I just drove by the sweetest scene: an elderly couple picnicking in Palisades Park on Ocean Avenue, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Elderly, I say, when they are probably only ten years older than me. I am eternally drawn to the romantic notion of al fresco dining. (Al Fresco sounds like the name of a gangster gunned down while dining in Little Italy, though not necessarily outdoors.)
I have a fantasy of serving meals outdoors to be eaten on a long picnic table with a vintage French tablecloth and beautiful cutlery and cloth napkins. I also have a fantasy of hiking Mount Kilimanjaro, but it ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.
While I might like the idea of eating outdoors, I hate fighting the elements and the insects. So I never serve a meal outside and don’t really enjoy outdoor dining unless, perhaps, it’s on a screened-in porch. I like a barrier. I will, however, contradict myself and tell you I choose the patio at most restaurants because it can be infinitely more charming. Like, say, at The Ivy. Ivy at The Shore is safer from wind and flying bugs because it’s covered, so that’s the patio I prefer. But the charm of the patio at The Ivy in West Hollywood cannot be beat.
A very romantic, picnic-throwing person lives somewhere deep inside me. But she appears only every twenty years or so. Like a cicada. That’s how often I will organize (I use the word organize loosely, more like throw together) a picnic lunch. I was once obsessed with those terribly expensive picnic baskets that come with plates, napkins, thermos and all. OBSESSED!! Had to have one. Put one on my bridal registry.
Clementine, the great west-side L.A. charcuterie has amazing candies, too...
I think it must be old age. Once upon a time, when a new restaurant
opened, my wife, Peggy, and I were the first in line. We would fight
for a reservation, make sure to try the newest new thing, and then tell
everyone we knew about our latest dining adventure. We just don’t do
that all that much anymore. Maybe we have gotten old.
...It wasn’t the hot time in Paris that caused the shift, though. It was Michael, my friend Michael Roberts, who I loved so much and miss so dearly. There are times, even though I detest making phone calls, when I just want to call him up and hear his voice. He had a lilt to his tone, happy, like a young boy, and genuine. Surprised and happy you were calling him and ready to have a laugh with you. He was my first chef. He was the man who set me straight as best as any man can. He was my first chef, the first I’d really ever met, actually, so let’s hear it for starting at the top.
