I have eaten at incredible restaurants on both coasts and here at home. A place called the Blue Wave in Boston that offered roast chicken with a potent mixture of jalapenos and garlic slathered under the skin. A tiny joint in San Francisco, Geordy’s, that went out of business about a month after I enjoyed absolutely incomparable prime rib, and sampled my dinner companion’s brioche-stuffed chicken. I have worshiped the offerings at places I can no longer name, yet recall every taste.
Still, the finest meals do not come from the finest restaurants. The single best thing I ever ate? A pot roast my father made one Sunday that was so tender and so perfectly seasoned that I actually stopped chewing and just looked at it. Close second: something called kalbi jjim (yeah, two J’s) that I scored in a food exchange with Ketta B, which was an absolute revelation. Apparently it is Korean comfort food. I was comforted.
Sometimes on TV or in the movies you’ll see the vaunted restaurant critic sitting alone, focused solely on the meal. No serious foodie would do that. Food is not just about nourishing your body. It is a social lubricant, an improver of conversations and a lynchpin of occasions. As the meal loosens lips, the conversation seasons the meat.
I have never had a bad meal with good company. I recall a truly unfortunate take-out breakfast—whoever came up with the concept of “tofu scramble” needs to be taken firmly by the shoulders and shaken hard—with a brilliant young lady whose company I enjoy far too much; I wouldn’t have traded it for perfect pancakes illuminated by a lesser light. An Italian friend once made a Steak Florentine served on arugula instead of the traditional spinach. I have not been able to recapture the taste, and no wonder: the steak was part of a meal served to a large group at a long table, sipping wine and laughing. How good was the veal chop at Hy’s? The night I tried it was a few days before Christmas, a holiday dinner with the gang that always welcomes me. It was perfect.
The Blue Wave chicken? Shared with the blue-green eyes of the sweet young love I had traveled thousands of miles to see. Geordy’s prime rib was with a dear friend whom I have known forever, and who still puts up with me.
I’m a pretty good cook, so when I say that despite asking for it, I don’t really want Ketta’s kalbi jjim recipe, it’s not because I couldn’t make it. It just wouldn’t be the same.
Filed under: Food
