On Good Dinners

I’ve been reading through the back issues of the New Yorker my sister brought when she visited in June. (Now that we know when we’re heading back, I can’t rationalize making the suitcase space for them.). So far, my favorite back issue is from November 23, 2009, also known as the issue that came out just before Thanksgiving. It has me miss and think about the North American phenomenon of Thanksgiving, it has me miss my cookbooks, it has me think about favorite meals I’ve had. John Colapinto’s essay about eating with a Michelin guide inspector had me think about the nicer restaurants I’ve eaten in and the stars I would or would not give them. 

            Then Kent and I had our fifth anniversary, and we decided it was a good excuse to try Mosaic, Ubud’s only Michelin starred restaurant. I don’t know how many stars Michelin gave Mosaic, but I think it daring of them to consider a restaurant in Ubud for such a culinary benchmark. Not that Ubud is full of bad food; Ubud is full of great food and great restaurants, but not very many of them attempt a French inspired culinary experience, in fact not very many of them merit a dress code. 

            We had tried to go to Mosaic before, when my sister was in town with her friend Bryan. We thought we’d try it for lunch. We got past the parking lot security who waved security wands over us and checked our bags, we got past the door man who asked if we had a reservation, and despite our “no” still took us to the hostess at the podium who then told us that we couldn’t eat there because they don’t serve children under 12. She was polite about it; we didn’t hold it against them (we’ve eaten with our mobile tot), we just found it baffling that they didn’t say anything at the first two gatekeepers. But now at least, we understood that it was a restaurant worthy of hiring a sitter. 

            For our anniversary, in our island best (Kent in linen pants and a brown & white floral shirt he had bought that afternoon and me in my standard sundress) we showed up again without a reservation. The manager was very sweet, and took down all our information as if she was filling our FBI files; where we stayed, why we came, what we liked, what we drank – all, she said, to better serve us in the future (I think the FBI uses the same argument). We sat in the bar, me already with a properly made martini, and looked at the menu deciding between four set menus, and while deciding were served our first non-course – the canapés that didn’t actually count as one of our actual six – essentially popovers filled with parmesan, soft cheeses, butter and truffle oil. Just, you know, one of those little things you wish you could pull off at your dinner party or Thanksgiving but never actually do. 

            We each went with the Chef’s Tasting menu, so our actual courses started with crabmeat topped with cucumber foam and the wisp of pecan wafer. I felt slightly embarrassed, when the waiter cleared my plate and said, “Finished already?” 

            Tip #1: Never go to a fine dining restaurant when you are actually hungry. You must eat beforehand. 

            Still, the freshness of the crabmeat left me awed. Next, we had oysters flown in from France, with coconut milk, a wasabi cream, and chopped kiwi served on a bed of basil. I, more consciously, ate extra slowly. Oysters, like the foie gras and milk fed lamb that followed, tend to be hit or miss for me, but these were smooth and worth savoring on the tongue. I now saw why MFK Fischer wrote an entire book dedicated to the oyster. And the milk fed lamb was down right Northwesty – not at all typical of Bali or the region, except in terms of a few of the spices they used– served with black pepper, juniper berries, cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, a sprig of rosemary with a slice of pumpkin. Each bite released another infuse of spices and flavor, but none of it overwhelming the taste of the lamb. The foie gras was foie gras, exquisite and with morello cherries, but a little goes a long way. It’s not a dish I need to have every year or every three years. The goat cheese course was disappointing, in that it was the same goat cheese you’d find anywhere, and the chocolate dessert was indeed chocolate, but nothing that impressed the eye or wowed the palate. 

            Considering how one of the best features of our wedding was our four-course set menu for our guests (all 15 of them) and us, it was an appropriate dinner for our anniversary. Each course was served with precision, with just enough time in between; they poured the wine and water in just the right way, and served us our coffee and tea in the lounge with petit fours. 

            We ate in the garden; so sadly, it was too dark to capture any of our meal on film. But it was romantic, especially so, since it was our first really nice meal out together sans bebe since he was born.

           

A day or so afterward, we talked about our dinner. I had told Kent about the New Yorker article on the Michelin guide, and confessed that I now saw the merit in the criticisms of the guide, and even, quelle horreur, of French cooking. The French consider cooking a science, with known processes and known results. This is essentially what the guide is assessing. Yet, as we each felt a certain lack in the meal, not to mention in the décor in the bathrooms (there was none, unless you count corporate office as a style), or  in taste in lounge décor, all we could pin it on was the lack of creativity. Certain dishes were absolutely perfect, and the ingredients were absolutely garden fresh (the basil my oysters had used as a bed was so fresh I put it on my bread with butter). But with the exception of the oysters, there was nothing that startled my taste buds or intellect with surprise. There was that certain je ne sais quoi that was missing, As we tried to put our fingers on what was missing, all we could come with was a certain love, passion or reverence for food, but that wasn’t quite it. It was traditional, it was expected, and it was good. But it was like watching a technically perfect Olympic skater who hated skating. 

            Kent admits, he prefers a good quality twenty dollar bottle of table wine over the hundred dollar subtly flavored bottle, and while I have had a lot of really good wine, I do have to agree with him. I also have to agree with him when he said that one of his favorite things about food is the element of surprise. 

            So while the meal was an experience of a lifetime, it had us think about the other meals we have loved in Ubud – where we can have good sushi, but amazing soba noodles, or that we’ve found a place that delivers a pretty great burger, the pizza here is unimpressive, but the fried eggplant is out of this world. 

            Next year for our anniversary, we might end up at a Michelin starred restaurant – especially as they are making their way into the bigger cities of the US – but we might also end up at a small neighborhood bistro or even roadside taco stand, all Michelin unworthy.