adrober

Dear Mr. Steingarten, First of all, thank you so much for answering our questions. I am the proud owner of a newly purchased "Man Who Ate Everything" and my two-part question concerns the Introduction. I am increasingly amazed by the idea--presented in your "Step Two" of overcoming phobias--that taste is the product of environment, not genetics. This leads to two very important, very personal problems. 1) My taste in bagels has been ravaged by Dunkin' Donuts. I am a bagel person and I come from a bagel family. Growing up in New York, we would eat wonderful bagels every Sunday and over the course of my life--post Bar Mitzvah bagel brunches, platters sent after funerals--I have eaten some pretty terrific bagels. Then I moved to Atlanta. While Atlanta produces many good things--peaches, fried chicken, Jimmy Carter--it most certainly does not produce great, or even edible bagels. That's why I started. I was confused back then, I didn't know any better. I went to Dunkin' Donuts and ordered a sesame bagel with cream cheese. The first bite was beyond awful: green fumes shooting out from each laminated crevice. I swore I would never go back. But then I did. Again. And again. Which is all a very long way of saying that I'm addicted. Instead of overcoming a food phobia, I need to overcome a food philia. (Is philia a word?) I now crave Dunkin' Donuts bagels. I know that they are awful, disgusting plastic replicas of the real thing, but I want them. I need them. And there's no alternative. Whatever shall I do? 2) My friend Lisa is a lovely person with one major flaw: she hates olives. "Lisa," I say, "Jeffrey Steingarten says that taste isn't genetic and that you can overcome your distaste for olives." "But Adam," she replies, "why would I do that? I don't like them, why should I make myself like them?" "Because," I scream, "it opens up a whole new world of culinary opportunity." She shakes her head and rolls her eyes and walks away. "Come back!" I yell, to no avail, but that's besides the point. How do you effectively campaign to liberate the tastebuds of your loved ones? Is there anyone in your life who refuses to eat the food you enjoy? Thanks, Mr. Steingarten, and I apologize for my long-windedness! Sincerely, Adam Roberts

Wow, this is eerie: I'm a law student / aspiring food writer / model at Vogue. Ok, the last one was a lie. Since I'm still fishing for a law job, maybe Mr. Steingarten can answer this as a follow up question: which branch of law (tax, real estate, litigation) generally eats the best? [PS: I'm writing my final paper for my prison class on prison food. Do you think that prisoners can be rehabilitated through better meals? My thesis is that food in prison takes on even more meaning than food in the real world and is therefore intimately related to the rehabilitation process. Maybe I'll post the paper (with my professor's permission) when I'm finished.] - adrober

