The Cure For Everything Is Salt …
… tears, sweat, and the sea. (Dinesen)
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Ethan Canin’s The Palace Thief continues to be one of my favorite books ever. It’s a collection of four short stories, one of which recounts the life of a man who vacillates between the safe practicality of his own skin and the desire to be, well, more reckless. At one point he faces a choice between two women: one is down to earth, kind, sweet, and nurturing. One is impossibly beautiful, aloof, expensive. He chooses Sheherazade.
Dinner at Naha last night reminded me of that story. The decor is exquisite, the meals certainly not cheap, and the experience is a strange toggle between heaven and hell. What, the hell? Perhaps the bartender, who when I motioned to for help as another member of our group was ready for a drink, muttered “I see him, give me a second.” Or the hostess, who when I said “we’re all here now” responded without looking up “now it will be 20 minutes more.” Or the server who came up to the short line of us waiting our turn for the private restroom and chided “there are more downstairs” as if we should have known. Or perhaps the chef, who passed our table with a brief nod, no more. Or the staff who, at the end of the night, were giving each other play-by-play reports of how many tables were left seated (I admit, we were the last to leave). They made clear that they were there in spite of you, regardless of you, and that you should be grateful.
Balancing the gloss and glower was the meal, and our server Sara. Naha’s menu is extraordinary, and my personal choices for the night were a risotto with morel mushrooms, a ribeye with a gratin of macaroni and cheese, and their cheese plate—all perfectly prepared and portioned, all delicious. And Sara chose a wonderful sequence of wines for us—a riesling for the appetizer, a French red for dinner, and another German wine for dessert. It was truly a brilliantly meal prepared by a master, and Sara’s knowledge about wine, fine food, and the Farm bill surpasses belief.
I’d come back again. Dressed more formally than I’d normally dine. Ready to be somewhat ignored. Prepared with a high-limit credit card. I will love my meal. And I might even respect myself in the morning.
