My aunt invited my wife and me for dinner at a fancy new Los Angeles restaurant. The chef was a culinary darling who’d received five-star reviews from critics and bloggers. The place specialized in Italian food and gained notoriety for pouring wine through hollowed-out beef bones directly into customer’s mouths.
We drove to the downtown arts district a few blocks from skid row. A valet took our car and then pointed to a refurbished brick warehouse. We walked to the entrance framed by potted olive trees. I gave the maître d’ my aunt’s name and then waited for her to find our reservation. My wife pointed to a homeless encampment across the street. The juxtaposition of poverty and big-spending diners was jarring.
My aunt was already seated at a small table in the middle of the room. We greeted her and then sat on steel chairs that felt like torture devices. The atmosphere was boisterous with rock music and conversation bouncing off brick walls. The desirable booths on the periphery were filled with hipsters snapping Instagram food pics. There were no windows to keep out the outside world.
I asked my aunt if she’d been waiting long. “What,” she said, unable to hear me. I grabbed a pen from my pocket and wrote the question on a paper napkin. She put up five fingers to indicate five minutes. I gave her an a-okay sign and then pointed to my heart telling her it was good to see her. I realized we might create an alternative sign language.
We ordered appetizers for the table, including roasted bone marrow atop vegetal green schmutz, edible squash blossoms drizzled with cactus pear vinaigrette and calamari ripieni stuffed with capers and pecorino. The waiter complimented our choices that “contrasted sweet, acidic and umami in exemplary fashion.” This made me want to throw hot coffee in his face.
My aunt ordered a bottle of Italian red wine. I opted for Pellegrino. The waiter removed the wine cork and splashed a taste of wine through a cooked marrow bone into my aunt’s mouth. She nodded her approval and he poured a glass. I asked the waiter if he could splash Pellegrino through fish bones into my mouth. He walked away.
We passed the appetizers around. The bone marrow resembled charred bull snot. I took a bite and nearly retched. My aunt commented that the “squash blossoms tasted earthy.” I agreed, adding “just like mud.” The squid was rubbery and hard to chew like bubble gum you’d find in a 20-year old pack of baseball cards.
I perused the menu for entrees. No prices were listed. This pissed me off. I told my wife I should’ve brought food from home so I could eat for free. She reminded me this would incur a plating fee. I had the thought that the crap being served wasn’t much different than the dumpster remnants eaten by homeless people across the street.
The waiter took our main course orders. My aunt ordered squid ink tortellini with lobster tomalley paste. I asked the waiter what “tomalley” meant. He said it was langoustine viscera, the comestible green lobster pancreas with a “briny buttery” taste. Why anyone would desire a briny buttery taste was beyond me.
My wife ordered salt-encrusted Branzino, a roasted Italian sea bass stuffed with lemon and herbs. I asked if they had baked chicken. The waiter said they had oven roasted capon with chestnut-Parmigiano sauce.
“What’s the difference between a capon and a chicken,” I asked.
“They’re similar, though the capon is fed wine sediment and beer yeast.”
“I’ll take the drunk chicken,” I said.
The waiter refreshed my aunt’s wine then collected our menus. As he walked away, I detected a smirk on his face. My aunt pulled out her phone and searched the definition of capon.
“A capon is a male rooster castrated at a young age.”
“Sick and twisted,” I said. I added a finger down my throat gesture, part of our new sign language protocol.
As we waited for the food to arrive, I gazed around the room. Everyone seemed happy and alive. People toasted each other over expensive wines, celebrating their inclusion in the world of the haves while the detestable have-nots slept in tents across the street. My wife squeezed my leg reminding me I’d promised not to be grumpy particularly since my aunt was treating us to a pricey extravagance. I couldn’t help myself. The aura of pretension and haughtiness was too thick.
A diner at a neighboring table removed a napkin-wrapped bundle from his coat pocket. He waxed poetic about white truffles and how they were “the most expensive delicacy in the world.” He unwrapped the napkin and proudly revealed a milky dirt clod resembling exotic animal dung. He carved slices of the fungi onto everyone’s plate then watched with joy as his friends placed the nasty muck on their tongues. They all pantomimed orgasmic pleasure as if licking God’s testicles.
I was reminded of the scene from Terry Gilliam’s Brazil where patrons dined on gelatinous piles of fluorescent meat mush while terrorist bombs exploded around them. The diners continued eating while the waiters were blown to smithereens.