Thanks, Pan. I just fixed the images, I think... - Adam

My parents have been mostly receptive to my newfound interest in food. Granted, their eyes glaze over with boredom when I discuss the intricacies of a good olive oil or the many dangers of overworking your gluten, but for the most part they have encouraged my newly hatched, furry-headed passion. Luckily, my parents have a passion of their own: trendy dining. This is not an indictment. Many folks with money in their pockets and social compasses on their belts will turn to where the buzz is buzzing. And in my parents case, that was Cafe Boulud: West Palm Beach. "We made a reservation for when you come home," my mom said before Thanksgiving. "Ok!" I said gleefully. When I got home, my parents started tiptoeing backward. "Maybe we should go to Bice instead," my mom said. "Your father likes that better." Interestingly, I was willing to acquiesce: the idea of a four-star lunch with my finicky parents frightened me. What would they send back? What havoc would they wreak? But, no, we trudged forward. Arriving on time to the very pretty hotel Cafe Boulud is housed in, on an inconspicuous side-street of West Palm Beach, the sun beat down pleasantly as the valet took our car. Here is the sign posted outside: Once inside, we were shown to a colorful table in a colorful section of the very colorful room. Here is what we looked like: Please take note of the wine glasses on the table. This led to the sole controversy of our dining experience, the waiter-recommended "house" white pushed without a chance to see the wine list. The wine was very good, not amazing, but good. Why the controversy? When the bill came, the cost was $22 a glass. This upset my parents greatly. They felt the waiter should have informed us that the wine--which ended up not being the house, but a special more expensive California Chardonnay--cost so much. "In my life," my mom said, "I have never paid so much for a glass of wine." Moving on, though, the food was spectacular. Here is our menu: This was a fixed price lunch, based on Daniel's new cookbook "Daniel's Dish" (an autographed copy of which we purchased later). My dad and I ordered from this menu while my adventurous mom ordered from the a la carte. We were all happy with our choices. For starters, I had the Chilled Melon Salad with Lemongrass Shrimp; What a delicious dish! A delicious Daniel's Dish! The salad was freshing and the soup was refreshing leaving this diner thoroughly freshed. My lips smack just thinking about it. Mwa! Then on to the entrees. For your visual enjoyment, I photographed all three: Mom's salmon! Dad's hangar steak Au Poivre! My sea bass! Needless to say, they were all divine. We ate til our mouths stopped working and then ate some more. Finally, there were the desserts. There was warm chocolate cake: And my choice, petit fors: All in all, we were incredibly blissed and sated. Then there was some buzzing. "What's that buzzing?" my mom asked. "Hmmm?" my father probed. There was some brouhaha brewing at the front. Who was here? What was happening? Alas, it was Daniel himself, here in town to check out the joint and to sign book! My parents were quick to their feet. "Come!" they beckoned. "No!" I responded. "Yes!" they pleaded. For my family is, rather embarassingly, a family of celebrity stalkers. We stalk celebrities shamelessly, carelessly, and recklessly. All of this is well-documented on our family's celebrity stalking website. [state's Evidence 41C: My Mom With J.Lo and Puff Daddy] In any case, our house has two whole walls festooned with relics of our celebrity hauntings from stalkings past. Because of my political stance--that being "mom and dad you're crazy stop bothering these people!"--my image is surprisingly absent from said walls. Hence my parents eagerness to have me photographed with Daniel of THE Daniel in New York. "Just do it Adam!" says my mom. "Don't be an idiot!" says my dad. "Fine!" I say, and we approach Daniel who is working a group of happy West Palm Beachites. "Excuse me Daniel, I hate to interrupt," says my mom. "Hello," says Daniel. "Would you mind taking a picture with my son? He's a big fan." "Oh," says Daniel, "Are you a chef?" "No," I say, somewhat embarassed. "He's a writer," though, says my mom, making my face turn red. "He likes to write about food." "Wonderful," says Daniel, as he puts his arm around me posing for the picture. And, so, here it is: me and Daniel, Daniel and I. Apologies for my bright and rather ugly shirt. I didn't know this picture would be one for the ages: THE END

FOOD NETWORK THANKSGIVING IN HELL Martha is roasting Documents burning beneath Apple in her teeth. Emeril's smoking Adoring audience BAM! "He tastes just like spam." Contessa buttered and buttered--more fat!--now cue [the] BMW. THE END?!?

Wow, that was awesome! It made me hungry. In fact, I'm going to freeze some lettuce water right now...

a very religious entry JESUS & 1000 GUESTS one fish one loaf lots of water and wine glasses MOSES lamb's blood shank bone salt water taffy ADAM & EVE watermelon kiwi banana eternal damnation GOD sacrificial lamb young virgin THE DEVIL Burger King Southwest Sandwich

