Tomorrow: The gift of a foodie (and more) friend.

I’m trying to follow my personal Best Practice when ordering in restaurants:  Order the first thing that appeals to you. No matter what. (Just be sure you’ve read the menu description carefully so there are no surprises.)
Say someone else at the table orders it, too? So what? You’re not a restaurant critic anymore, you don’t have to taste everything on the menu.
Or maybe something else appeals and you feel yourself getting sucked into the “When Harry Met Sally” quicksand of indecision. Put it right out of your mind.
Maybe it’s the same thing you always order and you wonder if you’re missing something as good or better. Just remember that sometimes variety is NOT the spice of life. Sometimes, it takes all the spice out of life.
Every time I don’t order the thing I first wanted, I’m sorry. Every time. (Except for the polipette/polpette incident in Italy. Polipette is octopus, polpette is meatballs. I wanted meatballs. I got baby octopus in a garlickey sauce. The rule doesn’t apply when you’re ordering in a language you don’t speak.)
It’s as though we possess an instinct — like the mysterious forces that draw you to someone the first time you meet them, while you find yourself averse to others. Or maybe it’s the pheromones that attract us at a more lizard-brain level.
But when my eye falls on something — and this usually happens very quickly, within a glance or two of opening the menu — and I get that “this is it” feeling, in a properly organized world, the server would appear like a conjured genie and take my order right then, before I talk myself into some form of disappointment.
It happened a few months ago in Anchorage. We were having lunch at the Moose’s Tooth, a great pub/restaurant with a kind of Southwest take on things. I opened the menu, saw Southwest Chicken Rice Bowl and I was a goner. When my daughter, who works there, and her best friend, appeared, I checked my choice with them and got big thumbs up all around.
The chunks of skinless, boneless chicken were the most moist and tender I’ve ever eaten; I can’t figure out how they do it — most grilled chicken is disappointingly dry. The rice and chicken are bathed in an indescribable, slightly spicy, slightly rich, tomato-based sauce. I ordered it twice in a week and contentedly dined on the leftovers in my hotel room. I have been stalking the chef for the recipe.
Note to restaurateurs: The words “rice bowl” work on me like a tractor beam. Also “cakes” (as in polenta cakes, risotto cakes, arepas, fish cakes and so on). Also anything involving corn, including and not limited to cornmeal, fresh corn kernels, corn chowder — I’m all corn, all the time.
When I first encountered handmade Pesto Alla Genovese, I declared it to be the food I wanted to be embalmed in when I died. I’ve added several other options to the list since then. One is George Mavrothalassitis’ creamed corn — fresh Kahuku corn slowly simmered in cream, then strained through a fine tamis (French fine fabric strainer) until it’s simply the silken, essential essence of corn. Every once in a while, Mavo puts the corn back on the menu with his version of huli huli chicken. I’d mortgage the house for that dish.
But I digress. I was talking about ordering the first thing on the menu that calls your name. Here’s what will happen if you don’t. Somebody else will order it and you’ll spend the entire meal with your eyes locked on their fork as it journeys from plate to mouth. They’ll give you a bit and make it worse.
There was the time I ordered Chicken Marengo instead of Duck in Blackberry Sauce at Cafe des Amis in Portland. The latter was the dish I’d been fantasizing about for several hundred miles. But I had never had Marengo and thought I ought to branch out because I had Duck in Blackberry Sauce every time we went there. Marengo, named after one of Napoleon’s great battles and the dish his chef served him afterward, turns out to be — like Bonaparte — a big phony, just fresh tomato suace with olives. My date ordered the duck. He groaned with pleasure. I groaned in misery. The next time I went to Portland, Cafe des Amis had closed. The thought that I’ll never eat that dish again makes me want to weep.
Don’t let this happen to you. Go with your gut. It knows.

 

Tomorrow: The gift of a foodie (and more) friend.