We take our first bite of cheese, and ding, ding, ding, score! I was right! This is Gruyère, also known as Comté.191 We’re told these pair nicely because both are delicate and mellow. The champagne is acidic and acid is BFF with all the salt in the cheese. The cheese has a bit of a crunch to it, which is a relief because the last time I served Gruyère, I thought I might have sliced it on a dirty cutting board.192
We learn that the crunchy bits aren’t salt (or crumbs from a sandwich two lunchtimes ago) but sugar crystals known as lactase. “Sometimes there’s sugar in cheese?” I ask and Wine Goddess confirms this.
I poke Fletch. “See? The Swavery Grilled Cheese totally was a good idea.”193
“Keep working the stove in the middle of the night and I will make you sleep with a bell around your neck,” he replies.
Next up we sample the pairing of sauvignon blanc with goat cheese, but I already know how well they complement each other. However, Wine Goddess almost ruins this pairing for me as she makes us swish and hold the wine under our tongues to see what our sweet-tart receptors do. (Hint—saliva’s involved.) I fear I won’t be able to help myself from teaching everyone how to make themselves drool at my next party.
We come to the chardonnay-lump of infection pairing and my palms begin to sweat. I don’t want to be the only asshole at the counter who’s afraid of cheese, and yet I really, really don’t want to put this hideous concoction anywhere near my face.
Wine Goddess explains how the weird residual stuff left in your mouth after you sip some chardonnays is oak sap and tells us it’s best to serve the wine with food, as that will help get rid of the resin. Then she prompts us to taste the Roaring Forties Blue. I hesitate.
Okay, I’ve had bleu cheese before, and I like it just fine on my chicken wings and in my Cobb salad (provided the chunks are small and white), but this is . . . so far outside my comfort zone. I did mention it looks like a bruise, yes? Yet I’m fascinated to find out it originated from the cracks in a cheese mold. I love knowing that some industrious French farmer looked at the blue veins and said, “Pairhaps ziz vill bee delectabulll and not jus’ garbaaaghe?”
Taking the tiniest, least-in-need-of-an-antibiotic-looking bit on the tip of my knife, I break off a big piece of bread and spread it. Then I pop it in my mouth and force myself to begin to chew, and I realize it would be my great pleasure and honor to pair this with a chicken wing, for it truly is delectable.
Who knew?
I mean, except for the professional at the front of the room who specifically picked it, the fine cheesemakers at the Roaring Forties company, and the original Frenchman who wasn’t afraid to let a little penicillin ruin his fromage.
After a quick discussion about how screw caps eliminate “cork taint,”194 we move on to a bottle of Regis Cruchet Vouvray, which may as well mean “purple monkey dishwasher” to me. Wine Goddess explains that this is the “nerdiest” of wines, and if you ever encounter a wine snob, this is the one about which he or she will go on. I guess it’s because it’s kind of weird, it’s an acquired taste.
We huff and swirl and I take a sniff and all I smell is dark and fore boding and . . . wait, I think I caught a whiff of something other than “wine.” The nose on this is like a . . . Fig Newton?
Wine Goddess asks, “What do you smell?”
I blurt, “Figs?”
“Very good!” she exclaims. HA! Yes! In your face, imaginary person against whom I was competing! I win!
I take another taste and realize that I don’t actually like figgy wine. Huh. Apparently I have met a wine I don’t like. Considering how many boxes of pure swill and bottles of Boone’s Farm I’ve happily quaffed in my lifetime, this feels like a tiny victory.
But I don’t dump my Vouvray into my heretofore-empty spit bucket because I still haven’t tasted it with the Brie. Except, this isn’t Brie at all—it’s a Brie impostor called Robiola Due Latte. As with each cheese, we’re instructed to pick up a bit on our knife and give it a solid whiff before tasting.
“What do you smell?” Wine Goddess asks.
“A farm,” one girl replies, wincing.
“No, it’s like sheep poop,” her friend corrects.
“Eau de sweat sock?” asks the wife beside me.
Apparently because the Roaring Forties was so stinky, I didn’t even notice the stench wafting off the Robiola. The scent is indescribable unless you’ve had a mouse expire under your fridge and couldn’t get maintenance to pick it up all weekend.
