A Moveable Feast

Last night I had one of the top ten meals of my life with part of my Brooklyn "family." I wanted to jot down the details so I wouldn't forget any of the courses, which were laced with little sidenotes, but I was too deeply involved in conversation and tasting to think about archives. Writing about a meal the next day is kind of like recounting a vacation when you are back in the office, chilled by AC and slurping down water cooler H20. But I'd like to rethink the delicious tastes regardless.

My Brooklyn friends have formed a club of sorts. We've known eachother for years some friendships emerging from college, and most of the time we spend together we do family-like things, cooking, picnicking, hanging out at home. Having this kind of base makes everything feel stable in the big city. We call our new club "Team Takeout"— we all enjoy running and eating, which is the simple basis for our organization. Having a "team" to run the Prospect Park loop in 90 degree evenings makes it far more likely that you'll finish. We meet on Wednesday nights at J's house and run the loop, catch up on the anecdotes of our past week, whine about our aging bodies, and about half way through, discuss what we will order for dinner. After the run, we clean up, order takeout, uncork the first of several bottles of wine and settle into the couch.

This week Team Takeout really cleaned up, and we went out to dinner at J's husband's Brooklyn restaurant. There were a few couples dining when we arrived. We orderd a Piedmont white, and started talking. J's husband, E, emerged from the kitchen and asked "Do you want me to cook for you guys? I don't think you even need menus." This was quite frankly, one of the best lines I can imagine; Not having to labor over twelve equally delicious menu items, avoiding entree envy, giving the chef complete creative liscence— all the makings of an exquisite evening and a perfect August meal.

We started with a yellow tomato gazpacho and heirloom tomato panzanella with mild goat cheese and peaches. Next arrived rainbow trout over sweet corn and chanterelle mushrooms with a grilled peach, a perfect sweet and savory balance. We ordered a bottle of Pinot Blanc from the North Fork and moved onto an Intermezzo of buttermilk peach sorbet with currants. The meal proceeded: olive oil seared tuna and grouper over sweet red peppers and a bitter but flavorful lemon jam, followed by veal with roasted beets and onions, crispy yellow squash, eggplant caponata and ramps. The portions were all perfectly satisfying without being overindulgent. Finally, we stuffed ourselves with a sample of four desserts-- a warm chocolate cake with olives and ice cream, panacotta, homemade mint and bittersweet chocolate ice cream with cherries, and a summer berry crisp. Uffa, era buonissimo.

We talked about families, work, bosses, sex. Periodically E came out to check on us, giddy with his last creation. The restaurant was fairly quiet so he was able to spend time creating our meal and I imagined that this kind of off-menu tasting experience might be similar to how I approach making an etching—keeping in mind the number of processes I've learned, acquiring a new vocabulary for subject matter, planning the production with flexibility for new marks and change and then trying to separate my mind from my well trained hands and let them do the work.

I love the process of putting ingrediants together and venturing away from a recipe. I know I'm forgetting half of the accents E so delicately served us. The meal was phenomenal and unexpected, sensory-loaded. And the company, of course, restorative, hilarious, comforting. I never want to stop appreciating friends who have known you long enough that you don't need to explain much about your thought process or mood or humor. It just is.

E works harder than most people I know with longer hours and less free time, but he is damn good at what he does, I think he's one of the best. Though the field seems a bit cutthroat, I suppose it is rewarded with social prestige, as it should be. Of course I am slightly partial to people who get their hands dirty, and spend their time making things. But regardless it is just so positive to see someone who has found the work they are meant to do. After dinner I biked home through Gowanus, the neighborhood pool was closed, reflecting, the streets quiet beyond 3rd Avenue and finally the heat had settled a bit. I slept well for the first time in weeks.