It is Saturday night, and Sarah and I are in Chicago.
Two days previous, she had informed me that we had reservations at Moto.
“At where now?”
She smiles indulgently at me. “Oh, silly, silly Pearl,” she says, her blue eyes crinkling with love. “Only some of the most exciting food coming out of Chicago.”
“I like exciting food,” I say.
“Coming out of Chicago,” she prompts.
I nod. “Coming out of Chicago,” I say.
We stare at each other.
“So what can I expect at this place?”
Sarah begins to chuckle – a chortle, really. “You may expect,” she sighs, “gastronomic indulgence. Molecular cooking. The world’s smallest spare ribs floated on an edible menu in a bowl of lost innocence.”
“Sounds delish,” I say.
“Hmmm.” She grins. “Quite.”
And as always, when one is doing anything with Sarah, one does it with anticipatory glee, with aplomb (see “shaved legs” referenced above) and mirth.
A lot of mirth.
Reservations are at 8:00, and we find ourselves in an area of town known as the Fulton Market, something similar in appearance – but much bigger – to the Warehouse District in Minneapolis.
We are seven, perhaps eight blocks into this particular neighborhood when I lean over to whisper into Sarah’s ear: “We shall be separated from our belongings and eventually sold by the strip in high-end food marts under the tag of Free-Range Jerky”. Sarah snorts appreciatively and the taxi driver peers anxiously into his rearview mirror.
We eventually emerge from the taxi, whole and un-jerked, and find ourselves seated in a room decorated in black, gray, and white. A large ceramic platter is delivered to the table, one for each of us. Across this plate are dabs – tastes, really – of the 15-course meal that lies ahead of us.
Fifteen courses.
And I’m gonna do it, I whisper to Sarah, in pantyhose.
What can I tell you about a 15-course meal and the 15 forks and spoons? Shall I tell you about the course referred to as “Breakfast radish”? About the quacamole that came in a pestle, the majority of its ingredients in the shape of an avocado?
What about the “Reindeer lichen” course, served on a rock?
How about we just talk about “Farm house”? Because if there’s anything I look for in a dish, it’s that it comes in a large glass canister half-filled with clean straw and served in an egg shell.
And this one was.
What does one say about cream of braised rabbit served chilled in an egg shell? Of miniature roasted carrots or tiny squares of roasted squash? Of sunflower crisps?
What does one say, other than “mmmmm”?
One says very little, actually. One simply grins at her friend from across the table and raises her wine glass.
Cheers, Sarah.
