The Dinner Files

I ate dinner last night flanked by two people who also hate raisins in baked goods. Why is that so satisfying? Finding my people, I call it. Only being able to interact meaningfully with people just like oneself is not an admirable trait, but reveling in finding like-minded folks–even if only on the cooked-raisin front (but it’s never only one front, is it?)–is one of the most sincere pleasures I’ve found in this life.

I’m at The Greenbrier (“America’s resort”), which once served as an emergency bunker for the U.S. government in case of nuclear attack (facilities included a “high-tech” media room with a mural of Capitol Hill to give the impression that whoever was photographed in front of it was still in D.C.) and is rumored to have been the “undisclosed secure location” of Dick Cheney after 9/11 (a rumor I, for one, will not let die). I’m here for a food writers conference–there really is a conference for everything!–and tonight we ate dinner in the main dining room with its old-school dress code and Kyptonite-like chandeliers. I tried to order an appetizer and salad. No. I had to order a main course as well. It’s a three-course menu. The waiter, who seemed a decent chap, insisted I order a main course. So I did. I even tasted it. But it mainly sat, uneaten, until cleared away. Then, wanting to avoid another confrontation, I bullied myself into ordering dessert. So there I was, with a giant square of quivering raisin-studded bread pudding before my full self. I must admit, however, that it was for the best: how else could I have bonded with my dinner companions over how gross raisins can be?

I’d order that un-eaten bread pudding again in a heartbeat. Eating: it’s not always about the food.

In DC? Need some fresh, tasty food quickly? Try one of several Teaism restaurants. I enjoyed some soul-satisfying, body-soothing, palate-pleasing red lentil curry soup. Fellow diners were equally pleased with their bento boxes.

Doesn’t sound like a good combination, does it? I spent the day flying cross-country with a broken hand and an almost-five-year old (talk about relying on the kindness of strangers–thanks strangers!) to arrive at friends’ house dazed and confused. Is there any better feeling than someone cooking for you after weary travels?

Part of the meal was mushrooms sautéed and sweetened with maple syrup. Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid, but only because I don’t particularly care for maple. I can see others really digging the earthy-woodsy-sweetness of it all as my hosts did.

More tempting treats to me were the grilled calamari–sweet and meaty with plenty of bright lemon–and a great big fresh green salad with thinly sliced small, tart apples and crumbled mild feta. One host lamented the lack of hearts of palm in the house, as did I, but, despite the deprivation, the meal, when combined with a G+T and such dear friends,  fixed everything. Everything except, of course, my hand.

I usually cook my own food, but my hand is broken and a lovely woman stopped by my house to drop off samples of frozen ravioli she makes and sells. They’re made according to her great-grandmother’s recipe from Lucca. They have meat inside. Lots of tasty, well-seasoned meat. My mother, my son, and I all loved them. They’ll eat anything, but I’m a professional and I’m telling you, these were not your standard frozen ravioli. Granted, she came by my house and gave us food just when dinner was starting to look a lot like last night’s scrounging affair. These ravioli had the stage all set for them. But, unlike many performers before them, they lived up to the task.

She also dropped off some sauce, but we ate them plain, with butter and parmesan. Except Ernie. No butter for him. He knows dry pasta with bits of parm falling off it is the way to go.

We were all tired and hungry, my son, my mother, and me. I’m not allowed to cook because of my broken right hand (bitter? me? never!), so my mom made her awesome omelets, sautéed some farm spinach, and heated up her leftover green curry. I made myself toast (although I squished the entire loaf trying to cut the slices and then needed my mommy to butter it for me) and put some green curry sauce on my spinach and was pretty darn pleased. Ernie wolfed down his omelet and greens before unwrapping an easter bunny lollypop and uttering “sweet” between licks.

We all find our level, don’t we?

Since I can’t cook or otherwise fend for myself and child, and my husband, lord, and protector had a business trip, my mother has come to help. Like an angel. Sent from heaven. Just like my great-grandmother used to say. (Actually, my great-grandmother used to say I was an angel straight from heaven, just like my mother. She would say this with a straight face and complete sincerity when I was 15-16 years old.)

