SIDENOTE: I've discovered a new iteration of hell: gastro-intestinal distress has forced me to survive on the BRAT diet for 5 days. I had no idea how mind-numbingly boring bananas and rice could be. Effective, yes, but my stars it's dull. I even resorted to making jello on Wednesday just to let my tongue taste something vaguely fruity. Vaguely.
Luckily enough, the distress hit me right in the middle of the city's summer "restaurant festival", so I'm staying in anyways. Lots of cities are doing this now; originally it was a way to get people out of their houses and bunkers after the SARS panic several years ago. Now it's just a sad repetition of something that was once a good idea. Restaurants offer $25 or $35 3-course meals, in theory providing the plebs with an opportunity to go to the exorbitantly-priced top rooms, or even just to more than one moderately-priced room. That's the idea. In practice it's a scam. Here's the dirt: the hippity-high-end restos are first of all utterly swamped by reservations, and then by rabid wannabe diners calling and calling trying to get on the waiting list. Many restos triple or quadruple their covers (the number of meals served), which means diners are essentially kicked off the dining room's pant leg after about 75 minutes. To accommodate the insane increase in covers, fine kitchens work distinctly un-fine hours, make food in bloated, oversized quantities and buy in things like ravioli and desserts (which would normally be made in-house). The food is compromised. Diners do not get an authentic experience.
But my biggest beef (and clearly I have more than one) is the loss of service. My favourite part of going to an uber-resto is the way they make you feel like the only person in the room (the good ones do this, at least). Service is the make-or-break element to a good restaurant and it just evaporates under the pressure of the resto-fest.
I love fine restaurants, and it's worth it to me to save up to splurge on dining properly and well. But during the 2-week reign of the 'licious resto-fest, I'll stay in.
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What passes for a meal this week
- a terrible cafeteria salad
- veggie miso burger on greens
- bran flakes and a few medjool dates
- pork chops and sweet potatoes with green beans
- pesto pizza
- spag bol
- half a lamb chop, a sausage and salad
What's the deal?
I’m a chef - I make my living cooking. Years in the restaurant industry were good to me, but I concurrently took my Master of arts and when I was through it dawned on me that I didn’t actually want to be a prof in some charming small town; I wanted to keep cooking. Trouble is, restaurant work isn’t the most intellectually stimulating, and I wanted more. After years of cobbling together food-and-writing-related work, I landed in the wild world of magazines as a food editor.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The wrinkle is that I don’t cook for myself. People I meet at parties go all gooey-eyed when they ask me what I made for supper, imagining no doubt seared scallops on a puree of freshly shelled peas with crisped guanciale and basil oil. The unexpected truth is it was likely a bowl of pasta with olive oil and whatever was in the fridge, be that Parmesan, sundried tomatoes, or a shot of gin. I live alone so there is no one else to impress except myself. And now you.
But this is hardly the the sad tale of a lonely young woman. Many nights, it’s quite the opposite: if there is bread in the house I will drench two slices of it with mayo and add a fried egg and thinly sliced kosher pickles, then stand over the sink and inhale that mofo. It’s so good and makes me so happy that I often make another one right away. What, am I going to create a stunning three-course meal for myself, set the table, light a candle and cluck about how great it is to be single and independent? Bah. Better to dirty as few dishes as possible and get on with it.
The Girl
During my apprenticeship I was the only woman in a kitchen of randy, raucous men. At first they called my first name to get my attention, but once they started calling me The Girl ("pick up table 45 Girl", "get The Girl to make more crackers") I felt like I was one of the crew. Feminism be damned, there's nothing like being accepted into a kitchen brigade.
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