Monday, May 31, 2004

Hedonism by Degrees

Gustatory: it’s a great word. My earliest recalled true pleasures were concerned with eating and food: candy, challah, bbq renfaire ribs as long as my youthful arm… I’ve always naturally keyed in on the joys of eating, if not always the joys of cooking, which I usually find pretty joyful too anyway.  But my point is that I like food.

Meeting Andy, and through him, Heidi, only fed this appetite.  He and she and Kel and I have crested innumerable culinary tidal waves, veritable food tsunamis, always looking to make the next experience ever more delectible and gluttonous. 

Andy has a professional relationship with a cook.  Well, a chef.  Well, the executive chef and both co-owners of a restaurant.  Here’s what this restaurant is like: I went there for a party.  The next morning I opened the sunday paper and the associated weekly magazine features a glowing review of another restaurant, a new one, very hip.  The place I’d gone the night before is mentioned twice in the one-page article, and the chef is mentioned once independently by name.  Basically, this place sets the standard in a town that sets the standard. 

So, that party I mentioned: It was Andy’s birthday party and the tables were set up in a big U.  I was slow to grab a chair so I wound up sitting away from most of my friends with the restaurant crowd: Paul and Bob and Maggie and Paul’s wife who’s cool but I don’t recall her name.  The meal was stunning.  And by this I mean, I was literally stunned, my senses numbed by opulence.  Three appetizers were served (carpaccio, asparagus spears, and platters of six of the best salamis ever created, handmade by the chef), and then a truly profound pasta in red sauce.  I’d been drinking champagne and then an outstanding red something or other (damn!  It was a Silver Oak, six litre bottle, but was it a merlot?), had just poured myself a fresh glass of it as the main courses began to appear. 

Maggie was seated next to me.  A waiter brought her a Spaten.  Beer, that is.  My eyes bugged.It was so beautiful, looked so crisp and refreshing in a perspiring pint glass against the white tablecloth.  Paul noticed.  “Get a beer,” he suggested. 

“A beer?,” I stuporously repeated back. 

“Beer.  It looks good, doesn’t it?  This is a restaurant, you know.  My restaurant.  We serve beer here.  Why don’t you order some?”

“But I just poured a whole glass of this lovely wine.”

“It’ll keep.  You don’t want it now.  Beer would hit the spot, though, right?  I just ordered one for myself.  Oh, here it is.” A waiter appeared at Paul’s shoulder with another gleaming pint.  He took it, handed it to me.  “Drink a beer,” he counseled.  “It’s a party.”

I raised the glass to Andy and then took a deep draught of the finest glass of beer in the universe.  My eyes bathed in the rich gold of the lager, and then strayed to the glowing crimson spot on the tablecloth where light from the chandelier shone through and was focused by the wine in my glass, the wine that was so delicious, the wine that awaited my pleasure. 

There are degrees of hedonism, and I had just been graciously but firmly brought to the next one by an acknowledged master.  Not every party can claim that distinction.