What makes good food good? aka the phenomenon of the seven hour meal.
Regardless of whether a restaurant is Michelin rated or not, I find that a solid indicator of a good meal is length of time at the table. This rings true for dinner parties as well. In this chaotic world that's driven by the clock, it is quite a feat for a meal to transport you away from the daily worries, make you forget about the time, and be "in the Now." I know that I've prepared a good meal when my friends say, "Dear God, we arrived here at 7 and now it's 1am. What happened to all that time?" Maybe this is another reason why I love the art of eating so much, it's one of the few things that can bring me into the Now--into my yen place--without much effort on my part to focus. As I'm eating and enjoying conversation, I'm here at the dinner table. My mind is not wandering off. I'm just enjoying the moment. I also actively try to enhance this "Now" atmosphere in my dining room/kitchen by not having any clocks around. Indeed, you can't see any clocks in my entire apartment. I find this state more difficult to achieve during yoga (maybe because I don't practice it as often as I do eating...) when I really have to fight with my brain to turn off and just be in the Now.
In the history of seven hour meals with Nina, there have been four that have stood out. Two in France, two chez moi. The first one is the very first seven hour meal that I ever had. It was in Rouen, France and it was random. Random because I was not particularly looking for a seven hour meal nor did I really know that that kind of bliss existed. I was in Rouen following a morbid desire on my part to see the exact spot where Jeanne d'Arc was burned at the stake. I had dragged my friend all the way from Dijon (yes, where they make the mustard) to this ville about two hours to the Northeast of Paris. NB: I spent my first semester of college in Dijon, France; I know it's a bit nontraditional, but it's a legit program at Colby.
Once I had communed with the historic spot (which took all of one minute), we found that there wasn't really anything else to do in town. We spotted a restaurant across the square and decided to get some lunch. The restaurant was called the Toque d'Or: simple, rustic, yet bustling. Immediately after being seated by the host, the sommelier appeared and asked if we'd like an aperitif. Neither of us had had one before, so we asked for a recommendation. This is when I was introduced to kir. Kir is a mixture of black current liqueur and white wine and in my opinion is the perfect (and necessary) start to any seven hour meal. The subtle fruitiness of the kir, served with a complementing amuse-bouche (pre-appetizer), prepares your palate and psyche for the joys to come. Little did I know at the time that this apero would become an honored ritual to most of my meals.
Once settled with our aperos, the menus arrived. You could either go "a la carte" and pick and choose the parts of the meal or you could select "prix fixe/table d'hote." The latter means that the menu lists fixed meals at fixed prices. This is usually the best deal. You can get anywhere from three to five, six, or seven courses for a much cheaper price than if you selected the courses individually. It is also preferable to choose this because the chef selects the courses very carefully so that they all go together: each course adds up to a whole and the consumer experiences the meal exactly as the chef wants him to. I always pick this menu if it's available--I'd be pretty egotistical if I thought I could choose better than a master french chef.
I could describe to you exactly what I had that day, as I somehow remember the meal like I had it last night for dinner. This would take a lot of time. In sum, it was filled with the terroir of Normandy...apples, cider, calvados, roast chicken...each course built upon the last, leaving the palate feeling complete by the end. The simple and the complex were blended subtly into an ecstasy of experience. We worked our way through each course slowly, pausing after every bite to savor and talk. Each course was complemented with a different wine as per the sommelier and each was completed with a swipe of bread across the plate. We had seven courses in total, each one building a haze around us, til the outside world no longer existed--all that was there was us and our plates and our conversation.
And just when we thought the meal had come to the end, the patron of the resto came over and commented on how he had never seen Americans with a zest for eating equal to our own. Not only was he impressed by our spirits, he loved how we spoke in french the entire time we were there--not just to the staff, but in normal conversation. In a token of appreciation, he had the sommelier bring over some digestifs (on the house), calvados (apple brandy) to be exact. Calvados is the traditional after dinner drink of Normandy. Again, we had never had digestifs and were excited after our pleasant experience with Kir. I've learned since then that I'm not as fond of digestifs in general as aperitifs. They tend to be extremely potent and always bring a tear to the eye and a flush to the cheeks. However, in honor of that first seven hour meal, I always serve a spot of calvados after all meals chez moi. I actually have grown to like it, especially on a chilly evening. It's definitely an acquired taste though.
This "on the house" offering of a digestif became a trend at all the restaurants I went to in France. By the end of every meal, the patron would love me and my dinner companion, come over and say how delightful we are, and give us digestifs on the house. What a great country! A place where my love for enjoying a good meal and disregard of time is praised and rewarded! Yes, I'm a francophile if you couldn't tell already...
