Eat It

In the past thirteen months, we’ve eaten some pretty interesting meals in some pretty exotic places. We’ve eaten some really good things, some pretty disgusting things, and we’ve dined in some fairly fascinating places. To be fair, most of these were in the Far East, but they’ve been fascinating nonetheless.

For example, if you were an early follower of our blog, you’ll recall the freshly-caught abalone and conch we ate on Jeju Island in South Korea.

We also ate fantastic street food in Vietnam, including our Christmas Day food tour, and outstanding banh mi in Hanoi and Hoi An.

In Kyoto, I ate a few delicious “takotamago” in the food stalls – a quail egg shoved inside a tiny grilled octopus head.

Takotamago!

And in Taipei, we literally caught and ate our own shrimps at a carnival-like stand in the local market. It was pretty awesome.

But not every meal is going to be some kind of Anthony Bourdain street-meat experience either. We’ve also eaten at some really good restaurants along the way, particularly as we got to Europe. And why not?

For example, last week, Amy and I celebrated two big milestones: our 400th day on the road, and, coincidentally, our third wedding anniversary. So we went out to a fancy dinner in Edinburgh, at a Michelin one-star. And a few nights ago in Dublin, we had reservations at another Michelin-starred restaurant. We can’t take a trip around and world and not go to a few nice restaurants while we have the chance, right? So every once in a while, we’ll splurge on an upscale meal.

One of the more interesting details in all this is our living out of duffel bags. We’ve spent thirteen months traveling the world, and we’ve tried to be prepared for any event, including the need to dress up. But it’s not like we’ve got a massive wardrobe on the road. So every place we go, I wear the same blue blazer, and the same wrinkled shirt and green khakis that I’ve tried to steam flat while taking a shower. It never works.

At Borago in Santiago, Chile

Amy, on the other hand, wears the same $20 Old Navy dress, accented with some nice jewelry, and perhaps a sweater. We’ll roll in to some fancy restaurant and walk in, looking like we just slept in our clothes, and announce our grand arrival: “Hello, we have reservations!” I can only imagine the stuffy maître d’, thinking to himself, “I have reservations of my own, sir…”

But what I find most interesting about this fine dining experience is the whole showiness of it all. There’s a real act that goes on, this unspoken façade of grandeur that both the restaurant and the diners put on. We take part in it, but it cracks me up.

Like when they bring out the wine list. I always just hand it to Amy, because when I look at this list of over 100 different wines, I’m overwhelmed, and honestly, I don’t care. All I know is I want a decent bottle of red, probably Spanish, and for no more than fifty bucks. But that’s not how it works. The sommelier comes over, we discuss the meal, and then we all act like this is a very serious matter, and the various properties of the wine, the hints of chocolate and blueberries, how long it’s been sitting in the oak barrels (French or American?), and whether it pairs nicely with a small bite of duck that’s sitting on a freeze-dried beetroot wafer.

The Test Kitchen in Cape Town

I don’t want to sound like some kind of unrefined jackass, but I feel like saying, “I imagine all the wine you’ve got on this list is good, right fella?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll take this one, the one I can’t pronounce. I plan on getting tipsy by dessert.”
“Right away, sir!!”

Then the staff starts to put down the appropriate silverware for the starter. It’s always some kind of scallop in a really delicious sauce of something green. So there’s the fish knife, and a smaller fork, and a spoon for the delicious sauce, all there for you to eat one small scallop. Oooh! Which utensil do I use?!

For me, it’s pretty easy. I pick up the fork, stab the scallop, and shove it in. Delicious, always. I love scallops, and for the most part they’re always beautifully prepared and the sauce is great. Fish knife and spoon are left unscathed. Back in the drawer with you two. And another glass of that Spanish wine, please. But of course I can’t pour it myself, because that would be wrong. I’m not to be trusted. Not in that wrinkled shirt, anyway.

Next comes the second course. Again, likely some fish, perhaps two small pieces of red snapper stacked in some kind of a red sauce. Very delicate. Out comes the next fork and fish knife. This time, I use both the fork and fish knife, because you’ve got to cut this fish into a few bite-sized pieces. But sadly, the fish is presented in some kind of wide rimmed dish with a very deep bowl in the center, so you need to make the cut at just the right angle or risk a piece of snapper sliding around in the sauce and sailing across the table, landing in a wide open piece of real estate on the pristine white table cloth, right next to the flower arrangement. I know this from experience. That’s where the fork comes in handy to clean up the detritus on the table. Then the waiter has to come over and put another layer of white napkin over the stained area so everything is presentable again, and with it comes my first apology of the evening. “Er…Sorry about that…” Time for another glass of wine, poured by a well-groomed albeit pimply kid in a tuxedo. (Never say “Garcon.” Never. They don’t like that.)