PROLOGUE: RISOTTO SHAME Several weeks ago, I ran into my favorite professor from college at the gym. For privacy's sake, we will refer to him as RR. "RR!" I said. "Hey, adrober!" he said. We got to talking. One of our shared interests is food. I told him that I've been cooking more and more and that I'm getting quite good at it. "Excellent," he said, nodding his head enthusiastically. Then, a bit quieter, he asked: "Have you made risotto yet?" I turned several shades of pink and regretfully shook my head "no." Things grew quiet. "Ummm..." RR stammered. "Well, I better go work my pecs." Tonight was not particularly ideal for risotto making. I needed to finish a short story for a short story contest that I'm entering. Plus, I have a pretty unpleasant cold, that keeps me in a constant state of sniffling. And my usual culinary guinea pig (having most recently consumed my disturbingly undercooked chicken) and roommate, Lauren, was out (perhaps intentionally) at a movie. My only audience was, in fact, Lolita my hard-to-please cat. No matter. As some great chef probably said somewhere: "Risotto trumps all!" PART ONE: INGREDIENTS So first I cracked open my "Chez Panisse Cooking" book. Having bought it several months ago, this was (sadly?) the first recipe I've attempted from within its pages. Next, I determined which ingredients I needed. I already had a heap of unsalted butter in the fridge, a huge box of kosher salt and several pepper balls left in my pepper grinder. I had 2 mini-bottles of dry white wine... well, I'm not actually sure if it was dry, but it was white and already purchased (Sutter Home, 2000, according to my sommelier). And I had 2 quarts of chicken broth in boxes that were eerily reminiscent of the box drinks I used to bring to school as a youngster. Alas, still in need of 4 to 6 cups of wild mushrooms, 2 shallots, Arborio rice, pancetta, parsley and thyme, I headed down the hill to my local Whole Foods. (It's literally in my backyard). I ran through the store, scooping everything up like those guys on Supermarket Sweep. At the register, I impulsively bought a copy of Bon Apetit, to add to the stack of Food Magazines that I read once and never read again. The check-out woman eyed my Arborio rice suspciously. "What is this?" she asked. "It's for Risotto," I answered. "Ah," she said, still staring at it. "Umm, let's go here," I said to her in my head. She studied the rice several seconds more (did she suspect sinister Arborio activity?) and placed the rice in the bag. Grand total? $22.46. But without the magazine, it would have been like $4. PART TWO: ALL MY MISE ARE EN PLACE Call me old-fashioned (or French) but I like to have everything ready before I go. And, in the case of a rather intimidating dish like risotto, it seemed doubly-wise. So: I diced the two shallots (my eyes, which are normally shallot-immune, began gushing forth huge quanities of water, making dicing quite difficult); I diced my pancetta (probably not small enough), I measured out my wine, and chopped the parsley and thyme. Here's what everything looked like when I was done: PART THREE: SCREW THESE TITLES, THEY'RE UNNECESSARY Anyway, so then I simply followed Alice Waters and Paul Bertolli's finicky but helpful directions. 1) I sauteed the mushrooms for 15 minutes: 2) I set them aside. 3) I melted butter in my large silver pot. I added the shallots: They were supposed to "soften" for two minutes but since they were browning, I quickly jumped to step 4. 4) And I added the pancetta and the rice. 5) The sizzle was loud and highly enjoyable. I stirred it around for three minutes. Then, in a moment of true auditory pleasure 6) I added the wine! 7) I waited for the rice to suck that up and, when it did, I began adding the chicken broth. This part was the most terrifying. Not necessarily because it was difficult, but because this seemed to be the most "built-up" of the steps, the one where Risotto either triumphs or joins a support group. I added the broth cautiously, always stirring, and always rereading the instructions in the book that cautioned not to let the broth go higher than the level of the rice. This continued for 15 minutes and was rather soothing. Perhaps spas and health clubs should add risotto-stirring to their day long therapeutic beauty treatments? 8) So then, after the 15 minutes, I turned up the heat and stirred in the mushrooms. Ah, now this was really the do-or-die moment. Alice and Paul are all like: "You better adjust your seasonings here! And add the right amount of broth! And taste it to make sure it's not too chewy or too tender!" Yikes. And, for the record, tasting scalding hot risotto rice does nothing but numb your tongue and the roof of your mouth. In any case, after five minutes, all seemed copacetic. I stirred in the butter and the herbs: PART FOUR: SAY WHA? Ok, so let me get this straight. Stir rice for 15 minutes and you have risotto? My goodness, look what I had before me: I carried it over to the TV table and sat down with Lolita, contemplating. She gave me a look that said: "Well, go on, eat it!" So I scooped up a spoonful. Steam billowed off it and I carried it slowly to my mouth. First taste impression: Mmmmm. It was such a wonderful, earthy combination of flavors. Standing out the most? The thyme, pancetta and wine. Their combination really made this taste like nothing I'd ever tasted. The whole thing was a terrific fusion of flavor and texture and justified all the risotto posturing of my favorite professor, RR. When I finished the bowl I looked around me, taking in the world, and sighing. That non-existent chef whose quote I made up before really was right. Risotto DOES trump all. THE END ?!?

