
Cappellini
Dash of Old Bay
s/p

Blend the spring onions and basil leaves in a food processor – do this in small batches to ensure they are well chopped. When done, add pine nuts and repeat. When pine nuts are blended into the pesto mixture, drizzle olive oil and honey into the mixture while keeping the food processor going, stopping to scrape down the sides of the container.

In a sauté pan, cook the garlic, shallot and red pepper in a little olive oil over medium heat for 4-5 minutes. Add the clam meat and season with Old Bay, salt and pepper. Add the juices from the can and cook down for another 4-5 minutes. Pour the pesto mixture into the pan and add the cream, mixing well to incorporate it. Keep on medium-low heat for a further 3-4 minutes to cook the cream through.

Prepare cappellini per directions on the box. When done, toss evenly with pesto mixture, correct for seasoning and serve.

(Pesto will keep in the refrigerator for a week or frozen for a month, for best results store with a layer of olive oil over it.)

Waltzing with Wüsthofs

There is a scene in the 1990 film Goodfellas in which Paulie (Paul Sorvino) is preparing garlic to be used for tomato sauce. He is sitting down, hunched over a table, and it is as though nobody else is in the room. He uses a razor and slices the clove slowly and deliberately, with his left hand perched on the side of the table to steady it. He is a study in concentration – his eyes are focused completely and entirely on the application of the blade to the garlic and he holds his breath each time he brings the blade down – and produces transparent panes of garlic so thin that they “liquefy in the pan”. I think of this scene often, especially when I am prepping – for Rome may burn and the Bastille may be stormed, but I’ll be damned if anyone gets in the way of me chopping garlic.

I was thinking of this scene earlier today as I pulled dinner together from what I had in our depleted kitchen. I had been out of town for a week and Clayton had somehow survived without a grocery run. I had garlic – for what is a kitchen if it does not have even that – but not much else, and I did what I could. For a razor I had my chef’s knife, and as I sliced through the garlic I became aware of that sensation one gets when working with a familiar implement. It is comfort, almost, wielding my knife; but it is also power and strength and art and creativity all at the same time.

I have a Wüsthof Classic 8” Chef’s Knife, and it has served me well over the last year. I chose it for its heft, and the feeling of grandeur it gave me to hold it. The blade sharpens easily, and keeps well. It has claimed my blood only one time, and the knife and I have settled into a easy marriage of sorts. I thumb the blade without fear, and I sometimes take my eyes off the board. I can do those things now. Some day I will move on to bigger and better things – for like all enthusiasts in the culinary arts I lust after good Japanese steel. I long for the day when Hattori Hanzo will custom-make me a sushi knife. Until then I have my Wüsthof, and for now I am content.

As knives go I suppose I have been spoiled by the days living with Jose – when I had a whole bagful of his to choose from. He too had Wüsthofs – among others – and, as a dutiful student of the culinary arts, kept his steel clean and sharp. He respected the knives, and in return they did what he wanted in the way that he wanted it done. He taught me the claw technique, which I bastardized in my own use; and he showed me the proper way to cut an onion. To this day I prep as he does – he never cut so much as an onion without making a plan for the whole meal, and he never started cooking until everything he needed was cut and prepped. The plan, the prep, and the actual cooking – these were three distinct stages which had to follow one another in their entirety and could not be compromised. He would pull out everything he needed from the four corners of the kitchen and lay it on the counter; and after a flurry of his blade he would have his mise. Then, and only then, would the first fire be lit.

I hold the knife by the bolster – that thick metal piece joining the handle and the blade – pushing my hand obstinately into the finger guard, with my index finger straightened over the top of the blade. I do form a claw with my left hand, but at a forty-five degree angle to the blade rather than the ninety that I was taught to. Holding a knife gives me an adrenaline rush, and to feel the blade going through a leek or an onion or a pepper is a thrilling sensation. Rather – if your knife is sharp enough – you do not actually feel it going through, but only think that you do, and it is enough. Those in the know will understand completely that after using a good, sharp, well-weighted and well crafted knife there is no way of going back to a dull or unwieldy one – that feeling of holding a blunt blade as it crunches slowly through the leek or onion or pepper is one of unspeakable disappointment.

