Yan (and my brother) is actually responsible for my becoming a slight foodie. Last summer, we trekked to New York City to experience her holy grail of fine dining, Jean-Georges, along with a cheap and quick Gourmet-magazine-writer-friend-recommended hole-in-the-wall Japanese eatery (no seating aside from a bench outside the shop), and the slightly infamous Momofuku milk bar (which does not even print its own name on the storefront - you are just supposed to know).
Most of the time, I subsist on supermarket-brand multigrain bagels, a tub of hummus, whatever yogurt is on sale this week, the same goes for fruit, and carrots and lettuce, sometimes tomatoes. Day-to-day, I care more about satisfying my nutrition, being conscious of vitamin intake and avoiding processed foods, than my cravings, and more about value, comparing unit prices and targeting items discounted by my Shaw's savings card, than taste. As a college student on a budget, it's essential to be diligent in the daily chore of feeding myself. But once in a while, I enjoy sitting down to savor well-crafted food.
This summer's eating kicked off with a visit to Rendezvous in Central Square with Yan. The yellow awning framing the restaurant had always impressed upon me a sense of tackiness, the way plastic cutlery would dull the shine of a five-star setting. The interior is handsome, however, with dark hardwood floors, blond hardwood tables, and a yellow brick wall on the side of the room lined by the bar. When we arrived at five, the dining room was almost empty, it being early, endowing the room with a feel of airy spaciousness. Late afternoon light flooded in from the large storefront windows; it was the light that occurs fifteen minutes before a surprise rain shower--already, a few rogue drops had begun to fall--a warm waning glow with menacing gray undertones.
Throughout the course of the meal, we were attended to by three different members of the waitstaff, including one who was quite handsome (much like the interior). The service was courteous but a bit detached, I felt--nice, but without personality. Charm, I think though, is a quality of the individual servers more than a reflection on the restaurant (although a restaurant would be culpable for hiring truly rude staff).
As an aside, I always feel like asking waiters their names, as if we should introduce ourselves, since we are two people who have just met. I mentioned this to Yan during the meal, and she replied, "I don't feel that way. They never ask you your name." I had never thought of that. Servers, I figured, don't ask you your name because they aren't your equals in their role, in that particular social transaction. (You, however, as the guest, are free to demand this information of them.) The inequality explains my discomfort with being served at restaurants, especially as the luxurious touches ramp up (i.e. pulling out and pushing in your chair for you, or wiping crumbs from your tablecloth between courses). The discomfort must also stem from some internal indignance; in accepting these luxuries, I silently exclaim, "as if I couldn't do that myself!"
The food was good. For the price, I thought it should have been better; still I was impressed by the meatball dish, whose excessive butteryness was both the bane and joy of it. The appetizer was small, though fresh--they grow their own herbs on the roof. The dessert was disappointing though: too sweet, nothing special. A small spoonful of Yan's jasmine rice pudding made me regret choosing the lemon-buttermilk.
After this meal, I did not feel compelled to return.
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Last weekend my brother returned home. I don't recall having seen him for a year; over winter break he was in China, and he's working in Chicago this summer. For the occasion, I treated my family to lunch at Market by Jean-Georges, a throwback to last summer's holy grail in NYC.
The restaurant is an appendage of the upscale W Boston hotel. The decor suggests the pure and natural: all furniture is colored in shades of grays, blacks, and white; the small bread plate is a dense stone-like slate; at the center of each table, a clipped flower sits in an egg-shaped ceramic pot designed to resemble an rock. The lofty ceiling lies maybe thirty to forty feet up, and an equally tall sheet of glass makes up the street-facing wall, providing most of the restaurant's day lighting.
The place setting at Market by Jean-Georges
Our server was an older gentleman with an invisible and effortless grace. His manner, though I could not pinpoint any specifics, put me at ease. He did, at one point, wink at me from afar after just having served our table, as if in an inside joke that he thought I knew. I'm sorry I didn't ask his name.
Our server was an older gentleman with an invisible and effortless grace. His manner, though I could not pinpoint any specifics, put me at ease. He did, at one point, wink at me from afar after just having served our table, as if in an inside joke that he thought I knew. I'm sorry I didn't ask his name.
Background: House-made Cherry-Yuzu soda
We each started with an appetizer. My fried clams were gently crunchy and soft and tender on the inside, the dipping sauce so light, even lighter than some whipped cream, and flavored perfectly--in a way I can only describe as "delicate"--as to make known its presence while complimenting the clams. The cherry-yuzu soda was a unique, sweet, slightly tart flavor I'd never encountered in my life, and truly delicious. Finally, the pizza crust was thin and crisp, the bread itself yeasty and wholesome, the cheese salty and flavorful, with greens drizzled with olive oil in the middle. In every dish here, I could taste quality. It's the taste of everything being done right, because someone paid attention to the details. It's something I did not strongly detect at Rendezvous, or most anywhere else I've been.
I will return to Market.