From the airport we headed to Thai House Express. I had my favorite silver noodle salad, my mom ordered green curry with chicken, and Ernie got “what Daddy gets”–pan-fried noodles with vegetables and tofu. He ate about half of it before putting his head in my lap.

A few minutes later he broke into tears, distraught that his mother and grandmother had “eaten all my noodles!”

Indeed, we had. We had eaten the remainder of the poor starving child’s dinner. Almost. He got a few more bites and was only comforted with the explanation that his dish was the best and we couldn’t resist its deliciousness.

Do angels sent from heaven eat their child’s (and grandchild’s!) dinners?

I returned from a child-free Napa Valley getaway with my husband to a fridge containing a whole mess of leftover paella and un-used frisée from our little soirée last Friday.

Since the original was a bit crunchy, I poured a bit of chicken stock on it before covering it and heating it up. I then dug little holes in the rice and asked my husband to crack eggs into them. (No cooking for me, remember?) Covered and baked a bit longer, we all enjoyed the leftovers–including a frisée salad–immensely. Even my mother-in-law, who has become used to decidedly more elaborate fare when she visits. Even my son, who had one eye on a chocolate bunny all through dinner.

We ate at Go Fish in St. Helena (Napa Valley) last night. Weird mix of sushi + west coast fish house (shrimp louie) + east coast fish shack (fish-n-chips). A crab + mussel chowder was mega-rich and we were happy to split it. Everything else was fine, unremarkable–except the calamari + beans which was muddy and dull.  A fine example of a restaurant the needs to focus.  I find such a large menu unappetizing from the start. It reeks of desperation (what do you want? we can make it for you! anything you want!) and hardly a kitchen in the world can aptly handle such variety with much grace.

Happy find: Vare 2005 Ribolla Gialla. Depth and richness of an aged white from an interesting Italian grape grown in Napa. Perfect to sip while staring at pretty hills.

The Restaurant at Meadowood in Napa. Honestly, I was expecting some over-wrought yet boring food. You know, something billed all “seasonal-local-organic” but then manipulated within an inch of its life to no sensory avail. Something ungodly expensive with copious and gratuitous use of foie gras and caviar. Something that might make me sad.

Instead we enjoyed one of the most interesting fine-dining meals we’ve had in a long time in simple and elegant vaulted-ceiling grown-up (read: quiet enough to have a conversation) dining room. I knew things would be good when the amuses-bouches arrived: the small plate included a simply dressed white radish from the restaurant’s garden and a miniscule chickpea fritter topped with a tiny dice of citrus gelée and and even tinier octopus leg. From Chez Panisse ingredient-driven to chef-driven construction. Both pretty, both tasty, both prepared us for the meal to come.

A highlight was my main: Jones Farm Rabbit, spring vegetables, almond froth, hamhock broth. It arrived three ways: loin wrapped in fava leaves, chops with a fava bean inserted in the middle (fussy but yummy), leg deboned mixed with aromatics re-shaped on the bone coated in dried and ground fava beans and pan-fried. It was the best rabbit I’ve had since living in France. Even the loin was juicy.

Best of all: we left wanting more instead of cursing the gods for having eaten too much.

Full disclosure: yes, I ate as a guest of the restaurant. Maybe our service was better, maybe extra effort was put into our dishes, I know this, believe me. I also know a kitchen can’t make a rabbit juicy out of thin air. 

I’m guessing the answer is “no.”

I overdid it yesterday. See we had a dinner party planned for which I was going to grill a paella–a recipe I’m developing for a story. You’d think a broken hand would have meant a canceled dinner party. In most worlds you’d be right. BUT I need to cook this recipe (or get it cooked) before the cast comes off anyway AND my mother-in-law is visiting and offered to do all the chopping, etc. So we had the dinner.

People raved about the paella, but I think they were humoring the pathetic broken hand girl. Fear of an imperfect paella had led me to make a pitcher of margaritas using juice from the fruit of our Meyer lemon tree. Maybe it worked and everyone was a bit too fuzzy at the edges to notice somewhat crunchy rice.