My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [101]
After the Robiola we have Tempranillo with a sweaty slice of Manchego 195 and Shiraz with Dutch Gouda,196 both favorites and which I expected to love. Yet I can’t get the thrill of tasting Robiola out of my mind or my mouth.
I have been ruined by stinky cheese.
Our last selection is Parmesan paired with an Italian red wine called Avignonesi Vino Nobile de Montepulciano. Alone, both are fairly nondescript, but once I taste them together, I suddenly want to rush out of the store and whip up a big batch of pasta and marinara and serve it with tumblers full of this wine to my whole family, which is odd because I don’t even particularly like red sauce.197
Wine Goddess tells us that Italian wines aren’t cocktail wines, meaning they’re not something you should sip while watching The Bachelor. (Noted.) They’re specifically made to pair with food, which is kind of genius.
At some point in the evening, Fletch stops being so taciturn and begins to enjoy himself. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the cheese, or perhaps he stopped worrying that people would think he was gay.
Nah, it’s probably mostly because I promise he can buy a new ten-inch chef’s knife at the class’s conclusion.
Regardless, we likely just made cheese for dinner less of a fantasy and more of a reality.
Now, if only I could get him to toss that stupid box of cords.
“Hello, hey, Fletch? Ohmigod, you’re going to die! You’re SO going to die! Guess where I got us reservations?”
“Conference call.”
“What? Where’s that?” I haven’t heard of Conference Call. Is it new, I wonder? I’m doing my best to keep up with all the latest eateries in Time Out Chicago but these places keep popping up like mushrooms and they all have such odd names.
“Clarification—I’m on a conference call,” Fletch says.
“Oh.” That makes more sense. “But then why are you talking to me if you’re on the other line?”
“I only picked up because I saw caller ID flash fifteen times in the last two minutes and I assumed you were bleeding.”
“I’m fine—actually, I’m better than fine because I got us reservations at Moto! How incredible is that? It is beyond impossible to get in there.” I am seriously gloating over snagging a reservation. Moto specializes in molecular gastronomy. The chefs eschew burners and ovens, opting instead to create food using blowtorches and liquid nitrogen, all of which I learned from watching Marcel and Richard compete on Top Chef.
Fletch is a tad curt. “Okay, (a) that you got a reservation proves it’s not impossible, and (b) can I call you back? I can’t keep my other call on hold much longer.”
“Well, make sure you brag to your little friends at work. They’ll be duly impressed.”
“I doubt that because I’m sure they don’t care. And if it’s so hot, how’d you get us in? Did you tell them who you are or something?”
I don’t have the heart to tell him we got in because I went to a free reservation-finding Web site and didn’t have a specific day or time in mind.
So with great conviction, I tell him, “Yes. Yes, I did.”198
We arrive at Moto about fifteen minutes early. Our table isn’t ready yet, so the hostess invites us to sit at the bar, which apparently is right in front of us. This bar is the antithesis of any bar I’ve ever seen before. Instead of being decked out with mirrors and tiny lights illuminating shelves full of call brand liquors, it’s a simple counter with a couple of stools. The wall behind it is blank and unadorned except for a couple of framed prints. When I sit down, I bash both my knees against the bar.
The bartender hands us drinks menus, and while we’re trying to decide, we watch him place a handful of eyedroppers filled with colorful liquids bulb side up in a rocks glass full of ice. They remind me of those little paraffin bottles full of sweet-flavored syrups I used to have as a kid.199
“What was that?” I ask as a waitress whisks the glass into the dining room.
The bartender explains,