Glimpsed in mind: arugula, fennel, and sea creature splashed with, say, champagne vinegar, Brittney Coast sea salt, fresh pepper, this initially tossed, then a light drizzle of virgin olive oil, tossed once again, then a festive dousing of fresh lemon juice followed by a light rain of lemon zest. The image came as a divine blessing; I saw the ingredients and concocted their harmony. What finally arrived was a poor imitation: the whole was drenched in olive oil (why would you do that? You, hey, idiot, I'm talking to you; put the, will you put the damn iPhone down and answer me? No, look at me!). If there lurked even a hint of sparkling lively vinegar it had been maliciously kicked to the side like a groggy parolee shuffled onto a Greyhound bus with a one-way ticket to the exburbs of nowhere. Where the arugula should have had a peppery herbal bite, oil; where the fennel could offer a delicate root sweetness, oil; when one should have tasted the octopus's recent memories of floating in an ocean wilderness, oil. One-dimensional, criminal, hopeless, and bloody inexplicable in a pricey restaurant in the Marais neighborhood in Paris, France, one of the queens of the culinary world (addendum: I have since been chided by a few friends who shook their heads and pointed out that I was still in a tourist area, that the French are not known for salads so why would I order one etc. True, and beside the point). Doubly criminal, I actually foolishly ate most of the salad--at least the arugula, a bit of octopus, the fennel--before realizing how bad it was. Note what a romantic imagination/expectation can wrought? The wooden tables, the carefully arranged lighting, the vibe of a side street culinary find that sizzled the air and buzzed the street all conspired to make me believe I was experiencing a delicious salad, bewitching my very own knowledgeable salad taste buds. As I peered down miserably into the pool of oil in which bits of pink octopus bobbed like sunburned Englishmen in the viscous Mediterranean sea, I felt betrayed, wronged, the cheek of Jesus stinging from a traitor's kiss. I called the waiter over. "This is the worst salad I've ever eaten," I announced. Not really true, come to think of it, but I was heady and pissed and over the line. She called the manager over. I patiently explained to him--who should know better--how this salad should have been orchestrated. After I'd pointed out the oil puddle on my plate with accusing finger, manager weakly replied "Oh, you do not like that much oil in your salad?" My head twisted like Linda Blair's on a bad night: dude, I brazenly offered, there IS too much oil in the salad, and it's ruined; this is objective fact, not a flutter of personal preference (I mean hello: there shouldn't be an oil spill in the plate, period). Who, I wondered, was the rookie who created this mess? A wiry fugitive from a banana boat bent on self-destruction? Was he on his iPhone the entire time? When the check finally arrived (note the continued adjectives modifying time duration) we found the salad had been comped, small but welcome mercies. We walked into the warm Paris evening uninspired, a little wiser, and then it hit me: the enchantment had dissolved. I needn't pilgrimage to Paris for a fine meal--though fine meals could be had in Paris, and we had a few (not many, but a few spectacular ones). No, let me get to that place where I will cook the fine meal myself. Perhaps then the beautiful people of Paris will come to me.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Can't a Man Get a Decent Salad Around Here?
Dateline: Paris, France, July. We were looking for that unique, elusive culinary experience, Carrie and I, in the Marais neighborhood--hoping to stumble off the beaten tourist routes. We'd been walking for hours. A warm evening, we strolled the quieter streets of stone, whiff of urine reaching us from alleys and doorways, narrow art studios and shuttered shops. The wind drifted us this way, that way, until we located on a slow side street a hip, shiny, busy restaurant, "Glou". Pairs of diners gabbed and laughed within steel, glass, soft pastel painted walls, smoked on sidewalk tables over gleaming salads and grilled succulent steaks. A tad pricey, but we plunged ahead and tiptoed in. Paris swarms with beautiful people, and the young and urban and rather local and professional frequented the place. We felt a bit frumpy, but felt at east when given menus by a pretty, vapid young server. How shall I say this diplomatically? We were afforded ample time to peruse the menu, me glancing over my shoulder occasionally scouting for the server. The retro menu offered new French cuisine, along with stalwart classics. For starters, I picked a salad of octopus, fennel, and arugula. Sounds promising, yes? Perhaps, I imagined, it would look something like this:
Glimpsed in mind: arugula, fennel, and sea creature splashed with, say, champagne vinegar, Brittney Coast sea salt, fresh pepper, this initially tossed, then a light drizzle of virgin olive oil, tossed once again, then a festive dousing of fresh lemon juice followed by a light rain of lemon zest. The image came as a divine blessing; I saw the ingredients and concocted their harmony. What finally arrived was a poor imitation: the whole was drenched in olive oil (why would you do that? You, hey, idiot, I'm talking to you; put the, will you put the damn iPhone down and answer me? No, look at me!). If there lurked even a hint of sparkling lively vinegar it had been maliciously kicked to the side like a groggy parolee shuffled onto a Greyhound bus with a one-way ticket to the exburbs of nowhere. Where the arugula should have had a peppery herbal bite, oil; where the fennel could offer a delicate root sweetness, oil; when one should have tasted the octopus's recent memories of floating in an ocean wilderness, oil. One-dimensional, criminal, hopeless, and bloody inexplicable in a pricey