My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [103]
“Can’t eat the menu at your precious Olive Garden, now, can you?”201 Fletch teases me. Then he takes a bite of his menu heaped with butter. “Hands down, this is the best menu I ever tasted.” He chews thoughtfully. “You’ve got to give them props for coming up with such a clever way of dealing with bread service, which is generally pretty pedestrian, no matter how nice the place is.”
“I know! I’d love to have some more. I’m all, ‘Excuse me, waiter, can I get another basket of menu for the table, please?’ Seriously, between this and the drinks, I’ve got a feeling this meal’s going to be an adventure.”
Our plates are cleared and our first wine match arrives. We receive our first course, Moto’s take on a Denver omelet, which is served on a long, narrow white plate. We get what appears to be one Tater Tot, a spoonful of scrambled eggs over a pile of tiny diced vegetables, and a small, buttered English muffin. But I’m quickly learning that nothing is as it seems. The Tater Tot’s actually a cube of deep-fried shrimp, and the eggs are a deliciously fluffy powder that evaporates the second it hits my tongue. And the bread’s a big puff of meringue topped with something sweet and peachy.
The whole time we’re eating our first course, we’re laughing. I mean, Tater Tots are supposed to taste like grease, salt, and potatoes. There’s no shrimp involved. Eggs are, well, they’re eggs. Except here, they’re totally not. We both agree we like the first wine pairing. “How on earth did the sommelier figure out what best pairs with cartoon food?” I muse.
As a nod to where I’ve come from, I begin to record my reactions to each wine in Lolcat. Wine Spectator may give this bold New Zealand sauvignon blanc an 89, but I rank it a “nom.”
Our second wine pairing arrives, and Fletch and I have a small spat over it. It’s a Moscatel Secco, which Fletch swears is what Fred Sanford drank on Sanford and Son. I argue that can’t be true because his yard was filled with old toilets and stuff and there’s NO WAY that Fred’s “muscatel” could be related to this fine (nom plus one) Portuguese offering.202
“This is instant risotto,” the waiter says, setting two small square bowls in front of us. “Take your spoon and mix the sauce with the grains, and it will instantly ‘cook’ them.” We follow our instructions and stir our servings until all the rice and the pieces of fresh scallop are covered. Even though the “rice” is more like a dried noodle,203 the result is both al dente and creamy, exactly like real risotto.
At this point, neither Fletch nor I can contain our giggles. Even though we’ve not consumed one whole cocktail each, we feel euphoric. Maybe it’s something about finding comedy injected in a situation that, although it’s often pleasant, isn’t usually funny.
Next up, we get what the waiter calls “deconstructed French onion soup.” He presents us with an almond-shaped bowl that has golden Gruyère melted in an artful swoosh on the inside lip and a pile of sautéed, shredded onions placed in the corner. Then he takes a fragrant broth and pours it over everything.
The scent of the broth hit me while the waiter was ten feet away, so I already have my spoon ready the second he leaves our table. I dive in. “Everything I eat here suddenly becomes the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I remark. Fletch can’t respond as he’s heroically fighting the urge to bury his face in his dish.
Before the fourth course is served, I glance at my watch. “Do you realize we’ve already been here an hour and a half?”
Fletch’s eyebrows fly up. “Really? I had no idea.”
Our fourth course is Moto’s version of chicken wings. “We’ve taken seared capon and served it on a bed of braised celery. This here”—the waiter gestures to a long swath of a creamy pinkish substance—“is your bleu cheese puree, because you can’t have wings