Traveling Feast

I hear stories about how awkward it can be to eat alone… stories of being shuffled into corners or tables back by the door to the kitchen, rude wait staff, and uncomfortable moments on loneliness in the midst of others so obviously together.  And I can imagine that eating alone all the time could be hard.

Yet so many of my meals out… reviewing restaurants… require me to eat with others, and this admittedly warped perspective has allowed me to discover the gift of eating alone.  Two of the best meals I’ve eaten this year have been meals alone: one in New York City on Memorial Day weekend (Eleven Madison Park) and a second tonight on the west coast in Seattle’s Le Pichet.

The food on both occasions was wonderful, and, come to think of it, French.  Elegant and daring at Eleven Madison Park.  Rustic and simple at Le Pichet.  Not that I’ve come out of the closet as a Francophile… I haven’t.

In fact, what was most memorable about both meals wasn’t the great food at all, but the wait staff and specifically how they treated me as I dined alone.  At Eleven Madison Park it was Reilly and Chris who went out of their way to describe the food and discuss the wine.  Tonight it was Aaron who did both.

I got to glimpse briefly their delight and expertise as they described the possibilities represented by the menus and my interest was met with enthusiasm and a willingness to take extra time pointing out details I’d surely have missed if I’d been at the table with a party rather than alone.

In fact, in the end it didn’t feel like I was eating alone at all.  They made space for me, offered real hospitality, and set a table that felt a lot like home.  The food was more refined, but what in the end I’ll remember long after I’ve forgotten the flavors is their grace.

After a week of heavy eating with some of the best chefs in the Northwest, I planned to simply order a glass of juice or a cup of tea at Café Presse this morning.  I’d arranged to meet Charles Drabkin there to follow up on a conversation begun over the weekend at the International Pinot Noir Celebration, and while food and cooking would inevitably be part of the conversation, I didn’t plan to eat anything.

But Drabkin spoke so enthusiastically about the food coming out of the kitchen that I felt a moral obligation to try something on the menu.

I looked for something cheap and noticed the omelette for a buck or two less than on any breakfast menu I’ve seen for quite some time.   I ordered one with mushrooms… not expecting much given the price… and when it came my expectations were met.  It was plain and completely alone in its dish.

But two bites into the omelette I started to wonder how in the world I was going to make it in for breakfast weekly given the fact that our home is on the other side of the state.

Most places use omelettes as a comatose-producing egg wrap for a mess of cheese, meats, and occassionally vegetables.  The perfect omelette at Café Presse is a study in simplicity.  You taste egg, perfectly cooked, and, in my case, mushrooms.  There was also a slight tang inside that I’m still trying to identify in the hopes that I might try to make something similar at home.  I hate to admit I couldn’t identify that third element immediately, but I’m willing to fess up in the hopes that one of you do know and will tell me.  Please.

It didn’t even occur to me to reach for the salt or pepper.  And Tabasco?  Not a chance.  You don’t mess with perfection.

Last night a friend dropped me off at the SeaTac Doubletree at dinnertime.  We had driven over for the Western Regional Conference of the American Culinary Federation, but he had a dinner appointment and I wasn’t on the guest list.  On impulse I posted my dining dilemma on Facebook: “Kevin is in Seattle near the airport without a car. Any Seattlites up for dinner?”

I was curious if anyone would respond.  Four did, including my cousin Ken who not only responded, but jumped back in his car with his two daughters and picked me.

I didn’t bother to look at the Doubletree room service menu, but I’m almost certain it didn’t list Pho Ga (Vietnamese noodle soup with chicken) or Phad Se-ew.  Big money says they didn’t offer a Tapioca Pearl Smoothie in strawberry, and even the fried rice would probably have been at the bleeding edge of hotel restaurant fare.

Happily, all of these were on the menu at Best Pho and Thai in Renton not far from Ken’s office.

So we ordered them.

And got cream puffs on the house for dessert.

Thanks Ken, Marissa, and Allison for my first Facebook-facilitated dining hook-up to date.

I’m not quite sure what I expected from a 20-year college reunion, but I was disappointed by the gaping holes in attendance.  The place?  Seattle Pacific University tucked in between the north flank of Queen Anne Hill and the Ship Canal in Seattle.

Maybe it was because no one else knew quite what to expect, and preferred to avoid awkward and ill-defined situations.  Maybe nearly everyone but me decided that if they hadn’t talked for 20 years and not missed it, the relationships didn’t need attention.  Or maybe they have all moved to Malawi or have posts in the new administration or are on the run from the IRS.  All I know for sure is that only a few of the people I really wanted to see materialized to slap on a name tag.

Two great friends, Kevin and Marci Johnson, redeemed the situation, and in the middle of the day we slipped out for Thai food.  I can’t speak for them, but talking about life over lunch felt much more comfortable than standing in a cavernous lobby of a college building trying to remember names, summarize 20 years in a sentence or two, and internally assess who has benefited from 20 years and who hasn’t.

Maybe the discomfort of the reunion lowered my expectations for lunch.  Or maybe the fact that Ying Thai Kitchen looked closed and empty at high noon had something to do with it.

For whatever reason, I had resigned myself to mediocre fair.  I deferred to Kevin and Marci on what to order for our table after a half-hearted glance over the menu.  The Coriander Beef sounded vaguely interesting and the Roasted Duck Pineapple Curry looked like an intriguing departure from most Thai menus.  But Kevin was in the mood for Panang Curry and so Panang it was.

Dang Panang.

The dish clocking in at two stars offered almost no heat, but that can easily be remedied next time.  Because there needs to be a next time.  Panang Curry has not been one of my benchmark Thai dishes, but it just became one and the Ying Thai Kitchen version is going to be a tough standard to top.