A couple weeks ago, I went out to lunch with four friends and ordered a caprese sandwich, a simple sandwich known for luscious tomatoes, creamy mozzarella, and fresh basil. We sat outside laughing and chatting under an umbrella while we waited for our food. Finally, my meal was delivered in the form of an extra juicy tomato and wet cheese sandwich, with not a leaf of basil in sight. I called the restaurant from the table outside and asked about the basil. They were out. I ate the soggy tomato and cheese lunch, but I couldn’t let it go. I called the restaurant when I got home and said that a caprese without basil wasn’t really a caprese. The manager apologized saying she had new staff who didn’t realize the importance of basil—or telling the customer if they were out of an ingredient. She refunded the $13.00.
Saturday my husband Bill and I ventured out for dinner with two other couples. I had snagged a table for six at a lively restaurant in Lynn, about twenty minutes from our house. Our table wasn’t ready when we arrived, but the two-host staff quickly pulled three high tops together against a wall, leaving about sixteen inches for three of us to scooch into; the wives looked at one another and with a nearly non-present nod, we slid in. The men sat across from us where their bar stools had more space. We laughed, we chatted, we fell into one another’s smiles.
After fifteen minutes of delight, I caught the eye of a host, waved her over, and quietly told her that we hadn’t been served. She rushed to find a server who promptly appeared at our table with pen and paper in hand; she asked what she could start us off with.
“Menus?” I suggested, and then second-guessed myself. Was there a sign with a QR code that we should’ve popped into our phones? Some restaurants had gone to electronic menus, skipping paper altogether. Alas, paper dinner menus arrived, and following our request for cocktail menus, those appeared as well from the host staff.
A dozen raw oysters were delivered with our other appetizers as an appeasement for the rocky start. The calamari, baked brie, and fries with truffle oil were delicious. The guys enjoyed the oysters. Five dinners came out just as we finished the appetizers. Oh, the joy of having a plate of hot food delivered to you! Er, to them. My plate didn’t arrive.
I encouraged the others to start eating without me, for the waitress said mine would be arriving shortly. For five minutes, we all continued chatting over their food. I joked that my salmon was still on the hook, so when it arrived it would be incredibly fresh. Finally, a tap on the hostess’ shoulder and a request to follow up on my salmon resulted in our waitress returning to the table. “I’m sorry but your dinner was given to another table. The kitchen is making another one for you, and you won’t have to pay it. Can I get you another round of drinks?”
I had already splurged on my one drink for the evening, but the others were served up another round. “Glad I could get that one for you! I’m taking one for the team!” Knowing my salmon had slipped from the hook, they all started eating their dinner. I had no more salmon jokes, but I held tight to the smile on my face.
My friend next to me said, “You can have anything on my plate, really!” Moms are so easy to spot; lovely and thoughtful, they’d give you the food off their plate. My over-done salmon arrived as the others were nearly finished eating. Long after the plates were zipped away, we continued in our huddle of laughter and discussion. We were one of the last parties to leave the restaurant.
Memorial Day Monday, Bill and I went out to a diner for breakfast; the parking lot was full, so we were surprised to be immediately seated. The diner was hopping with a large group of twelve and most of the tables full. We ordered food, and I ordered a mocha latte, but the espresso machine was broken. I settled for ice water. We sat and sat and sat. All diners must have rolled into the parking lot around the same time.
Twenty minutes later the table of twelve was served. Dribs and drabs of food was delivered from the kitchen over the next few minutes. Finally, a half hour after we had been seated, our food was delivered. My scrambled eggs were steaming hot and were hiding the corn beef hash underneath. Eggs are like chicken in that they can soak up any flavor, yet these eggs were little more than fork scrambled, fried in a thin crepe shape—no seasoning, nothing fancy, no hint of even a bit of salt. Basic diner scrambled eggs. I ate enough to get some protein, then remembered the words from Prue on The Great British Baking Show: “It must be worth the calories.” She was talking about eating desserts, but the same sentiment applied to the plate-loaded-for-two in front of me.
Our return to dining out was eye-opening: the experience wasn’t as it was before the pandemic. Most certainly, there will be a learning curve as restaurants rev back up. While staff need to be hired and trained, my expectations of service need to be adjusted.
The other eye-opener? We’ve been cooking most meals at home for at least 400 days. We wobble close to what Malcolm Gladwell states about people, “outliers,” who succeed amazingly well in their field: They’ve put in 10,000 hours. Quick math: 400 days x 24 hours = 9,600 hours since March 2020. It feels like I’ve been planning for, dreaming about, foraging for, and preparing meals for approximately 10,000 hours.
The result? My scallops and salmon are exquisite; my vinaigrette is kick-ass; my scrambled eggs are sublime. I can make mac’n’cheese and grilled cheese sandwiches in my sleep; my steaks (barring no fire in the grill and not running out of propane) come off the grill tender pink inside with black grill marks on the outside; my risotto is too dangerously creamy and satisfying to make more than once every couple of months. I no longer need a roasted chicken from the deli to make homemade chicken and rice soup; I can roast chicken thighs, make broth from the skin and bones, and deftly toss in memorized ingredients to complete this soup—the making of which is more cathartic than is the eating of it. I slice up apples and swivel out stems of strawberries as if my knife is a magical sword.
Despite all of this deliciousness, daily my head feels like I’m completing complex calculus problems as I figure out what will come forth from my kitchen to feed four people who have vastly different preferences. How to work enough roughage into the carb-preferred diet; how to add protein to a ramen noodle soup day; how to make that burger edible five hours after it’s come off of the grill; how to avoid gluten, carbs, and sugar bloat.
For respite, what do I want in “eating out”? Am I wanting someone else to slide a plate in front of me and be content with whatever it is—as long as I didn’t have to make it? Or, do I expect the food on that plate to be elevated to the likes of Gordon Ramsay’s overly-thought-out-but-scrumptious scrambled eggs or Jamie Oliver’s roast beef to die for?
I have turned these questions inside out and backwards looking for the answer. I’ve walked away from this writing four times because I couldn’t put the answer down; couldn’t come to clear decision. I now realize I’m trying to answer this eating out question with the wrong parameters.
Given what we’ve been through, contemplating the quality of food served feels petty as I read back through this. More important are smiles, laughter, and chatting across a table. Give me this, and I’ll happily eat anything, anywhere.
I should repeat this mantra five times daily and post it on the back door as a reminder when we are on our way out to eat.