All the chicest restaurants are far too small for their vast popularity. The wait times on any given night reflect this. Something about the size makes these places feel like the best-kept secret in this part of town, but no. It is rarely ever like that, at least not in this echo chamber. The plates, too, are too small, but I’ll bite.
The chicest restaurants are valued as such because I say so. If I like the place, it is chic to me. This—chic—is becoming a word with no meaning. It’s like Paris Hilton saying “That’s hot” to anything she deems worthy of her standards. Chic is becoming a simulacrum derived to make the lower class (me) feel better about spending $48 on a glass of delicious wine and what can truly be described as an appetizer (tapas, for fanfare’s sake). For reference, that’s about thirty percent of what I make in a day at a job that’s just okay.
Still, I’ll pay. Life is short, I have some money, and most of the time, I’d rather eat roast chicken and suck down oysters in a dimly lit tavern with someone who thinks the world of me than save a little by cooking at home. Plus, I don’t always find joy in eating alone. Dining out alone hardly equates to loneliness; scarfing down a meal at the kitchen table with the pot still on the stove and garlic skin all over the counter could be defined as such.
Not that eating at home by yourself inherently signifies loneliness; I am perfectly surrounded by friends and love. Clearly, this is a me thing. My problem, I think, is that I prefer ceremony over ritual when it comes to consumption. Even with television, I would rather watch in a room full of others. This means that going to a movie theater on your own reflects the same je ne sais quoi as a solo dinner date. In both occurrences, you’re never truly alone. In some capacity, there are others around you, experiencing your experiences, feeling your feelings, and finding the same value in your time—and money—spent. There’s a camaraderie there, even though your friends decided to stay home.
I like restaurants that behave like a secret, restaurants that are none-the-wiser. I like restaurants that make me think. I think about the meat I’m eating, where it comes from, and whether the pigs were slaughtered with kindness. I think of the greens that comprise my salad, who planted the seeds and plucked the heads from the ground; I wonder if the ricotta was made in-house. I think of the wine, how everyone is a sommelier these days, or at the very least, a total wine fanatic. I went to a wine tasting the other day; all he said was, “This one tastes sooo good,” and he wasn’t wrong. And while I don’t like to always think about why something is the way it is, I’m trying to grow out of this habit.
Finer dining (not fine dining) is my favorite way to be a consumer. I define finer dining, or elevated dining, as a more thoughtful, mostly accessible cuisine. Restaurants that fall into this category are often farm-to-table, family or friendly-operated, with tons of hot people working the floor. Guests are treated kindly, the food is understandably pricey yet still affordable, and the dishes are usually very tasty. The wine lists are small, well-curated, and typically of a natural selection; the head chef likely knows at least one of the producers personally on said list. Spending my time and money this way makes me feel good about my choices; it makes me feel like I’ve done everything right.
All of my favorite restaurants make me feel like I’m in another country. At least, they make me feel what I think being in another country would feel like. Romantic, chic, expensive yet modest–I find it problematic that I still idolize European women who have more money than I do. Again, a habit I am working to grow out of. I’ve never been to another country. I’ve never eaten raw meat outside of a French bistro, and I’ve never had bread in Italy. I’d love to skin a pig of my own or cut off a chicken’s head with an heirloom cleaver, but something about performing such an act in America gives me the willies. It can only happen elsewhere. In this fantasy, it’s evening, and the temperature is just right. I’m wearing a trench coat with the flannel lining discarded, a pair of jeans, which is nothing new, and my posture is excellent. I look different; the photos are candidly candid. Maybe I smoke! I’ve never been a smoker.
I feel silly, sometimes, sitting with this part of my persona. I lean a little too far in, looking for the point I’m trying to prove, but nothing comes up. I chalk it up to this: I like what I like, and what I like is a small plate with considerable ingenuity, one or two glasses of Lambrusco (Chenin if I’m eating fish or skipping a meal altogether), and a feeling of contentedness. My dad has always said I have champagne taste on a beer budget. In a pleasant turn of events, I’ve grown into someone with a modest budget for both.
This week I am recommending this cover of Feel Like Making Love by Ana Mazzotti, the second and fourth sections of Mayakovsky by Frank O’Hara—you might as well read the whole thing—and a bouquet of fresh flowers for your table.
love you