How I wished Anthony Bourdain could be sitting with us to skewer this bastion of pompous pretense. He famously described high-end restaurant clientele as “entitled,” “negative” and “universally loathed.” He urged people to avoid high-end food factories and “eat where the locals eat, not where the tourists are sent.” In a foreword to his book Kitchen Confidential, Bourdain credited his literary hero George Orwell for “ripping the lid off fine dining” and “depicting in unsparing terms the filth, language and subculture” of fancy restaurants. He wrote that Orwell’s descriptions were recognizable to anyone who ever worked in a restaurant kitchen.
Bourdain was referencing the 1933 book Down and Out in Paris and London where Orwell wrote about his time as a plongeur (dishwasher) in a high-end Parisian restaurant. Orwell described the immaculate dining room as a false front hiding a kitchen that was “an airless hell.” Even the most reputable restaurants were caked with filth while rats and cockroaches hid in every corner.
I’ve never worked in a restaurant kitchen but I know people who have. They all say they stopped eating haute cuisine once the veil was lifted. Meat and fish often sit unrefrigerated for hours. Kitchen personnel are drunk or drug-addled, their sweat mixing with food while they plate meals with dirty fingers. Sous-chefs prepare dishes with fingers bloodied from kitchen knife accidents.
I’m not anti-restaurant in principle. I prefer humbler eateries, particularly those that cook ethnic food I’m unable to cook myself. I love Thai, Indian and Lebanese food. I’m a sucker for dim sum and Malaysian chicken rendang. I crave Mongolian barbecue. For me, eating out often leads to headaches or indigestion. A nutritionist told me this might be due to the seed oils commonly used in restaurant kitchens. When chefs reuse canola oil too many times (for French fries, onion rings, chicken tenders), the oil breaks down into harmful chemical byproducts. There’s a widely-held belief that oils like canola and safflower contain omega-6 fats that can cause body-wide inflammation. This is disputed by the American Heart Association, but after I switched from canola oil to coconut oil at home my migraine headaches diminished.
Back at the downtown osteria, our entrees were finally served. The waiter placed a dish of black pasta with green lobster innards in front of my aunt. It resembled a haunted Halloween prank but my aunt seemed pleased. The waiter deposited a metal serving dish with a puffy brown paper bag in front of my wife. He cut the bag open with shears causing a cloud of steam to waft into my wife’s face. The waiter skinned and boned the sea bass in dramatic fashion and then transferred the fish to a serving plate. Last and definitely least, he served my capon without flourish. He hurried away before I could make a comparison to the bloody game hen in David Lynch’s Eraserhead.
I carved into my castrated bird. It was moist but tasteless. Since there were no condiments on our table, I tapped the shoulder of the truffle guy and asked if he had any soy sauce in his coat. He couldn’t hear me above the raucous din.
My wife tried her fish. It was beautifully tender and flaky but bland. I went in search of salt. A busboy gave me a salt mill causing our waiter to come running to see if something was wrong. “There’s no taste,” I told him. My wife kicked me under the table. The waiter asked if I wanted to order something different. Since chicken shawarma wasn’t an option, I told him my food would be fine.
My aunt offered me a sample of her black and green squid paste. It reminded me of the chum fishermen toss into the water to attract sharks. I dove into my capon and took two tasteless bites. I asked a busboy for a doggy bag so I could bring the leftovers to the homeless folks across the street. I ordered a post-meal espresso and opted to have some scrambled eggs when I returned home.
The waiter brought the bill. My aunt grabbed it before I could see the damage though I noted a “4” in the total column. With a tip this amounted to a $500 meal, the cost of my monthly car payment.
While driving home my wife asked why I had to be so rude. “I can’t help myself,” I said. “I get better meals off a food truck.”
“It’s not about the meal,” my wife said. “It’s about appreciating your aunt’s gesture and being grateful for trying something new. Most people can’t afford a dinner like that.”
I knew my wife was right. I contemplated why I couldn’t simply enjoy the meal. I reflected on my favorite meals from the past. These were the meals made by my grandmother. She spent hours in the kitchen, sweating, burning her fingers in the oven just so our family could have a feast. She’d watch us eat with a smile, thankful her hard work paid off.
My grandma was not a gourmet chef but she did have access to the one ingredient you can never find in a restaurant kitchen. Love. Her food was cooked with love. If a restaurant ever figures out how to do this, I’ll be the first in line.
