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Escar-No

After running around the Upper East Side all afternoon on the Fourth of July in a silly get-up, I was ready for a good meal.  Actually, Ryan and I were both starving, and since neither of us had access to a grill or hot dogs, we did the next best thing to celebrate the birth of our country: we went out for French food.

We decided upon Balthazar – it’s close to my school, it’s predictably good, and who doesn’t like saying, in casual conversation, “Oh, yes, just dropped in to Balthazar for a bite last night … yes, yes, the moules frites were tasty as usual …”  Balthazar it was.

We also decided to be fabulous.  I slid into a slinky purple dress that was maybe a little too reminiscent of lingerie, and Ryan donned a rather dapper suit.  As we sat in the back of a cab, watching the townhouses on Park Avenue fly by, we discussed what we’d order.

“Duck confit!” I said.  

“Yes!  That’s you!  That’s so you!” he said, patting my knees.  ”I’ll get steak!”

“Braised short ribs, even!”

He nodded eagerly.  ”Meaty, hearty!”

“Manly!” I cried.  ”And to start?”

“Whatever you want,” he egged me on.

“We’ll go classic,” I prompted.

“Escargot!”

“Yes, with butter!  Tons of it, gobs of it!  Swimming in it!”  I paused.  ”We’ll order wine, of course.”

“Yes, a bottle!  Two bottles!”

“Three!  Three bottles!” I said, laughing as I swung my arms wide and stuck my face out the window.  We were stopped at a red light next to an extravagantly large brownstone.  

I grinned and pointed through the wrought-iron fence.  ”That’s going to be mine someday.”

“Oh, wonderful,” he said, playing along.  ”You’ll have to invite me over.”

I smiled and squeezed his hand.  I could barely believe it.  I was living exactly as I always knew I would.  Sure, my Manolos were second-hand, and my house was just pretend.  We’d probably get seated in the undesirable back section of the restaurant and I’d definitely take the subway home at the end of the night.  But still!  It was real, it was all real, and it was mine. 

Our cab pulled up in front of Balthazar a bit too early to saunter in, so I pulled Ryan into Bloomingdales and paraded him around the perfume section.  One by one I spritzed scents onto testers and held them up in front of his nose.  ”Which one should I wear tonight?”  He picked nutmeg-ginger.  I transferred a bit to the inside of my wrists and backs of my knees.

As the time drew nearer to our reservation, we rounded the corner to run directly into a throng of tourists.  The majority of them looked as though they were about to enter the restaurant, and, to my horror, the majority of them were wearing denim.  As we walked through the doors, I ran my hands down the front of my dress and felt first out of place, then angry at the crowd for making me feel like I didn’t fit in.  I poked Ryan and inclined my chin at a man passing in front of us.  ”He’s wearing shorts,” I hissed with the same inflection I might have used had he been naked, balancing a pineapple on his head.

Ryan shrugged and straightened his shoulders.  ”They’re underdressed; we’re not overdressed.”

We approached the hostess and I gave her a big smile.  ”Hello!” I said.  

She looked down her nose.  ”Hello,” she said icily.  Not entirely expecting such a cold reception, I stepped aside.  

“We have a reservation,” Ryan said, giving them his last name.  The hostess pressed her upper body in toward a waiter and whispered something in his ear before leading us to our table.  I looked at Ryan and made a face.  

We weren’t stuck in Siberia, but it definitely wasn’t prime seating.  That seemed to be reserved for a party of attractive middle-aged customers.  No matter, we were going to order snails and duck and meat and three bottles of wine and enjoy one another’s company and be fabulous, fabulous, fabulous!  

I tried to slide into the banquette, but the elderly man to my left had deposited a Macy’s shopping bag on the seat.  ”Err, sir,” I said, hovering awkwardly.  ”Could you maybe, please, move your bag?”  He pulled it closer to him by an inch or so, and I continued to hover.  With a great sigh, he transferred it to the top of the banquette.  The tables were packed so tightly that I found it difficult to deposit myself in the seat.  I turned sideways and squeezed my body in between the two wooden tables, practically sitting my bottom on his plate of French fries in the process.

Finally situated, our server left a menu and wine list at our table.  We started with drinks – champagne for me, a ginger-citrus cocktail for Ryan.  (I liked that his drink matched my perfume.)

When our (first) bottle of wine came, we toasted to one another, then began chattering excitedly.  We talked and talked and talked – so much so that I barely even noticed when our first course arrived.

The snails were in large, clean shells and arranged prettily on a rimmed tin plate.  They weren’t so much swimming in a butter sauce as they were drowning in it, and they were crammed with herbs, but I wasn’t impressed.  They smelled a little bit funny to me.  I looked longingly at Ryan’s beet salad, at the wedges of blue cheese.  I liked escargot, right?  I must, otherwise I wouldn’t have ordered it.  Yes, I was positive I liked it – loved it – but as I wrenched the first snail from its shell, my stomach started to turn.  It was an ugly gray-brown sort of shade, and utterly huge to boot.  It looked slimy.

I glanced at the woman to my right.  She was dining with a handsome gentleman, and she was hungrily devouring her own plate of snails.  What’s more, she looked attractive and elegant doing it. 

Inspired, I smiled sweetly up at Ryan, attempting to distract him from the fact that I was quickly, furiously spooning butter over the snail.  I shoved it in the back of my mouth and chewed three times, trying very hard not to taste the thing.  I attempted to swallow, but it was still too solid.  I gulped, gnashed a few more times, and willed the snail down my throat.  “Mmm!” I said enthusiastically, my mouth firmly shut, my eyes wide open.  “So delicious!  You have to try one!”  I pushed the tin to Ryan’s side of the table and began greedily spearing beets from his plate.

“Are you sure?  You don’t mind?” he asked.

“Oh no!  Take all you want, seriously!  I love sharing!”  I hooked my foot around his ankle, leaning forward over the table.  “And I love sharing with you.  In fact,” I batted my eyelashes.  “I wouldn’t even mind if you took them all.”

He ate two snails, leaving three more for me to tackle.  When I took the plate back, I wised up.  This time, I yanked out a snail and shoved it between two pieces of rye bread from the basket on the table.  I crammed the whole sandwich into my mouth concentrating on the soft bread and I chewed and swallowed.

By the time I mustered the courage to go after a third, I was feeling a bit woozy from the wine.  Unfortunately, I’d saved the slipperiest snails for last, and as I attempted to pull one from its shell, it leapt from the tongs and skidded across the plate, onto my lap.  I gasped.  

“My dress!” I moaned, gingerly picking up the snail and putting it back on the plate.  There was a snail-sized splotch of grease smack-dab in the middle of the purple fabric, along with a smattering of smaller, oddly-shaped spots reaching from the hem to the bustline.  I felt far from glamorous.  “Ugh, I think I’m done,” I said, pushing the plate away from me.  “Stupid snails.” 

Ryan just laughed and kissed my hand.

—

I’ve been so caught up in my quest to try new foods and expand my repertoire that I’ve completely forgotten that I don’t have to actually like every edible thing under the sun (though now I’m starting to wonder if snails really are edible…)  In the past week, I’ve consumed snails, pig’s head, liver and blood, for goodness’ sake!  I was so excited about my new life, that I forgot to take it easy and enjoy my favorite foods.  The banner on the top of my Web site says that one shouldn’t be ashamed for eating what one likes – I’d like to add to that and insist that we never eat things we aren’t fond of, either.

Yes, it is important for me to try all of the foods the world has to offer.  This weekend just served to remind me that although there’s no sense in rushing it, I don’t have to go at a snail’s pace, either.

Next time I go to Balthazar, I’m so getting the risotto.