Perhaps you should make that your new signature. Funniest line in this thread by far!! Consider it done!

Emily, I also enjoyed your post. Very well written. Jbraynolds, my Seeger's experience was similar to yours. I was there with my parents, and we found the service both cold and unhelpful. Actually, the Travel section of the New York Times last week featured a piece about Atlanta where the writer, who went to Seeger's, felt the same way. The food, however, I think was far superior to Charlie Trotter's. I can remember (even though it was over a year ago) the salmon tartare appetizer and a really good dessert which, come to think of it, does slip my mind. I think Seeger's, in terms of design, has more character than Charlie Trotter's: I like how it's all in this little free-standing house. If only the service were warmer, the meal would have been great. As far as poussin goes, I think I got confused: sexless chicken was my nickname in high school.

Well, you heard from someone else that night who ate the exact same food and said: "I agree that the food was very good, but not spectacular." And I completely, 100% disagree that I was in a "state of inattention": I was incredibly focused on the food. Did I understand everything I ate? No. But did I want very much to enjoy it? Of course! I think your "arch" take on the dinner dynamic is incredibly off. Instead of me trying to impress Alex with mockery and scorn, it meant very much to me that she be blown away by the food. You have to understand that I am a lone rider in my group of friends when it comes to eating: I am trying to convince them that the pursuit of good food is, indeed, a noble one. If anything, I was incredibly sensitive to the food that night because it would have been the best thing ever if Alex had burst with excitement at the table, smacking her lips and saying "this is the most amazing meal I've ever had!" The fact that it wasn't and she didn't may be due to an off night in the kitchen or unreadied tastebuds, but in either case the idea that we blithely dismissed the food is wrong.

I would like to make two points: 1. I disagree that one has to be expert for their views to be valid. I think any carefully written account of an experience, regardless of how lofty the subject matter, can be worthwhile. True, there are critics who proselytize and seek to elevate with didactic prose, but the better ones, in my opinion, are reactionaries. If a non-Springsteen fan went to a Springsteen concert and wrote a thoughtful critique of it on a Springsteen fan board, that would probably be more helpful to Springsteen fans than someone simply writing "Springsteen rocks!" And, call me crazy, but I would rather read a Bux review of dinner at TGI Friday's than Bux's praise of dinner at Le Bernadain because it would be more honest. Similarly, even if my dinner review wasn't expert (Poussain is a sexless chicken? How weird!) it was genuine. And I'd rather be an unsophisticated truth-teller than a pretentious poser who would moan with pleasure if duck feces were presented elegantly before him. 2. I reread my piece in search of mockery and found it only in one place: my description of the waiter. I can only say, in my defense, that sometimes mockery is warranted. George W. Bush says "nuc-u-lar" and brings upon himself the countless imitations and parodies. Our waiter was a robot. If I had a video camera that night and later played his performance for roomfuls of unbiased specatators, they would howl with laughter at his ridiculousness. I am not even arguing that he was a dying relic of a withered cultural institution: he was actually quite young. All I am saying is that he--as an individual--was overly mannered, completely out of tune with his audience and disturbingly intense in an already tense atmosphere. If that's great service, then count me out.