If, though, using a dull knife is unspeakably disappointing, then the thrill of a sharp one is quite indescribable. Jointing a chicken for example, or should I say jointing a chicken well, is perhaps one of the more satisfying tasks of those performed in the kitchen. To feel the blade of a carving knife slide easily through the flesh of the chicken, missing bone and joint altogether, sets my hair on end. I feel forceful and destructive, and entirely capable of bloody murder; but at the same time like a craftsman – delicate and elegant, unhurried and deliberate – turning a matter of a quick seconds into what feels like an eternity in paradise.

As I minced the garlic for dinner it was all I could do to keep from smiling each time the blade made its systematic thuds against the chopping board. I rocked the knife back and forth, and as my wrist moved I gradually lost the sensation that the blade and my hand were separate. I felt like an artist does in front of his canvas, and like a brute does in front of his victim; and there was no calculation whatsoever on my part as I simply did what should be done.

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A Point: The very end of the knife, which is used for piercing
B Tip: The first third of the blade (approximately), which is used for small or delicate work
C Edge: The cutting surface of the knife, which extends from the point to the heel
D Heel: The rear part of the blade, used for cutting activities that require more force
E Spine: The top, thicker portion of the blade, which adds weight and strength
F Bolster: The thick metal portion joining the handle and the blade, which adds weight and balance and keeps the cook's hand from slipping
G Finger Guard: The portion of the bolster that keeps the cook's hand from slipping onto the blade
H Return: The point where the heel meets the bolster
J Tang: The portion of the metal blade that extends into the handle, giving the knife stability and extra weight
K Scales: The two portions of handle material (wood, plastic, composite, etc) that are attached to either side of the tang
L Rivets: The metal pins (usually 3) that hold the scales to the tang
M Handle Guard: The lip below the butt of the handle, which gives the knife a better grip and prevents slipping
N Butt: The terminal end of the handle

***Courtesy of Wikipedia

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Death in the evening

Fall is the best season to cook meat in. The weather accommodates both grilling outdoors and slow roasting indoors, and the wealth of options possible is greater than at other times in the year. I take much comfort in trotting out the old favourites in my recipe book, especially the ones I associate with lovely memories of our Friday dinner parties that one fall when Morgan and I first started cooking together. Margaret came to visit this past weekend and we planned and made a lovely dinner for seven – complete, of course, with a vegetarian option.

There are moments in time when you are doing something you love and you feel you cannot be touched. Sportsmen call this being in the zone, and it is a great and glorious thing to experience and behold. Yesterday in my kitchen – a kitchen I have been cooking in for almost a year now – I had a heightened, somewhat different, awareness of my entire space and I worked with passion and honour. Without realizing it I was thinking three or four steps ahead subconsciously and I moved with much certainty. I did the right things in the right way, and I was proper and honest and sure and the result was quite a tasty meal indeed.

I invited Amanda because she is such a delight, and Clayton because he pays rent here as well; and Margaret had three friends that she also invited. Margaret loves mussels, and I made those in her honour; as well as a whole roasted leg of lamb with plenty of garlic and fresh rosemary and mint, that I could not take my eyes off the entire time it was cooking. Big, hearty haunches of meat always make me weak in the knees, just a little bit, and I die a little death every time. It is a happy death, of course. I made the caramelized onion and apple tart that is my favourite vegetarian option; while Margaret also made a salad of greens with red onion and apples and toasted pinenuts, dressed in a ginger-balsamic vinaigrette.

There is something about a dinner party that excites me no end. Last night there was much chatter and pockets of conversation and wine glasses clinking, and we had a ball. At one point I leaned back and smiled while thinking to myself that these were grand times we lived in. Margaret made strawberry shortcake for dessert which was simple and extremely satisfying, and Clayton made us all coffee to close our palate. It was a perfect dinner, with nothing missing, and I enjoyed myself greatly.

Mussels in Saffron and White Wine Broth

1 bag of mussels
1 tsp saffron threads
1 bottle dry white wine
3 strips bacon
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 large leek, chopped
2 cups chicken broth
Healthy sprinkling of Old Bay
Half as much paprika as Old Bay
Half as much cayenne as paprika


Clean the mussels, picking out the bad ones, and leave them in iced water while making the broth. Pour the white wine and the chicken broth into a large mixing bowl and steep the saffron threads in them. This should ideally sit for about 20 minutes.

