As a professional “hired belly,” I generally make it a cardinal rule NOT to dine out Valentine’s Day or, in this case, on Valentine’s weekend. I say this, of course, from bitter experience. On the rare occasions that I’ve failed to observe my own good advice, I’ve generally regretted it.
Valentine’s dining, quite frankly, is for the gastronomic tourists, those who, only infrequently – namely Mother’s Day and New Year’s Eve – darken the doors of temples of haute cuisine. In addition, restaurants are prone jack up their already inflated prices for the occasion; and service has been known to fall flat on its asparagus… About as intimate and romantic as chowing down in an overcrowded bowling alley.
No, when it comes to making romance, I much prefer a quiet dinner prepared and consumed in the privacy of one’s own domicile – accompanied, of course, by an exceptional vintage.
That being said, however, if you are an absolute klutz in the kitchen, you may be forced to make other arrangements… and reservations. In that case, I would offer one tried and true piece of advice: Choose a restaurant you know well and have visited on several other occasions… and, above all, assiduously avoid the temptation to choose glitz and glitter over gastronomic substance. In matters of romance – and gastronomy – understatement is always the better part of valor.
“Love is swell; it’s so enticing
It’s orange gel; it’s strawberry icing
It’s roasted goose; it’s chocolate mousse.
Love is all these things, without question.
In other words… it’s indigestion!”
Bon Appétit!
TAD
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