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Dining Out
The photograph of the three little girls is faded, but some things still come through sharply — our pride in our pretty summer dresses, the pinching discomfort of our shiny Mary Janes, and our fidgety impatience to get moving as we squint up at the camera through the setting California sun. Looking at that picture more than 40 years later I can still remember the anticipation bubbling through my veins, the excitement that keeps me hopping on one foot, because we are going out to dinner at what must certainly be the fanciest restaurant in the world. We are going to the Open House, my grandfather's Hollywood restaurant, where we will dine in high style on grilled steaks and chicken cordon bleu and other exotic midcentury dishes and where the owner's grandchildren will be treated like princesses. It is no wonder that I associate eating out with good and pleasurable things, or that I still approach a first-rate restaurant with the exact same enthusiasm and glee that I felt as a giddy seven year old. Some people are imprinted in childhood with a drive for success, or athletic competition, or social networking. I was imprinted with a compulsion to go out to dinner. It's not a mission I take lightly. I have eaten out over the years with a single-minded concentration that, had I applied it to business, let's say, would have made me a wealthy woman. Instead it has pretty much done the opposite, eating up, so to speak, my discretionary income with a vengeance, but leaving me with delicious memories in its stead. Clearly I am not alone. The restaurant industry's share of the food dollar has climbed to 46.4 percent in 2004 (nearly twice the 25 percent it was back in the Open House days.) The industry claims its sales have gone from $42.8 billion in 1970 to $440.1 billion in 2004. That is only partially due to my personal efforts. I have had help. So what is it that makes a great restaurant experience? What are we really looking for when we go out to eat? To some extent, eating out has become a time-saver for overcommitted, exhausted people who have run out of energy by the end of the day. Much of that increase in the restaurant industry's share of the food dollar comes from the growth in fast food and chain restaurants. When life is busy and hectic, a good restaurant is one that is quick, convenient, and cheap. I couldn't get by without our local Chinese carryout, where two people can stuff themselves healthfully for about $12. but that's not what I mean by dining out. The kind of dining out I have in mind goes back to the origins of the word restaurant. Before they were ever places to eat, restaurants were things to be eaten. From the French word meaning "restore," restaurants were restoratives, brothy soups made from meat and frequently very little else, meant to be consumed by pre-revolutionary invalids. Eventually, the room where one went to drink a restaurant began to be called a restaurant as well. Then came the French Revolution and the unemployed chefs of the former aristocracy arrived in Paris looking for work, and helped to elevate the restaurant to something approximating its present grandeur. The rest is culinary history. But all restaurants are not created equal. Food writers are always coming up with ways to tell the good from the bad -- whether by awarding them stars, or rosettes, or points, or toques. The trouble is, there are lots of kinds of good restaurants, fewer stars doesn't necessarily mean "worse," just "different." A Michelin three-star, for instance, is superb. Its chefs are highly talented, but the rating has almost as much to do with the formality and ambiance of the restaurant as it does the skill of the chef. Three-star dining demands all your attention; the food insists on being center stage. I am thinking of places such as Alain Passard's Arpege in Paris, where I had probably my most memorable meal ever. What Passard wrought could have been music, or sculpture, or poetry. It just happened to be food. Passard played with flavors -- sweet, sour, salty -- and textures and color and even temperature to bring food to a level I'd never imagined. When I told a waiter after one breathtaking course (a tiny eggshell filled with soft boiled egg yolk, crème fraiche, nutmeg, and maple syrup) that I thought that the chef was a genius, he said quietly, "He is an artist." It should have been hokey, but in the exalted circumstances, it seemed perfectly reasonable. But, of course, you can't eat that kind of food everyday, it would wear you out (and bankrupt you) in a hurry if you tried. Sometimes the best restaurant isn't the most memorable, or the fanciest, or the most expensive, or the one with the most stars and the best reviews. It's the place that welcomes you gladly and cooks for you with creativity, zest, and heart. Although restaurants have evolved dramatically from consommé cafes, I love the idea that their origins were in the restoration business. Fast food may keep our engines running, but it can't restore us in the same way that making reservations, putting on a clean shirt, and going out for an expertly cooked, delicious meal can do. Taking time to truly savor food prepared with creativity and attention, being waited on and pampered, who doesn't need this once in a while? Such meals renew, regenerate, refresh. They bring us back to what we were, or what we could be replenishing us physically, but if we are very lucky, then intellectually and soulfully as well. If they manage to make us feel a little like the cherished grandchild of the owner, then that is the very best treat of all. A delectable dessertLooking for lunch one day on the way to Marseilles we
found the Abbaye de Sainte Croix, high on a hillside in Salon de Provence. It
was perfect — wonderful food, charming service, and the added bonus of a
gorgeous patio with a view that doesn't quit. My dessert was so beautiful I
took a picture of it. I didn't get the recipe from the hotel, but fresh fruit
and store-bought sorbet will work with this recipe for Almond Tuiles, adapted
from the October 1998 issue of Bon Appetit. Fruit and Sorbet-filled Tuiles Assorted fresh fruit (berries, cherries, peaches, pineapple) At least five different flavors of fruit sorbet 6 Almond Tuiles (see below) Almond Tuiles 3 tablespoons all purpose flour 2 tablespoons ( 1/4 stick) unsalted butter, melted 2 tablespoons (packed) golden brown sugar 2 tablespoons light corn syrup 1/4 cup (about 1 ounce) finely chopped toasted almonds Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Line baking sheet with parchment paper or use Silpat baking mats. Stir first four ingredients in small bowl to blend. Mix in almonds. Separately drop 2 level tablespoonfuls batter onto prepared baking sheet, spacing 6 inches apart. Using moistened fingertips, press each to 2-inch round. Bake cookies until deep golden (cookies will spread to about 5-inch diameter), about 7 minutes. Let cool on sheet until set enough to lift without tearing, about 1 minute. Using metal spatula, lift hot cookies one at a time and drape over rolling pin; cool. Remove from rolling pin when cool. Refrigerate baking sheet 2 minutes to chill quickly. Repeat with remaining batter, making two cookies at a time. Cookies can be made four days ahead. Carefully enclose in resealable plastic bags and freeze. Makes at least six. To serve, arrange fresh fruit on six dessert plates. Set each tuile on a bed of fruit. Fill with five (or more) small scoops of sorbet. Serves six.
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