Martin Baserategi in San Sebastian. Note the plate.

With the completion of every course, a member of staff will come over to clear the table. When they collect the plates, the French waiter will ask, “And ‘ow wuss your deesh?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
No matter what the dish, whether it was good or not, whether it was the best thing ever or it tasted like soap, Amy and I are somehow pre-programed to make these responses.
“Did you enjoy the foie gras?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
“Did you enjoy the leeks and carrot foam?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
“Did you enjoy your McNuggets?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”

Aramburu in Buenos Aires

We need to get a new schtick. The waiter will also take out his “crumber” to clear all the breadcrumbs off the tablecloth. Amy’s bread plate looks immaculate, with a few small crumbs and a little dab of butter. My bread plate and the surrounding area look like the bombing of Dresden, with massive flakes and crumbs scattered all over, and a glob of butter rubbed into the tablecloth under one side of the plate. Again: “Er…sorry about that…” Not to be trusted.

Invariably the meat course will come out, sometimes duck in a wine reduction with some pureed parsnips, and sometimes venison in a wine reduction with some pureed parsnips. Other times you’ll actually get a small piece of steak in a wine reduction with pureed parsnips.

Silvio Nickol in Vienna

This always needs to be bigger. I’m not talking about the old ‘96er here, but I’d like more than two bites, because duck, venison, or steak, it’s always damn good and I want more of it. And here’s another thing: the wine reduction is nice and sweet and yummy and then it runs into the parsnip puree, and it creates these pink gelatinous globs of flavor that I just can’t pick up with the fork, and so it’s spread in a thin layer in the corners of the dish, and you didn’t give me a spoon with this course, and damnit, if I was at home, I’d just pick up my Crate and Barrel plate and lick this delicious mess clean!

“Did you enjoy the venison?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
Time for another glass of Spanish Red, poured by a guy I’ve now nicknamed “Spanish Red,” despite his clearly being French.

Now it’s dessert time, but not before a small tray of four tiny cookies the size of mints is placed before us. This one is walnut, this one is cinnamon, this one is oatmeal, and this one is shortbread. We inhale them.

“Would you like to pair a dessert wine with the next course?”
(Here we go again, positions everyone…)
“What do you suggest?”
“Well, perhaps you’d like a sauternes, or a white port? Maybe a cognac is more to your liking?”
“Yes, of course, since I’ve chosen the mango compote passion-fruit sorbet with white chocolate shavings and raspberry syrup, I believe I have no option but to choose the white port with this, because it’s the second one you mentioned, I’ve heard of it, and I’m pretty sure I had it before, and I think I might have even liked it!”
“Right away, sir!”

Dessert at Silvio Nickol

The dessert, no matter what, is always fantastic and delicious (of course), and it’s just as you’re finishing dessert that the chef comes out to greet the room. I’m normally dipping my napkin in the water glass just as he walks up to our table, because I’ve got to clean an errant drop of red raspberry syrup off my shirt pocket. This is why I’m not allowed to pour the wine. We’re greeted:
“Good evening!”
Amy and I, in unison: “Hello, Chef!”
(we’ve clearly seen too much Food Network).
“Did you enjoy the meal?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
“Great. What was your favorite dish?”
Me: “I really liked the veal.”
“You liked the veal?”
Me: “Yes, it was…”
Chef: “Which veal?”
Amy: “You mean the venison?”
Me: “Of course, the venison, that’s what I meant…FAN-tastic.”
(and memorable!)
“And you, miss?”
Amy: “I really enjoyed the red snapper. And the dessert was great. I also really found the wine pairings very interesting, especially the pairing of the…
(As Amy continues, this is where I notice that I also have a big red splotch of raspberry syrup on my right hand as well, the hand I just used to shake with the chef. I hide my hand under the table).
“And where are you from?”
“We’re from New York.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. You’re on holiday?”
“Yes, it’s been great.”
“Are you staying at the (insert name of fancy boutique hotel here)?”
“No, we’re at the (insert name of cheap tourist hotel here).”
“Oh, yes, well…that’s very nice.”

The meal has come to a close, and we get the check. With it comes a pair of canneles. These delectable French treats are like little carmelized rubber bullets you eat in two bites. Delicious rubber bullets, though, with a moist inside and semi-crunchy carmelized exterior. It’s probably my favorite part of the meal, with the exception of the veal. Er, the venison. We pay and stand up to leave the table. I notice my shirt is somehow untucked. I have no idea how. I turn and tuck it in quickly, but of course, we’re in the middle of the room, and there’s no suave way to do this. We go to gather our coats.

As I help Amy put her coat on, the coat-check girl asks us the inevitable:
“How was your meal?”
Me: “Fantastic.”
Amy: “Delicious!”
Time to get the shirt cleaned, then fold it and pack it in the duffle bag with the green khakis.