On the Side

We were really looking forward to eating at a local restaurant with cuisine primarily influenced by the Chef’s Basque lineage. Seated at a square, wood table not far from the open kitchen and scanning the menu the only thing I saw that was vegetarian was the green salad and the cheese plate. On a regular day, that might suffice but we had come to this establishment hoping that it might be our “spot.” I wanted something special. A meal to remember. An experience that would bring me back.

On the menu, there was one thing that was sort of vegetarian: An eggplant dish with tomato sauce. But it came with an anchovy fillet on top of it. Besides not liking the look of anchovies, I certainly didn’t want an anchovy flavor on my meal. So we asked, like we do at most restaurants, for an accommodation.

The waitress seemed indignant. “Listen, we don’t change anything in the preparation for anyone.” And then she pointed to the fine print on the menu. “No substitutions.” We asked her to confer with the Chef and make our case. After all, we were really looking forward to the meal at their restaurant. And the wine had been opened. We were settling in.

She turned around without saying a word and, probably rolling her eyes, started a weak negotiation on my behalf. I swear they talked for 10 minutes. It was probably more like 30 seconds. But still – there was definitely an exchange and some hesitation. When they finished, she came over and in a very quiet voice told us that the Chef would make an accommodation but that he would not not put the anchovy on the dish. “He said that he’d put it on the side and we can just pretend that it fell off.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep, seriously.”

I thought for a second and while odd, I could live with the decision. “Okay, we’ll take it. Thanks.”

When the dish arrived, sure enough, the anchovy fillet was staring at me, on the side of the plate. And there it stayed throughout the meal. Had I tried to hide it under a napkin I might have had an experience like in one of the Seinfeld episodes – “No soup for you” – and I would have been banished forever.

A striking contrast to this experience was a meal we had in a small town in France called Joigney on the Yonne River. We had just come from the Champagne area and had driven down winding country roads to reach our destination. It was a pleasant trip with a late lunch. We were a bit road weary, but excited to see another part of France, stay at La Cote Saint Jacques and eat the food of Jean Michel Lorain.

Once we settled into our suite, we had time to sit on the terrace of the hotel and savor some Chablis to shake off the road dust and watch the river gently flow to places we had not yet been to. We were there in mid-October and the late afternoon sun was pleasant, neither too hot nor too cold.

Thinking about dinner, we thought we’d stretch our legs and walk into town for a bite to eat. We just wanted something light. At the front desk they informed us that nothing would be open and that we would be better off if we dined with them. Not knowing the area, we of course took their advice and made a reservation even though we had one for the next evening. Heck – it was vacation and how often does one get to eat at a three Michelin star restaurant?

We went back upstairs to get dressed, knowing that our common street clothes would not suffice.

The dining room, as I recall, was warmly decorated, allowing the crisp white linen clad tables to stand out like little altars. The menus were weighty and substantial and in French. While I can pick out a few words, I must admit, I had to rely on James, who speaks the language fluently, to be my guide and order for me, as is always the case when we’re travelling abroad.

With each trip we’ve taken, I always lie to myself and say I’ll study beforehand, and study hard, so I can be minimally conversant on my own. I always, conveniently, run out of time. In our preparation for this trip, a few phrases had stuck with me such as “Je suis vegeterienne.” And, “Encore du vin rouge s’il vous plait.” And, “Omelet du fromage.” I’m pretty good with good morning, good evening and good night, though I can even mix those up under pressure. So, I rely on James. Besides, if anyone were to ask me a question, I’d have to stare back at them shaking my head, worried look on my face, and say, “Do you speak English?”

In the land of offal and savory meat sauces, you would think I’d be kicked to the curb when James announces there is a vegetarian in the midst. I didn’t happen here, nor anywhere in France that we’ve travelled, actually. They were only too glad to accommodate me.

Once everything was ordered, James and I talked in hushed tones and enjoyed the subtle opulence around us. When the meal arrived, I was delighted to have a lovingly prepared vegetable fricassee placed in front of me. James and the waiter then had an exchange which had to do with thumbs. And, in a grand gesture, the waiter started to shave something on my dish. It was brown. Brown cheese? No, wait. Not cheese. Something more earthy. Something I love, love, love. It was the gold of the fungi world. Black truffle. And I got a whole thumbs worth on my dish. Heaven!

Sometimes it is the little surprises that makes life so rich and rewarding.

The next night, we had asked to do their tasting menu. I can’t, now, remember everything we ate but I know that they pulled together something special for me so that I could take on James course for course. For instance, the amuse bouche. Picture a small rectangular plate with three equally proportioned nibbles on them. All having to do with a tomato theme. Besides being beautifully presented and looking almost too good to eat, I also knew they were lovingly prepared just for me! The first bite was a square inch mini-grilled cheese with tomato. The second bite was a candied cherry tomato with a sleek toothpick sticking out of it. It looked like a mini candied red apple. And the last bite was a poached cherry tomato with a finely diced red and green pepper filling. They must have taken time and thought to prepare this wonderful start to the meal. Looking at the hustle and bustle around us, it wasn’t like they had a lot of time on their hands. They had a lot to crank out that night.

Other memorable parts of the meal: James noshed on a roosters comb that we at first thought was a mushroom. We’re still not sure to this day if it was really for eating or for decorative purposes only. If it was for decorative purposes, it wasn’t the worst faux pas that had been committed on the trip. Imagine me at another restaurant popping the amuse bouche in my mouth and when James said something at the exact time I was biting down on the delicacy, I made the mistake of saying, “What?” Next thing I knew hot butter was squirting across the table. (I still refer to this as my Lucille Ball moment. This was not the kind of place that would find that at all amusing).

Another wonderful memory from eating at La Cote Saint Jacques was after we were well fed and full beyond capacity. Our waiter, a charming fellow who had taken a liking to us, asked if we’d like to see their wine cellar. To get there, we had to go through the kitchen (I might add, immaculate kitchen). The Chef was there. We got to meet him and thank him for a memorable meal.

If I could have said it in French I would have said to him, “Thank you for taking my vegetarianism as an opportunity to innovate versus an insult.” Instead all I could say was, “Merci. Bon Nuit.” He seemed to appreciate that.