When ready to make the broth, fry the bacon in a large pot to a crisp. Starting soups and sauces off with bacon adds so much flavour and smoky goodness, it is a wonder people do not do more of it. When the bacon fat has been rendered, take out the bacon strips and set aside. Add the garlic and leek to the pot and season with the spices. Cook for about five to six minutes and then add the broth. Simmer the mixture for a while – ideally for 15 or more minutes – then add the mussels to cook. Remove them when they open and serve in bowls of the broth.

An avocado adventure

I had an onion bagel with avocado today.

In the latter part of the morning I went to the coffeeshop with Amanda to work. It is always easier, I feel, to keep your discipline when there is someone else around. I do much good work at home in the early morning while Clayton is still asleep just so I can look at him with disdain and tut-tut when he finally emerges from his room. But once he leaves the house I sometimes lose my focus, especially if I do not have to call into any meetings. So it was that I arranged to meet Amanda; I had not eaten all morning and I was hungry and wanted some fresh orange juice.

The last time we were at the coffeeshop Amanda had gotten an onion bagel with fresh avocado and she got the same thing again today. She broke the avocado slices into smaller cubes with a butter knife and spread it unevenly across her bagel. The bagel was toasted lightly, and flakes of toasted onion crisps fell to her plate as she lifted it this way and that. She did this with her plate next to her on the couch while artfully balancing her laptop in her lap, then held the bagel to her mouth to eat it.

The coffeeshop was unusually crowded with plenty of eye-candy and yet all I noticed was Amanda eating the bagel. I had a bran muffin myself and was nowhere near as satisfied with it as she looked. Amanda has this look about her when she has eaten well – she leans back and gets a dreamy look in her eyes. Once after a meal that I had cooked for her she leaned back in her seat, rubbed her belly with her right hand and said simply, “Mi piace.” It was the highest compliment I have ever gotten.

The French have this expression they use to refer to a need for something to happen – il faut – which I like using because there is nothing in English which comes close. Il faut conveys a singular urgency and necessity that no word in English can replicate. That urgency and necessity reflected exactly and completely my state of mind about the bagel and avocado – I most absolutely had to have one for myself.

I had never had bagels with avocado before and it seemed to me like a strange combination – especially with an onion bagel. Still, when mine came I went through the same ritual Amanda did with it, for fear of not having the same experience. The bagel was toasted to the point where the tips were crisp and crunchy to the bite and had the smell and taste of something burnt, but the inside was still soft and doughy and had all the goodness that bread and bread products have. The avocado was fresh and sweet and not all of it would spread easily on the bagel, but I did the best I could. I rationed my avocado with the bagel that I had perfectly so that my last mouthful was one with just slightly more avocado than all the rest. It was, as experiences go, as satisfying as they come.

I had an onion bagel, toasted, with avocado today, and it changed my life.

A simple dedication

In the good days I would work with Morgan in the kitchen and I felt very secure in the knowledge of limitless possibility. He had a lazy grace about him and always moved very slowly so it seemed that he did not care about the cooking. But he always cared, and for him the point of it all was in the planning and the making of the meal. He was more alive in the kitchen than at the dinner table.

What Morgan really had was the discipline to always respect the food. I never saw him cut any corners or settle for the easy option when it was not the right one. He would do the best things he could with the ingredients and the tools that he had, and he worked with a simple dedication that was oblivious to time and effort and all the other little things that you needed to sacrifice to make a great meal.

It was Morgan who showed me that red pepper and basil go extremely well together, and we had made on more than one occasion tilapia fillets with red pepper-basil tapenade. It was the first of the recipes we had dreamed up together that I had written down in my notebook and it was the one that I turned to two nights ago when Natalia and Matt and Hunter came over for dinner. To start I made mussels in a saffron and white wine broth and I paired the tilapia with a lemon asparagus risotto. It was nothing I had not done before so I gave myself an hour to prep and make everything.

