When I say restaurant, I don’t mean barbecue or fast food. A BBQ joint is a joint, not a
restaurant. Too snobbish? Not at all.
I sometimes go a hundred miles out of my way to sample fall-off-the-bone smoked meat. But, it’s still not a restaurant. Fast food?
All you can eat buffets?
Abominations! Cavemen ate better,
even on a bad hunting day.
A restaurant worthy of the name has an almost indefinable
aura of sophisticated comfort, with well-conceived dishes, where art and flavor
come together in a heavenly amalgamation of culinary splendor. As a close friend of mine says, “If you come
away thinking I could have done better,
you may have just eaten, but it wasn’t in a restaurant.”
A restaurant makes you feel so comfortable you know right
away you’d like to come back, even before you sample the cuisine. My perfect restaurant is dimmed, but not
dark. The wait staff wears starched
shirts, clean waist aprons, and is professional enough to know you don’t EVER
stack plates on a diner’s table.
 |
| Igor at work |
The barman is smilingly attentive and builds
drinks with a flourish, just as you like them. No silly gimmicks of burning cinnamon sticks,
or artificial syrups.
“Use Lillet
instead of vermouth for my martini, please, with a twist of lemon.” Bond, James Bond...or rather Ian Fleming has taught me a thing or two.
“Of course, sir, and do you have a preferred gin? If not, may I suggest a German gin? Monkey 47.”
He knows every libation on his bottle-lined back counter. Igor is as
smoothly efficient as an English butler. Politely deferential without being
obsequious. You only need whisper your
desires. By the way, the martini is
fabulous and that comes from a man who has been under the spell of Martinis in
the very best of places. My companion has a delicious Moscow Mule, with just
the right kick from freshly cut ginger root.
A few tidbits to nibble?
Of course. Salted peanuts and
flavored chips appear in dainty dishes.
“Just a moment,” Igor says, and returns with chunks of crusty Italian
bread. He comes around the bar and adds
virgin olive oil, balsamic, Parmesan, and black pepper to our small plates.
We discover with our first sips that it is here we want to
linger and dine. We mention it to Igor. “Do you have
reservations?” he asks. We tell him,
no. “Just a moment,” he says and in a
short while he has worked his magic and we’re escorted to our table. We came at the right time. When we first climbed onto bar stools, the
restaurant was meagerly populated, but after being seated for dinner, the place
fills up. The hum of conversation and
laughter float past. Waiters and
waitresses do a delicate ballet, avoiding each other and the crowd of patrons,
while balancing full trays.
Ok, you say, but you come to a restaurant for food,
right? Correct. And we are not disappointed. Delighted in fact. My date’s primavera salad with succulently
grilled shrimp and my pasta with scampi quiets our conversation, even before
the first bites. Heavenly aromas
envelope us. The house white wine is
sensationally smooth and fruity on the nose.
A meal to remember. I could not have done better!
Salut! Prost! Cheers!
And if you get to Baden, drop in to Rizzi
and say hello to Igor.
