An Evening of Fine Dining

Farm Boy and I went to a "special" dinner the other evening. The dinner was held in a woman's home where she has installed a professional kitchen and turned a large room into a dining space squeezed to the very limits of cozy with five tables. To avoid all the regulations, requirements, licensing, and inspections that are necessary to open an actual restaurant in California, the owner hit on the idea that she would merely invite "friends" into her home for a lovely meal. You must be a member, which is a $1.00 fee, so perhaps setting it up as a private club also helps her avoid legal crap. All monies for the cost of the meal and drinks are considered "donations." Then, once or twice a month, she holds dinners on the Friday and Saturday of a particular weekend, seating 24 people twice in one evening. She posts the menu and features the chef on her website, and sends out email invitations to members. Sounded interesting to me! What we didn't know until we arrived and were seated was this terrific idea also entailed a signed paper from each guest that if we died of food poisoning, etc., we could not hold her or the kitchen responsible.

Despite the rather unsettling thought that my signature on that paper could actually prove necessary, the idea of running a restaurant without rules was intriguing and appealed to my renegade "fuck the government" nature, so I signed away my rights -- or signed my own death certificate, depending on how this meal would turn out - and decided to make the best of it. I really wanted it to be fabulous and memorable; Farm Boy just wanted to survive after I forged his signature.

C'est la vie. Bon appetit!

Well, we didn't die, but it wasn't memorable. It was thoroughly disappointing, to be truthful. I will admit right now that I am not that easy to impress with food, but I am also fairly accepting of that fact and manage to find something pleasant about almost anything I order in a restaurant. In other words, I may rarely roll my eyes, gasp in delight and savor every mouthful, but I generally can enjoy any meal as perfectly serviceable. This wasn't even that. But we didn't die, which is what Farm Boy likes to point out every time I bitch about what a disappointment it was.

Part of the reason for my serious criticism of this place is that it is a fabulous business model from a profit standpoint, and from a chef's standpoint -- so it was even more disappointing that it was done so poorly. Each meal is completely set by the chef who then has the luxury of preparing a menu exactly as they see the courses building on each other. There is absolutely no waste and the kitchen can be run like a catering operation. There are only two seatings a night. Easy peesy. I could run a restaurant like that. Basically, they are catering two identical parties for 24 on the same night. Obviously much of the preparation and cooking can be done ahead of time. The cost was waaaaay overpriced because every course was teeny weeny, the pours of wine were ridiculously small, and so, by my conservative calculations, they were making out like bandits! Shit! Even the napkins were no more than 5 inches by 4 inches big. Cover your dress? Yeah? Fuck you...we don't follow no stinking rules. Well, okay then. How about plates? Another big finger. Our first course, an antipasto course, was served on little wooden cutting blocks with legs, so your food was perched 8 inches above the table and threatened to roll off every time you attempted to pick up a bite. This

The infamous chopping blocks. You thought I was kidding.

necessitated that everyone at our table of six, Farm Boy, myself, and four strangers, all self-consciously fixate on their chopping blocks like children allowed to sit at the grownups table for the first time, carefully poised over the precariously perched food, praying they weren't going to be the one who saw an olive roll off the high, flat surface and bounce gaily to the table or floor. We did see one plate halfway through the meal, for our fish course, but it left and never returned. The main course was a bite of pork over polenta served in a tiny little bowl, and imagine my delight when the chopping blocks showed up again for dessert! Even better, this time the chopping blocks, holding two utterly flat, tough, chewy chocolate cookies sandwiching a fallen whipped cream filling, were accompanied by little itty bitty glasses which contained a chocolate sauce. It tasted just like Jello pudding. I. Kid. You. Not. Of course, that's if you could manage to taste it. Honest to God, half of the people at our table, Farm Boy included, had been left with cream soup spoons which were simply too big to fit into the teensy tiny little precious glasses. This predicament, coming as it did at the end of a rather exhausting struggle masquerading as a dinner without nearly enough wine, did not delight Farm Boy one bit. Tossing his spoon to the side, he stuck his finger into the gooey pudding/sauce and scooped it out to suck it off with the relish of a kid working a Jello pudding cup. You are not keeping Farm Boy away from dessert, even shitty Jello pudding dessert.

So fuck you. We don't follow rules either.

The only saving grace about the meal was that the other two couples at our table were fascinating and I enjoyed probing them with questions about their lives. Meeting strangers is one of my favorite things because I find I really like just about everyone for about the first two hours; after that it gets dicey. Farm Boy knows this and thanked me as we walked to our car for not bringing up politics. One of the gentlemen had come from Boston, gone to Harvard, even had a grandfather who had been a professor there. This, among other things, stamped him a crazy ass liberal. 

And I said nary a word. Butter wouldn't have melted in my mouth. If there had been any. An entire meal...and not a pat of butter.

Don't get me started.....

So here is a recipe that will make you gasp in delight. Promise.

GRILLED VEAL CHOPS WITH LEMON-CAPER SAUCE

2 servings

Ingredients

• 4 T. extra-virgin olive oil
• 1 1/2 T. white balsamic vinegar
• 1 1/2 T. drained capers
• 1 1/2 T. chopped fresh Italian parsley
• 1 1/4 tsp. finely grated lemon peel
• Juice from one lemon, add according to your taste
• 1 garlic clove, minced

• 2 8 to 9 oz veal rib chops
• Salt and pepper

Instructions

Whisk 3 tablespoons olive oil with next six ingredients. Season sauce to taste with salt and pepper. Set aside.

Prepare barbeque grill. Brush veal chops with remaining 1 tablespoon olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Grill to desired doneness. Medium rare is best.

Serve with sauce.

This is divine accompanied by small, roasted potatoes, cut in half and tossed with some oil, butter, fresh thyme, and garlic. Start these ahead as they take about 30 minutes in a 450 degree oven. Sauteed green beans or wilted kale would be lovely as a vegetable.

Accompany with a glorious pink champagne.