As I diced the red pepper I was thinking about the night ahead and what we would do after dinner. I opened the wine and sipped on it – the chef’s prerogative – as I stirred the broth in which I would cook the mussels. There is no radio in my kitchen but I put some tango nuevo on the stereo in the living room and it made me feel like I was dancing as I moved around the kitchen.

I ended up having less time than I thought because I stepped out to send a work email I had forgotten to take care of earlier. Risotto is a dish that consumes a lot of attention because to cook every grain you must stir it constantly over controlled, medium heat. Sadly I probably did not give it the attention it deserved even though it came out quite passable. The mussels also did not taste as good as the first time I had made the recipe; and I felt badly about the tilapia because I had intended on breading them but did not have the time to do so.

I had treated making the meal very lightly and now that it was done I felt very hollow inside. It was not anywhere near what it could have been and that had come about because I did not respect the food. I had been in a hurry and had wanted above anything to put the meal on the table and I did not concentrate on the making of the food like I should have. We ate and it was good nonetheless because the company was charming but I woke up the next morning feeling quite disgusted with myself.

Isn't it pretty to think so?

DC Coast
1401 K St NW
Washington, DC 20007
202-216-5988

I very often muse to myself that I should have been alive in other decades, and one of my favourites is the Roaring Twenties. Art Deco and the Jazz Age, the Harlem Renaissance and the Lost Generation – I could go on. Last night I had dinner with the always lovely Laura and Amanda at DC Coast, and at fleeting moments throughout the night I felt transported back to the good old days of modernity and mechanisation. It was a strange feeling. At other times I simply exulted in the company of these two good friends – there is nothing quite so relaxing at the dinner table as familiar faces. And even though Laura did her level best to ruin the night with some inappropriate yet hilarious and, strangely, pertinent conversation concerning certain bodily functions, I had a smashing time anyway.

DC Coast is in the heart of downtown DC, and surrounded by tall, concrete office buildings with setbacks – banks and hotels and whatnot built in the style of modern architecture. It is a Saturday night, so there is little bustle on the streets; and a certain quaint and lazy ease in the air almost in defiance of the craziness of the workweek gone by. I walk into the restaurant with Amanda, and it is hard not to have your breath taken away. The room is sprawling and the ceilings soaring, and there are beautiful Beaux-Arts fixtures and arches punctuating the walls. There is a bar to the left of us that stretches the length of the room, and behind it large oval mirrors hang on the walls, making the room look even more impressive than it already is. I felt like one must have in the Gatsby mansion, and resolved to live out the night with the requisite pomp and circumstance.

My pre-dinner drink of choice is the usual Tanqueray and tonic, and the bartender makes it good and stiff. This sells me on the place almost immediately. The service was prompt and personable, and they do not hurry us one whit as we wait for Laura to show up. In fact, throughout the course of the meal the staff that serve us are wonderfully patient and exceedingly quick to accede to all our requests – including a particularly obnoxious one for larger wine glasses, made by a certain individual who shall remain unnamed. They run a pretty tight ship at DC Coast, and I am impressed.

It appears, too, that the kitchen is as competent as the house. Laura and Amanda both start with soups, and I have a shrimp risotto that fills me with food envy, for while the lightness of the risotto was all well and good I secretly craved the spice and splendour that was Amanda’s lobster bisque. I follow that with the yellowfin tuna, seared and cooked to a beautiful rare, with the inside barely warmed. It was paired with cold calamari ceviche, which gave the dish that citrusy tang that complements seafood so well. I looked up in the middle of my meal, surprised to find Amanda holding out her plate across the table – she had cut out a piece of sea scallop and was offering it to me. She is a sweet, sweet girl, and so much of a better person than I am that it embarrasses me.

Dessert is stellar as well – I had a panna cotta that rekindled my infatuation with the vanilla bean. Then we all closed our palate with espressos and I felt very European. It says something that when we finally left the restaurant and went our separate ways, I had little recollection of the nuances of the evening’s conversation – except for Laura’s interesting aside – and even less idea of how much time had passed. Yet it had been a good two and a half hour dinner, and we had seen a couple at the adjacent table come and go.

