Charlie and me
Charlie Trotter was one of my first-ever "Lunch With . . ." interviews, back in 2001 and our conversation remains one of the more memorable ones in five years of the cushiest job in journalism.
Partly, it was the food, a multi-course tasting menu that offered my first taste of peeky toe crab, among other delicacies. And partly it was the setting: a single table set up in the window of his then-recently opened "To Go" shop on W. Fullerton Ave. Customers came and went -- gawking and speculating all the while -- as we sat there for at least two hours, enjoying a nice wine pairing with each course.
Back then, I was a seriously conscientous (and relatively newly hired) Sun-Times employee, so I actually went back to the office when the interview was over, despite being fairly tipsy.
And, since then, one of my colleagues continues to call my (less and less frequent) good hair days, "Trotter hair days," since I had, quite transparently, tried to doll myself up for our interview.
It wasn't so much that I wanted to impress him. But, as someone who has been a "foodie" since approximately age 4 (the moment when Dad promised me I could order anything I wanted off the grown-up menu, as long as I was quiet through the whole meal and, no fool, I went with lobster), I wanted to convey my respect. Having an audience with him was a big deal to me.
Despite all of this, I had never actually eaten at his restaurant. Until Saturday night.
I'd had a couple of opportunities: a media dinner, which I turned down because the freebie seemed (1) unethical and (2) more importantly, not the "real" experience. And a guy I once dated was rather infamous around the singles scene for making periodic reservations (which has to be done a few months in advance) there and then taking whoever he was seeing at the time for a meal there when the reservation came around. Weirdly, I liked this guy enough to spend a lot of time with him, but didn't consider him "special" enough for a dinner at Trotter's. I didn't want to cheapen the experience.
But R's and my first anniversary seemed like exactly the right kind of occassion.
I spent almost the entire day Saturday in a state of anticipation. I got a manicure (because you can't eat that food with imperfect nails, can you?). I had a very light breakfast and lunch, so I'd have a good appetite (not that that's been a problem lately). I took a nap, so I wouldn't get sleepy. I tested multiple outfits to make sure they could comfortably accomodate a full pregnant belly.
And, most importantly, I practiced ordering a glass of champagne in my coolest, most totally composed voice.
Despite my feeling that many of the pregnancy-related food restrictions are overblown expressions of a hyper-aversion to risk that results from our overly litigious culture, I've found myself (mostly) following them anyway.
Because, really, on the small chance that something does go horribly wrong with my baby, I don't want to have a moment of asking myself if that spicy tuna roll or glass of Cabernet was worth it.
But having dinner at Trotter's on your anniversary? Come on. Champagne is required.
And I was itching for any hint of disapproval from my fellow diners.
Then we arrived for our dinner and discovered that the restaurant now offers a "Beverage Tasting Menu" to accompany its 10-course dinners that provides a perfectly-paired non-alcoholic drink with each course. Beginning with a sparkling fennel soda (very refreshing) and ending with a Apple, Beet and Celery juice that had definite red wine characteristics.
Each drink was served in (of course) the perfect Reidel stemware and each one was more fabulously unexpected than the last (I recommend the date and tangelo juice cocktail for everyone's drinking pleasure).
While R. was enjoying the perfect glass of wine with each of his courses (He went the "Grand menu" and I went with the "Vegetable menu," which meant we got twice the over-the-top descriptions from our server. I always love it when there are 17 ingredients in something that is the size of a finger sandwich.) I got to sip my lovely beverages in all their virtuous, non-alcoholic glory. It beat the hell out of sparkling water.
I was, in fact, so delighted by this option that I completely ditched the champagne plan. (And I totally chickened out of making a point to demand foie gras, as well.)
And, yes, OK, sure $45 for six very small servings of juice was probably a bit outrageous, but, really, that's sort of the point, isn't it?