restaurant in the Marais neighborhood in Paris, France, one of the queens of the culinary world (addendum: I have since been chided by a few friends who shook their heads and pointed out that I was still in a tourist area, that the French are not known for salads so why would I order one etc. True, and beside the point). Doubly criminal, I actually foolishly ate most of the salad--at least the arugula, a bit of octopus, the fennel--before realizing how bad it was. Note what a romantic imagination/expectation can wrought? The wooden tables, the carefully arranged lighting, the vibe of a side street culinary find that sizzled the air and buzzed the street all conspired to make me believe I was experiencing a delicious salad, bewitching my very own knowledgeable salad taste buds. As I peered down miserably into the pool of oil in which bits of pink octopus bobbed like sunburned Englishmen in the viscous Mediterranean sea, I felt betrayed, wronged, the cheek of Jesus stinging from a traitor's kiss. I called the waiter over. "This is the worst salad I've ever eaten," I announced. Not really true, come to think of it, but I was heady and pissed and over the line. She called the manager over. I patiently explained to him--who should know better--how this salad should have been orchestrated. After I'd pointed out the oil puddle on my plate with accusing finger, manager weakly replied "Oh, you do not like that much oil in your salad?" My head twisted like Linda Blair's on a bad night: dude, I brazenly offered, there IS too much oil in the salad, and it's ruined; this is objective fact, not a flutter of personal preference (I mean hello: there shouldn't be an oil spill in the plate, period). Who, I wondered, was the rookie who created this mess? A wiry fugitive from a banana boat bent on self-destruction? Was he on his iPhone the entire time? When the check finally arrived (note the continued adjectives modifying time duration) we found the salad had been comped, small but welcome mercies. We walked into the warm Paris evening uninspired, a little wiser, and then it hit me: the enchantment had dissolved. I needn't pilgrimage to Paris for a fine meal--though fine meals could be had in Paris, and we had a few (not many, but a few spectacular ones). No, let me get to that place where I will cook the fine meal myself. Perhaps then the beautiful people of Paris will come to me.
Glimpsed in mind: arugula, fennel, and sea creature splashed with, say, champagne vinegar, Brittney Coast sea salt, fresh pepper, this initially tossed, then a light drizzle of virgin olive oil, tossed once again, then a festive dousing of fresh lemon juice followed by a light rain of lemon zest. The image came as a divine blessing; I saw the ingredients and concocted their harmony. What finally arrived was a poor imitation: the whole was drenched in olive oil (why would you do that? You, hey, idiot, I'm talking to you; put the, will you put the damn iPhone down and answer me? No, look at me!). If there lurked even a hint of sparkling lively vinegar it had been maliciously kicked to the side like a groggy parolee shuffled onto a Greyhound bus with a one-way ticket to the exburbs of nowhere. Where the arugula should have had a peppery herbal bite, oil; where the fennel could offer a delicate root sweetness, oil; when one should have tasted the octopus's recent memories of floating in an ocean wilderness, oil. One-dimensional, criminal, hopeless, and bloody inexplicable in a pricey restaurant in the Marais neighborhood in Paris, France, one of the queens of the culinary world (addendum: I have since been chided by a few friends who shook their heads and pointed out that I was still in a tourist area, that the French are not known for salads so why would I order one etc. True, and beside the point). Doubly criminal, I actually foolishly ate most of the salad--at least the arugula, a bit of octopus, the fennel--before realizing how bad it was. Note what a romantic imagination/expectation can wrought? The wooden tables, the carefully arranged lighting, the vibe of a side street culinary find that sizzled the air and buzzed the street all conspired to make me believe I was experiencing a delicious salad, bewitching my very own knowledgeable salad taste buds. As I peered down miserably into the pool of oil in which bits of pink octopus bobbed like sunburned Englishmen in the viscous Mediterranean sea, I felt betrayed, wronged, the cheek of Jesus stinging from a traitor's kiss. I called the waiter over. "This is the worst salad I've ever eaten," I announced. Not really true, come to think of it, but I was heady and pissed and over the line. She called the manager over. I patiently explained to him--who should know better--how this salad should have been orchestrated. After I'd pointed out the oil puddle on my plate with accusing finger, manager weakly replied "Oh, you do not like that much oil in your salad?" My head twisted like Linda Blair's on a bad night: dude, I brazenly offered, there IS too much oil in the salad, and it's ruined; this is objective fact, not a flutter of personal preference (I mean hello: there shouldn't be an oil spill in the plate, period). Who, I wondered, was the rookie who created this mess? A wiry fugitive from a banana boat bent on self-destruction? Was he on his iPhone the entire time? When the check finally arrived (note the continued adjectives modifying time duration) we found the salad had been comped, small but welcome mercies. We walked into the warm Paris evening uninspired, a little wiser, and then it hit me: the enchantment had dissolved. I needn't pilgrimage to Paris for a fine meal--though fine meals could be had in Paris, and we had a few (not many, but a few spectacular ones). No, let me get to that place where I will cook the fine meal myself. Perhaps then the beautiful people of Paris will come to me.
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