As we parted and I walked the dinner off en route to yet more shenanigans, I could not help but think about what I like to call the CAV/Mills debate. CAV and Mills Tavern are respectively my two favourite restaurants in Providence, RI from when I used to live there. I like the former because it is an intimate and personal place, the sort of restaurant that nourishes more than it feeds. But I also love the latter, formal and proper and deferential to the notion that cooking is the highest of arts, and should be performed on a stage that gives it its due.

Funny then, that I was at Nora two nights ago, a place that nurtures, that provides, that makes people happy much in the vein of CAV; and then the following night at DC Coast, majestic and thorough and a similar style of restaurant to Mills Tavern. I cannot decide which of these two types of restaurants I like better, and I hope I never have to choose.

So fresh and so clean

Restaurant Nora
2132 Florida Ave NW
Washington DC 20008
202-462-5143

There are restaurants, and then there are restaurants. This past week marked an annual tradition in DC – Restaurant Week – where a whole litany of otherwise unaffordable eating establishments offer a 3-course prix fixe menu for $30. The downside of this, apart from having to dine with the riffraff, is that there are only so few participating restaurants that put their usual heart and soul into their cooking this week compared to others, and there is every chance you will wind up with a thoroughly unsatisfying meal. Fortunately, there are some who maintain their dedication to gastronomic greatness – Corduroy, for example, offers its full menu for Restaurant Week – and I had the pleasure of dining at just such a place yesterday, the famed Nora.

Nora is, quite frankly, a damned good-looking building; the corner rowhouse at the end of one of many beautiful tree-lined streets in the area. A short ways off the main drag that is Connecticut Ave and nestled on the edge of what I like to call the sleepy side of Dupont Circle, it is muted red brick and looks more like home and hearth than anything else. The inside is made out to look like a stable and is equally lovely. A model airplane hangs from the pine beams that criss-cross the high ceiling, and a collection of Amish quilts are framed and draped on the painted brick walls. Doors lead to steps that lead to more rooms, and people appear from out of nowhere. It is the kind of place that makes you feel like exploring, but puts you too much at ease to start.

I had made this reservation a month and a half ago, so I was understandably excited. Allison, though, was even more so than I. She lives just a couple of blocks away, and as we walked over from her place I had to struggle to keep pace with her. We finally arrive though, right on time for our reservation, and are ushered right to our table. There is a shaded paraffin lamp on the table, and a bottle of olive oil – both lovely touches. When dining with one other, I like to sit at right angles; facing the other person directly always makes me awkward. I continue to fidget throughout the duration of the meal and am calmed only when there is food on the table or wine in my glass; it must have been a sorry sight.

It is so important, in food as in any and all other endeavours, to begin well. And we do, unequivocally. Allison and I both start with the vichyssoise – light and refreshing and quite delicious. There is a slice of something or other in the soup which we find out later is a tuile – French for ‘tile’ – a thin cookie made from wheat or potatoes that is placed over a rounded object when still fresh from the oven. Whatever the case, it is a detail that is much appreciated, as were the efforts of our waitress to find out for us. She was extremely nice, equal parts whimsy and charm and had a smile that made me think of my momma for some reason.

I go on to order the wild mushroom and corn risotto, while Allison has the Atlantic salmon baked in parchment paper. I don’t particularly care for salmon, but I had a bite of hers and the freshness was overwhelming. My own meal was – shockingly, vegetarian – but an explosion of colours and flavours that warmed my heart. I have a long and lovely history with mushroom risotto, from when Morgan first taught me to make it, right through to the days when Jose would bring chanterelles back from his work and we would break out the truffle oil and eat like kings. This, then, was another scenic step in what I am sure will be a lifelong love affair.

Nora’s whole deal – and possibly why the a la carte prices are so high – is that it is dedicated to fresh, local and organic ingredients. It was, as we read, the first restaurant in America to be certified organic – and the cooking certainly let that shine through. Everything we tasted was so good and wholesome and fresh, and to paraphrase something Allison said – made me feel like a better person.

We close out with dessert and I have a coffee to ward off the food coma; the night is young yet, and so are we. As we walk out I cast a glance back to look for our waitress, but I cannot see her anywhere. I am sure, though, that our paths will cross again, for I must certainly return to Nora; and so I am content to save the wave goodbye for the next time we meet, or never, as it were.