To be cont'd...
Regardless of whether a restaurant is Michelin rated or not, I find that a solid indicator of a good meal is length of time at the table. This rings true for dinner parties as well. In this chaotic world that's driven by the clock, it is quite a feat for a meal to transport you away from the daily worries, make you forget about the time, and be "in the Now." I know that I've prepared a good meal when my friends say, "Dear God, we arrived here at 7 and now it's 1am. What happened to all that time?" Maybe this is another reason why I love the art of eating so much, it's one of the few things that can bring me into the Now--into my yen place--without much effort on my part to focus. As I'm eating and enjoying conversation, I'm here at the dinner table. My mind is not wandering off. I'm just enjoying the moment. I also actively try to enhance this "Now" atmosphere in my dining room/kitchen by not having any clocks around. Indeed, you can't see any clocks in my entire apartment. I find this state more difficult to achieve during yoga (maybe because I don't practice it as often as I do eating...) when I really have to fight with my brain to turn off and just be in the Now.
In the history of seven hour meals with Nina, there have been four that have stood out. Two in France, two chez moi. The first one is the very first seven hour meal that I ever had. It was in Rouen, France and it was random. Random because I was not particularly looking for a seven hour meal nor did I really know that that kind of bliss existed. I was in Rouen following a morbid desire on my part to see the exact spot where Jeanne d'Arc was burned at the stake. I had dragged my friend all the way from Dijon (yes, where they make the mustard) to this ville about two hours to the Northeast of Paris. NB: I spent my first semester of college in Dijon, France; I know it's a bit nontraditional, but it's a legit program at Colby.
Once I had communed with the historic spot (which took all of one minute), we found that there wasn't really anything else to do in town. We spotted a restaurant across the square and decided to get some lunch. The restaurant was called the Toque d'Or: simple, rustic, yet bustling. Immediately after being seated by the host, the sommelier appeared and asked if we'd like an aperitif. Neither of us had had one before, so we asked for a recommendation. This is when I was introduced to kir. Kir is a mixture of black current liqueur and white wine and in my opinion is the perfect (and necessary) start to any seven hour meal. The subtle fruitiness of the kir, served with a complementing amuse-bouche (pre-appetizer), prepares your palate and psyche for the joys to come. Little did I know at the time that this apero would become an honored ritual to most of my meals.
Once settled with our aperos, the menus arrived. You could either go "a la carte" and pick and choose the parts of the meal or you could select "prix fixe/table d'hote." The latter means that the menu lists fixed meals at fixed prices. This is usually the best deal. You can get anywhere from three to five, six, or seven courses for a much cheaper price than if you selected the courses individually. It is also preferable to choose this because the chef selects the courses very carefully so that they all go together: each course adds up to a whole and the consumer experiences the meal exactly as the chef wants him to. I always pick this menu if it's available--I'd be pretty egotistical if I thought I could choose better than a master french chef.
I could describe to you exactly what I had that day, as I somehow remember the meal like I had it last night for dinner. This would take a lot of time. In sum, it was filled with the terroir of Normandy...apples, cider, calvados, roast chicken...each course built upon the last, leaving the palate feeling complete by the end. The simple and the complex were blended subtly into an ecstasy of experience. We worked our way through each course slowly, pausing after every bite to savor and talk. Each course was complemented with a different wine as per the sommelier and each was completed with a swipe of bread across the plate. We had seven courses in total, each one building a haze around us, til the outside world no longer existed--all that was there was us and our plates and our conversation.
And just when we thought the meal had come to the end, the patron of the resto came over and commented on how he had never seen Americans with a zest for eating equal to our own. Not only was he impressed by our spirits, he loved how we spoke in french the entire time we were there--not just to the staff, but in normal conversation. In a token of appreciation, he had the sommelier bring over some digestifs (on the house), calvados (apple brandy) to be exact. Calvados is the traditional after dinner drink of Normandy. Again, we had never had digestifs and were excited after our pleasant experience with Kir. I've learned since then that I'm not as fond of digestifs in general as aperitifs. They tend to be extremely potent and always bring a tear to the eye and a flush to the cheeks. However, in honor of that first seven hour meal, I always serve a spot of calvados after all meals chez moi. I actually have grown to like it, especially on a chilly evening. It's definitely an acquired taste though.
This "on the house" offering of a digestif became a trend at all the restaurants I went to in France. By the end of every meal, the patron would love me and my dinner companion, come over and say how delightful we are, and give us digestifs on the house. What a great country! A place where my love for enjoying a good meal and disregard of time is praised and rewarded! Yes, I'm a francophile if you couldn't tell already...
To be cont'd...
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