The sky cracked and poured out onto the sidewalk. There was time before the show began. Coming from work, I had to spend a little time ambling. Even in the rain, I am attached to exactly which refuge I want. Not the bright one that looks like someone wants to be in Scarface—all cocaine white leather, patches of neon light, overdone modern chandeliers, and clear plastic barstools that look like the stems of hooker shoes. Running downMadison, I found an elegant hotel with a brass revolving door and a marquee that boasted music. The bar was dark wood and warm atmosphere.
Upstairs, the wainscot was torn off into vaulted ceilings of elegant white with splashes of bright brooches of color. It looked like a few red poppies on white silk. This is that dream where art nouveau and the gilded age have tea parties with champagne—and in case this scene is particular to my dreamscape, it is a very good thing. As fate would find, I happen to have stumbled into the Carlton Hotel. The restaurant, Millesime, is the flagshipNew Yorkrestaurant of the owner of Aqua, aSan Franciscoseafood restaurant artfully decadent from décor to deliciousness.
Luck sometimes smiles on the unfortunate. Sliding into the stool, the man on the end and the woman next to him are the owner and manager of Millesime respectively. Through the course of conversation, these aforementioned details bloomed. The owner, Chris, tantalizes that the tuna tar tar from my former foodie haunt has been imported. It is likely that I tittered a little. Casually, the owner asks the bartender to order me one.
Perfectly presented, the pink tuna came plated for presentation. The white sleeves gestured towards each section of swirls and bursts. Then he took the plate back and mixed tableside. He was like an artist mixing paint, knowing exactly the hue he wants. I feel like a model for Degas, waiting flushed while he found the perfect color to suit my palate.
Moroccan spice, slivers of bitter lemon zest, a fig puree, quail egg, cilantro, and a delicate oil blend together and then bursted into pure colors on my tongue. I could taste the yellow rind, the deep cardamom, the musty red of cayenne just lingering like a sunset. The violet fig, sweet and rich, came in and out with the sweet pink of the tuna.
The depth and brightness clung. I had stubbornly chosen Blanton’s, the small batch bourbon with the metal pony on the bottle stop. It was a favorite at twenty-two. I had a man who kept a bottle of it at his apartment so that I might come over. I rarely did. And still I remember him and that bottle, waiting. I never saw its end. The rain must have made me nostalgic.
Bourbon should not really go with tuna, but the sentimental sting cut across the flavors and they fought back. The bourbon cut and burned. The spice came to life. The brightness became brighter. The pepper swelled and shivered through to my toes. Everything reawakened—all the colors alive.
The joy of wonderful food proves that flavor is not just a mechanism of weeding out nutrients and testing what is edible, but that it is a form of touch. It makes memory and pleasure much as any art.