THE BATTLE FOR ADAM'S ATTENTION AT CHARLIE TROTTER'S a short play Stomach: Adam, you are at a very fine restaurant...now focus! Penis: Don't listen to him, stomach, you can totally score with Alex tonight if you yuk it up! Stomach: Score with Alex? Please. Penis: Shut up, stomach, and drink your Ame. Stomach: Ahhh, what a refreshing herb-infused fruit beverage! Alex: Ummm...Adam, you're talking to yourself again. Waiter: Would you like some wine with your Ame? Alex & Adam: No thanks. Penis: Make your move Adam! Sexuality: Ummm, Adam, you're gay. Penis: Shhh...you're ruining it! Sexuality: Oh come on, penis, he ordered a bellini. Stomach: Actually, I ordered that. Egullet: And you wondered why your meal was so expensive? THE END

No fear, NeroW. I have not been scared off. I find most of this very entertaining. I can relate to what many of my critics on here are saying in terms of my palate (spelling corrected). This, for me, translates into one of my other major passions: musical theater. (A massive thought bubble arises across the internet: "OH God, he likes musicals!") But for the longest time I resented the work of Stephen Sondheim. I considered it obnoxiously inaccessible, self-indulgent, and far too brainy for its own good. Eventually, though, I forced myself to listen to "Sweeney Todd" straight through, reading the liberetto along with. It soon after became my favorite musical. When a neophyte in any field is presented with a work that challenges, the temptation is to fault the work. And surely Sondheim's critics often declare: "He's too cold! There's no emotion! Completely inaccessible!" But for those who venture inward and rise to the challenge, they are presented with a work whose craft is so extraordinary as to be mind-boggling. Charlie Trotter reminds me of Stephen Sondheim in this way. He's an absolute perfectionist and his craft is exemplary. I would never in any way challenge the preparation or arrangement of the food on the plate at Charlie Trotter's. The most offensive comments to me, so far, are the ones that suggest I went there with a "chip on my shoulder." Nothing could be further from the truth: I was so excited about going there, I hardly ate anything that day so I would be able to savor the entire meal. My initial reactions once we had stepped inside--noting the age of the clientele, the wariness of the servers--was my attempt to describe how it felt to be Alex and I at that moment in time. It wasn't based on any preconceived notion: surely, if I had preconceived how it would be I would never have given the woman my credit card number to hold the table under the threat of a $200 fine. A critic is only required to filter the experience through his own unique perspective and to relay his opinions truthfully. I think much like Alex and I being the wrong audience for Charlie Trotter's, many on here are probably the wrong audience for my review. If you want refined tastebuds discerning the intricacies of the saffron flavor in the boullibaise, read William Grimes. My goal--perhaps an admirable one--is to write for a younger audience who, for whatever reason, fear fine dining as something not for them when, in reality, it can be very much for them: adding a whole new layer of enjoyment to their lives. When my friend Lisa and I went to Babbo a couple of months ago (and yes, yes, I know Babbo = not on par with CT's or Daniel or whatever) we had the best meal of our lives. You can read my review of it on Chowhound here: http://www.chowhound.com/boards/manhat/mes...ages/80935.html In any case, its flattering that so many of you are taking my experience at Charlie Trotter's so seriously. Perhaps you will read my restaurant guide for young people when it comes out: "Gauling Pallettes."

This is very exciting: I feel like the much sought-after child in a heated culinary custody dispute. Caper vs. Caper? I should probably mention here that Charlie Trotter's was in no way my first foray into the world of fine dining. In Atlanta, I've eaten with my parents at Seeger's and Bacchanalia; in New York, there was Babbo and Balthazaar and others I can't remember; I've been to Paris and eaten in the Eiffel Tower restaruant, Jules Verne (is that touristy or admirable?). In any case, I know what fine dining should feel like and was not a completely unrefined Eliza Doolittle. With that said, this WAS my first independent effort to finely dine, with my own money, and with a good friend at a place as esteemed as Charlie Trotter's. And compared to all my other experiences before my Age of Independence, it simply didn't measure up. I think part of this is cultural. Without wanting to perpetuate stereotypes, Jewish people (myself included) like value. If you took my grandmother to Charlie Trotter's, and she stared down at that vast white plate sprinkled with two or three mushrooms and a thin line of green sauce, her head would rotate 360 degrees and she'd have Charlie's head on a platter. It's a complete affront to our sensibilities. This is why, I think, ethnic cooking is more robust. Flipping through my copy of Judith Nathan's "Jewish Cooking In America" you see recipes for 12, with lots of shmaltz (chicken fat), seasonings and flavors. Jewish people, like other minority groups, know what it's like to live without, so when they are able to live with the finer things they want value. I think there's merit to that. Beyond that, though, I don't think a great meal requires an intellectual leap from tongue to brain. If it tastes good it tastes good: and there is value in even the smallest portion if its the best thing you have ever eaten. And, just to clarify, I knew the meal would cost a lot of money. The shock was of the cinematic variety: imagine me at my table holding the check and then a flashback montage of all the food we ate and how small and unimpressive it all was and then cut back to me staring up at the camera as it pulls away, yelling "Nooooooo!" while dramatic music plays. FADE TO BLACK.

