The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [151]
Our appetizers came out. Karol and I shared bites of each other’s—my deep-fried cheese curds were luscious and crisp on the outside. Made from the extra-mild, rubbery curds of cheddar before they’re aged and actually become cheese, they reminded me of mozzarella sticks, only much better. Our entree was even more delicious. Served on a soft brioche bun, the shredded pork was tender and had a good kick of vinegar in the sauce. We liked the stewed eggplant, too, which had a mild tomato-based sauce and minimal, savory spices. When we were about halfway through dinner, Matt Greco poked my shoulder from behind.
“Thanks for coming, guys,” he said. In his arms were two extra plates. He placed them on the table before us. One had a homemade lamb pastrami and pickled onion appetizer, and another, smoked almonds. We chatted for a while about the restaurant and business so far. From all indications, the restaurant was off to a good start. He politely excused himself and got back to the kitchen after a few minutes.
“Matt works really hard,” Scott said. “He is almost never outside of the kitchen.”
Karol and I made a good dent in the extra food and had one more round of drinks. Everything about our dinner date—the food, the drinks, and especially the friendly service—was delightful. We split the check between us, which came to a little over $60 total. Matt had thrown in the extra appetizers, and Scott had given us each a drink on the house. We left them a good tip.
The next day I went to work. I’d felt funny the night before not preparing myself something to bring in for lunch. As I got dressed and ready that morning, I kept having the nagging feeling that I was forgetting something. When lunchtime rolled around, at about twelve thirty (once again I’d skipped breakfast), I was ready to eat.
Lunching from midtown restaurants and delis was one of the main reasons I had begun my not-eating-out-in-New York quest. But here I was, two years later, strangely ecstatic about all the choices at my disposal. A twisted sense of excitement had been building up to this moment for weeks: my reunion with the typical New York working-class lunch. So, what would it be today?
I’d noticed a few coworkers coming in with bags from a Japanese sushi and noodle place down the street. I decided that something different like udon noodles sounded like a good way to start. When I got to the noodle place, I found myself in the back of a long line. As I waited, I looked over the options written on a board. There was udon with chicken, beef, vegetables, tofu, or kimchee. I set my mind on kimchee. When it was my turn to order, I paid the cashier for the kimchee udon first. With tax, it cost $6-47. Then I stood in a shorter line and watched as a cook behind a glass window took a block of squashed udon noodles out of a package and dropped it into a vat of water that had a small draining rack inside it. He lifted another draining rack beside it and dumped the cooked udon noodles that were inside it into a polystyrene foam cylindrical bowl. To the bowl he added a few ladles of broth from a large pot, and next he picked up a small handful of chicken from a small container with his gloved hands. He topped the dish with a handful of chopped scallions, put a lid on the bowl, and wrapped it up in a bag for the customer. A moment later, he lifted the other portion of boiling noodles from the water and dumped it into another polystyrene foam bowl. He added broth and a scoop of kimchee from another container behind the glass. That one was my order.
Once I got back to my desk, I cleared away my papers and set the bowl down in front of me. A set of disposable wooden chopsticks had been thrown into my bag faster than my eyes could really make out, so I took them out of their wrapper and snapped them apart. I tasted the broth with a plastic spoon first. There was nothing special about it. Next I tried the udon. My first bite actually tasted like fresh plywood. I’d forgotten the way these chopsticks spread their delightful flavor into each bite. I