it shouldn't matter, right? a succulent pork roast or a prime aged rib eye steak should taste about the same whether ladled right into your hands or laid out architectonically on an artisanal celadon plate. right?
i don't know about you, but it's not with me. somehow, the plates, to me, definitely make the entrees. and this realization bothers me a lot. it's like admitting i could really be one of those superficial people you hate to be in your company. which come to think of it, my friends, my forgiving group, may have already long known about it but just don't have the heart or the moxie to say right to my face.
there is this new restaurant in our neighborhood. nothing earth shattering with restaurant openings in our strip otherwise known as little italy in the bronx. restaurants, italian and mediterranean, i.e., in fact, are so obvious and not to mention dull that sometimes i find it refreshingly exotic to order take out chinese two blocks down.
but this one, this new kid on the block is nuevo latino. meaning, the chef, perhaps, is not really devoted to any particular south american regional cuisine. hence, a hodge podge of everything he or she knows about, or what most new yorkers associate to be, latin food. so, a farrago of carribean latin and some good old staples from central american isthmus cooking.
and like any other good neighbors, our friends dropped by recently to wish well the new move-ins. and frankly, i was expecting not to be disappointed. i'm a latin foodie, a hot grease and yellow rice and red beans guy.
but after we settled our bill, which was not that bad, really, for day wage earners like myself, i felt cheated. not that the fare was flat or uninspired. in fact, the chef's take on ceviche (with a surprising japanese yuzo salsa) was actually worth the trip back next payday, perhaps.
what ticked me off were the generic plates. it's not even the all white minimalist plates that are so dull that they are now considered cool. it's just your basic hotel low grade vitreous china. and in the center, is a drab green representation of what seems to be a vapid clump of saguaro cacti. sure, cactus, since this is a latino restaurant, right? how imaginative.
i guess my beef is that this restaurant has violated a cardinal contract with one of its patrons, moi. i go and dine out because i am hoping to experience some emotional ephemera that ironically will last me for quite a time. i expect that by dining out, i am going to expand my sensory repertoire. i will partake of a dish that mother has never served me as a kid nor one which i can make on my own even if i plunk good money in some fancy culinary institute downtown.
in a way, a restaurant is a sacred ritual space for me. and in rituals, one never serves offerings on cheap, much more chipped, plates.