Wow, I hardly expected so many replies in such a short period of time. Here are my thoughts: I am very willing to concede that the problem was not necessarily Trotter's, but my own inexperience and lack of a "nuanced" pallette. I simply think it was a matter of choosing the wrong restaurant for the wrong time in my life. Kind of like reading "Ulysses" before you've read, say, "To Kill A Mockingbird." I also apologize for suggesting that the service was cold or snooty. The best word I can think of to describe it is "alien." They just seemed slightly Martian, which isn't always a bad thing. I prefer, though, waiters with a sense of humor who are shrewd enough to understand their audience: our waiter would be perfect for, say, Eleanor Roosevelt or Herbert Hoover. But with two nervous looking kids who needed guidance, he could have been slightly sharper. I suppose I anticipated that the bill might break the $300 mark even though Alex's meal was $100 and mine was $125. The shock probably had more to do with frustration than genuine surprise. Thanks, Adrober

PREFACE My name is Adam and I am an aspiring gourmet, limited in my pursuit by factors that include: a. budget; b. food knoweldge; and c. friends with limited pallettes. No matter. Challenges are opportunities for us to shine: just ask Mary Lou Retton. My trip to Chicago was a last-minute gesture, planned to celebrate my friend Alex's birthday. She moved to Chicago from Atlanta (where I live and go to school) to pursue a career in improv comedy. For many, this may seem a simple pipe dream, but Alex is already in The Second City conservatory group. She's 10 steps away from being the next John Belushi. Except, of course, skinnier, healthier, and prettier. I had first heard about Charlie Trotter's on, of all places, The Food Network. My least favorite show, Food Finds (which is so bad they actually show it on Delta flights) had a segment featuring Charlie himself. Mark Silverstein (the host) (do you think he's Jewish?) told the camera that Charlie is known for his short temper and perfectionism. They showed a clip of Charlie looking angry and preparing a very sparse looking plate. If my life were a novel this be the foreshadowing. The second source of my Charlie Trotter awareness (on the path to Charlie Trotter nirvana) was the cookbook section of Borders. His books were big, expensive, and incredibly impracticle. What stuck in my mind were the blurbs: (taking liberties, here): "Charlie Trotter is the most amazing chef in America. His restaurant scored 10 on the Michelin emissions test and 14 stars on the Mobil gas guide. One of the best restaurants in the world!" Clearly, this was someone to reckon with. And since I was going to Chicago, I said to myself: "Self, why don't you call and try to make a reservation?" So I found the number online and did just that. Well, it wasn't quite that easy. The snooty British woman seemed dubious at first and then put my name on a waiting list (this was a Monday). When she hadn't called by Thursday, I called back to check on my status. She put me on hold. She came back and said she had a table for two and that they would need my credit card number because if we cancelled they would charge us $200. This was serious business! I paused for a moment, reflecting on my life goals, dreams for the future, and whether or not my children (when I had them) would want to go to college. "Sir?" the woman snapped. "Yes, yes," I said and gave her my number. [it should probably be stated here that despite my budget factor (see limiting factor a), this summer I saved some money working for a law firm in LA. And while my savings might impress a destitute wino or a bankrupt Ted Turner, they are by no means extensive. With that said, we now resume our previously scheduled review.] PART ONE: THE ARRIVAL Alex is of the socially conscious variety. For example, she insisted throughout my stay on taking this strange transporation device known as "The L." What is this L? I demanded. "It's the best public transportation in any