The Fresh Test

I’m not one to make fun of others—to point out culinary foibles or food-related faux pas. I’ll judge you on fashion, etiquette, design choices, manners, drug habits, self control, partner selection and moral inconsistencies, but kitchen matters are off limits.

Judging the shortcomings of others is truly one of life’s joys, especially when it’s some highfalutin chef whose obvious efforts fall short of his desired outcome. Or some pompous fashion house whose latest collection ends up setting the standard of what not to wear. Riffing on those kinds of idiosyncrasies couldn’t be more enjoyable.

But when a friend invites me over for dinner I wouldn’t dream of tearing him down for his efforts. And that’s the reason—the effort. Someone opens his door to you, invites you in to share food and drink and conversation, there’s no room for culinary judgment. It’s just not polite. Don’t think it. Don’t say it. And for gawds sake, don’t write about it.

Ya’ll know where this is going?

Well just last week I was invited to some fellow curlers’ home for dinner before our Wednesday night game. I must point out that this is the first meal we’ve ever shared together and perhaps the last, if they read this.

Now Brad and Patrick are two of the loveliest people you would ever have the privilege of dining with. And the fourth dinner guest, Mark, also a fellow curler, as equally charming.

Besides the delightful company and swank surroundings (they live in a gorgeous home in Toronto’s Beach neighbourhood) the meal was absolutely great. We first mingled around the kitchen counter, sipping Chianti and nibbling on jalapeno hummus, marinated olives and old cheddar. For the main course we enjoyed barbequed salmon—each filet adorned with a charred lemon wheel and served with goat cheese mashed potatoes and perfectly al dente asparagus and steamed carrots.

It was simple, real food that not only looked good but tasted great. Fresh and colourful with textural interest, prepared simply—exactly what a good meal should be.

It wasn’t until dessert that the train derailed.

Now, I’m exaggerating a little for literary effect just to drive the point home. And because my hosts have thick skins and a wonderful sense of humour, I know I won’t offend them. Well, I’m hoping anyway.

A deliciously smooth and creamy New York style cheesecake was placed in front of us for dessert. The boys layered it with a 1/4 inch of thick caramel and Brad decorated each piece with two shriveled up and wilted blueberries. Now the lights were dim and I had indulged in at least a couple classes of wine, so I didn’t really notice the state of the berries until the conversation suddenly turned to the sad, puckered fruit.

However it was too late. I’d eaten both of mine and looked around to see that each of my companions rolled their berries to the side of the plate while they finished their dessert.

“Well you weren’t supposed to eat them. They were just for decoration!” roared Brad.

“What do you mean don’t eat them? You put them on my plate!” I laughed back. “Of course I’m going to eat them.”

While presentation is incredibly important, the freshness of your ingredients out weighs any decoration, no matter how esthetically necessary you perceive it to be. Everything on your plate should be edible. If you, as the chef wouldn’t put it in your mouth then it shouldn’t be on the plate. And if a guest decides not to eat something then that’s his choice, but he should always have the choice.

But what a great blog topic this would make! Thanks for the inspiration guys.

And I’m not too worried about a future invite—they’ll step up next time. And besides I brought a really nice bottle of wine.