The sommelier was pure magic, revealing the exact bottle we'd just ordered from behind his back without missing a beat.
I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd pulled an Ace from his sleeve while he was at it.
The kitchen, not so much.
Laurel and I had decided weeks ago that we wanted to meet one evening somewhere between our two birthdays and finally pay call on the city's molecular gastronomy mecca - wd-50.
I know I should have LOVED it. And, it was good mind you, but it wasn't LOVE.
All in lower case e.e. cummings form, the smoked eel, salsify, guava and puffed yuzu was fine, but desperately cried out for salt to make it truly palatable. The appetizer of octopus, pine nut, saffron and pickled ginger was much tastier, but still made me long for a charred tentacle doused in olive oil a la Astoria.
Then there was perfectly seared duck breast, worcestershire spaetzle, parsley root and mustard greens. Lovely, but not yowsa.
Followed by dessert of plated caramelized brioche, gala apples, sage and brown butter sorbet. Tasty, but once again, not orgasmatron material.
The dinner's last bit though, was a doozy: Crystle Menthe. (Get it?!?) It was a puff of sweet, intense mint that tickled my sinuses and made me giggle with delight.
And, sometimes all you need to make a birthday dinner with a gal pal memorable is a Harry Houdini of a sommelier and a minty giggle of delight. Still, I'm looking forward to the more traditional culinary experiences yet to come in honor of my "21st" birthday.
Does that make me an old stick in the mud? Possibly. Do I care? Not really.
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