city," she replied. I tended to disagree since my first experience on it involved a wild-eyed psychotic declaring that he was "learning to control his urge to kill." Alex rolled her eyes and we took a cab to Charlie Trotter's. The outside entrance was surprising in that it looked like the outside entrance of any other generic city restaurant. A smiling outside host eyed us and said "Welcome!" pointing the way upstairs and probably thinking to himself "Who are these kids? Are they kidding?" Once inside, I felt a sense of panic. Looking around, at the distinguished gray-haired couples on the couch, at a pair of diplomats (with strange headress) at the bar and the suspicious-looking host heading our way I thought to myself: "Oh shit. We're in over our head." "Good evening," he said, his eyes asking: "Who the hell are you?" "The name's *," I said, "we have a reservation." "Oh yes, Mr. *," he said, pronouncing my asterick perfectly. "May I take the lady's coat or sweater or whatever that is?" We all laughed as he took Alex's coat/sweater/whatever it was. He showed us to the bar and presented us with a wine list. "You're both over 21, right?" he asked. "Yes," we laughed. (I'm 24, she's 22). Little did we know, this was the beginning of an aggressive campaign at Charlie Trotter's known as: THE SELL WINE CAMPAIGN. When he came back we said we were fine for now and he seemed disappointed. This was a clever tactic--guilting the guests!--so I ordered us two bellinis. "Very good sir!" he said. The bellinis were brought out (peach flavored), Alex and I clinked glasses, and the evening began. Here's Alex with her bellini: Before we had the chance to finish drinking them, though, the host announced our table was ready and we followed a woman carrying our bellinis on a tray up a very steep staircase. PART TWO: THE TABLE, THE WAITER We were seated at a table in between two couples who were eating silently from large plates with food so sparse I figured they were being punished for not ordering wine. The atmosphere, in my mind, was tense. It felt almost like a police state. At one point, a waiter knocked over a bottle of wine and Alex and I--perhaps justifiably--feared for his life. His look of masked terror seemed to anticipate an elaborate punishment ceremony, like the orgy scene in "Eyes Wide Shut," with Charlie whacking him over the head with the spilled bottle. "Good evening!" our waiter said, appearing out of nowhere. "Welcome to Charlie Trotter's. Have you dined with us before?" His manner was kind but forced, like someone wound up a metal dial on his back before he tottered out to our table. "We offer two menus: a grand menu and a vegetable menu." He elaborated further and then, not surprisingly, asked: "Would you like to see our wine list?" "No thanks," I said, "we're fine with our bellinis and water for now." "Very good, sir," he said, a hint of contempt in his voice. He tottered away and Alex and I read our choices. When he came back, we informed him that Alex would be having the Vegetable Menu and that I would be having the Grand Menu. "Excellent," he said, taking our menus away. A fork scraped across a dish somewhere and Alex and I eyed each other nervously, worrying over the meal to come. PART THREE: THE MEAL Since Alex kept her menu and I kept mine, I can only go into detail over what I ate. The sad truth is that nothing on this menu really sparkles in my brain as a wonderful taste memory. It's all very vague. In fact, I remember the pasta tasting menu at Babbo (my last great meal, several months ago) more vividly than this meal I ate last week. In any case, here's the breakdown: AMUSE GUEULE Don't really remember what that was. BUTTERMILK POACHED POUSSIN BREAST WITH GOLDEN & STRIPED BEETS & TERRINE OF CONFIT LEG & SCALLIONS Hmmm. I think this was moussy and fishy and relatively good. Definitely not memorable, though. NEWFOUNDLAND OCEAN TROUT WITH PRESSED PORK BELLY, BRAISED LEEKS & ELEPHANT GARLIC EMULSION I remember really enjoying the pork belly. The trout was good, but nothing stellar. It