Red Hook Tavern
What am I supposed to feel when the server walks towards me with an amuse-bouche, a cold-smoked L'Arpège egg with beluga caviar? Lifting off the clear glass cloche, he swirls the smoke up and into my nostrils.
It smells like fire.
It looks like an egg with a hole in the top.
This preparation has been called “the most exquisite egg dish in the world.” The egg is sous vide, the sherry vinegar is aged, the fleur de sel is hand-harvested. A lot of passion went into that egg, and as a diner you pay for that passion. You also pay for the freshly ironed tablecloths, for the meticulously polished silverware, and for the waiter to scrape away your crumbs with that little metal thing.
You can tell your friends you went there, so it’s worth it.
You can post photos of the meal on Instagram, so it’s worth it.
The food tastes good, so it’s worth it.
Still, though, when the number at the bottom of the bill gets high enough, I can’t help but leave feeling uncertain.
I can tell you exactly how I felt watching the waitress walk towards me with what might have been the most beautiful cheeseburger I’ve ever seen. Yellow cheese draped over the thick, dry-aged patty like a gooey, processed dairy blanket. They say American cheese is the best cheese for cheeseburgers “because it melts without splitting.” I say I agree. A lot of passion went into that burger, and there’s no bullshit to get in the way of my enjoying it.
The feeling of waiting was pure anticipation, my head turning with each burger that walked past our table.
The feeling of eating was pure bliss - realizing with each bite that it was living up to the hype.
The-post meal was pure satisfaction, nostalgically remembering when I’ve eaten a burger that transcendent. And wondering when I may be lucky enough to eat another.
The burger was good, and it was worth it. I have no doubts.
You can read the full story on Red Hook Tavern below, and stay tuned for next week’s special edition about my Lebanese New Year’s celebration in Paris.
Served,
The Supper Club