even teetered on the ordinary. EUROPEAN TURBOT WITH RED CABBAGE, FALL CHESTNUTS, OXTAIL & CHANTERELLE MUSHROOMS The mushrooms were delicious. The turbot blends with the trout in my brain. SOUTH DAKOTA BISON TENDERLOIN WITH SALSIFY, ROASTED PORCINI MUSHROOMS, MINNESOTA WILD RICE & SAGE INFUSED VEAL REDUCTION Here was my "main entree." As you can see by the picture, there wasn't a whole lot there and we were still hungry! But the meat was incredibly tender and good. This was the best dish by far. HAWAIIAN PINEAPPLE & PRESERVED GINGER SORBET WITH MANNI OLIVE OIL & THYME Good. A nice, interesting combination of flavors. BOSC PEAR CRISP WITH SPICED WALNUTS, BIRCH ICE CREAM & ROSEMARY EMULSION This would have been good, but the server (not ours) who placed this down gave mine to Alex and hers to me. So I was stuck with a curry ice cream profitterole which, actually, was enjoyable. And, to CT's credit, they also served us a flourless chocolate cake and a coconut custard. MIGNARDISES If these were the little tiny things on the plate, they were brilliant. A lot of fun to eat and a good end to the meal. PART FOUR: A LITTLE MORE ON THE WAITER Alex would yell at me if I didn't elaborate more on the waiter. There are two notable stories: 1. THE BATHROOM Alex had to go to the bathroom and she asked the waiter where it was. "If the lady would follow me," he said. He directed her to the first bathroom and said: "This bathroom is occupied. If the lady would follow me to the next bathroom, we may try that one." He tugged at the door and opened it. "Ah. This bathroom is available. If the lady desires, there are fresh towels for drying your hands when you are through. Please place them in the hamper." I'm sure I'm getting the details wrong, but Alex loved to imitate him on the cab ride back. 2. AME After several attempts to sell us wine, the waiter had the gaul to come over a third time and say: "I am aware that neither of you desire wine this evening, but may I interest you in a glass of Ame? Ame is a refreshing herb-infused fruit beverage that comes in white, red, or rose?" Once again caving, I relented and ordered myself a glass. Alex said: "I'm fine with water." PART FIVE: THE BILL AND ADAM'S ANGRY RANT When the bill came, I was expecting it to be somewhere in the ballpark of $250. This, mind you, was infuriating anyway because of the lacklustre meal we'd experienced. It was fine, yes, nothing was unpleasant, but it was not in anyway sublime or earth-shattering or, even, lip-smacking good. There was not one dish that I craved any more of, or any dish that years from now I would harken back to with longing. (I still harken back to the pumpkin lune at Babbo). The bill was $350. All that Ame added up, I suppose. I felt a deep sense of shame as I read those numbers. This, to me, was embarassing. I wanted to show Alex--who was somewhat wary of the world of fine dining--that some meals were so otherworldly as to justify a great expense. Instead, what she got was a parody of fine dining. It was reminiscent of L.A. story--those little tiny carrots on those big white plates. And here, with the mud red carpet, the hoighty-toighty clientelle, the cartoonishly mechanical waiter was a confirmation of all that she suspected: in the us-them world of fine dining, she was still an us and this was the world of "them." I gave "them" my credit card and sighed. PART SIX: CONCLUSION It would be unfair to say that the evening was, in any way, a disaster. Upon leaving, a really kind host (different from the one before) took us on a tour of the kitchen and additional facilities. It was a nice touch and made us feel like we had experienced a cultural event: like we had dined somewhere important (which, I suppose, we had). On our way out, I had him snap a picture of us on the steps outside: He called us a cab and held the door open as we got in. Before he closed it, he gave me a look. I reached into my wallet and pulled out $3. "Thank you sir," he said, "goodnight." An appropos ending to a long, twisted evening. THE END