I’m terror-struck about the possibility of this passing my lips, but Wine Goddess has been spot-on in almost every other instance. So, on blind faith alone, and despite my olfactory protest, Fletch and I give a quick “cheers” by tapping our knives together.
I watch as Fletch recoils and tries not to gag, which is kind of weird because there is a frigging choir of angels sounding off in my mouth right about now. They’re up there singing Ave Maria and rolling around in this stuff. I take a much larger portion and savor it before sipping the Vouvray.
Yeah, that still kind of sucks.
But it sucks less with a cheese chaser.
I deposit the rest of my glass in the bucket and swirl around a quick water rinse before declaring that figs belong in cookies, not beverages. Then I scoop up the Robiola left on Fletch’s place and marvel at how smooth and creamy it is and how the flavor swing-dances with every single one of my taste buds.
After the Robiola we have Tempranillo with a sweaty slice of Manchego 195 and Shiraz with Dutch Gouda,196 both favorites and which I expected to love. Yet I can’t get the thrill of tasting Robiola out of my mind or my mouth.
I have been ruined by stinky cheese.
Our last selection is Parmesan paired with an Italian red wine called Avignonesi Vino Nobile de Montepulciano. Alone, both are fairly nondescript, but once I taste them together, I suddenly want to rush out of the store and whip up a big batch of pasta and marinara and serve it with tumblers full of this wine to my whole family, which is odd because I don’t even particularly like red sauce.197
Wine Goddess tells us that Italian wines aren’t cocktail wines, meaning they’re not something you should sip while watching The Bachelor. (Noted.) They’re specifically made to pair with food, which is kind of genius.
At some point in the evening, Fletch stops being so taciturn and begins to enjoy himself. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the cheese, or perhaps he stopped worrying that people would think he was gay.
Nah, it’s probably mostly because I promise he can buy a new ten-inch chef’s knife at the class’s conclusion.
Regardless, we likely just made cheese for dinner less of a fantasy and more of a reality.
Now, if only I could get him to toss that stupid box of cords.
“Hello, hey, Fletch? Ohmigod, you’re going to die! You’re SO going to die! Guess where I got us reservations?”
“Conference call.”
“What? Where’s that?” I haven’t heard of Conference Call. Is it new, I wonder? I’m doing my best to keep up with all the latest eateries in Time Out Chicago but these places keep popping up like mushrooms and they all have such odd names.
“Clarification—I’m on a conference call,” Fletch says.
“Oh.” That makes more sense. “But then why are you talking to me if you’re on the other line?”
“I only picked up because I saw caller ID flash fifteen times in the last two minutes and I assumed you were bleeding.”
“I’m fine—actually, I’m better than fine because I got us reservations at Moto! How incredible is that? It is beyond impossible to get in there.” I am seriously gloating over snagging a reservation. Moto specializes in molecular gastronomy. The chefs eschew burners and ovens, opting instead to create food using blowtorches and liquid nitrogen, all of which I learned from watching Marcel and Richard compete on Top Chef.
Fletch is a tad curt. “Okay, (a) that you got a reservation proves it’s not impossible, and (b) can I call you back? I can’
t keep my other call on hold much longer.”
“Well, make sure you brag to your little friends at work. They’ll be duly impressed.”
“I doubt that because I’m sure they don’t care. And if it’s so hot, how’d you get us in? Did you tell them who you are or something?”
I don’t have the heart to tell him we got in because I went to a free reservation-finding Web site and didn’t have a specific day or time in mind.
So with great conviction, I tell him, “Yes. Yes, I did.”198
We arrive at Moto about fifteen minutes early. Our table isn’t ready yet, so the hostess invites us to sit at the bar, which apparently is right in front of us. This bar is the antithesis of any bar I’ve ever seen before. Instead of being decked out with mirrors and tiny lights illuminating shelves full of call brand liquors, it’s a simple counter with a couple of stools. The wall behind it is blank and unadorned except for a couple of framed prints. When I sit down, I bash both my knees against the bar.
The bartender hands us drinks menus, and while we’re trying to decide, we watch him place a handful of eyedroppers filled with colorful liquids bulb side up in a rocks glass full of ice. They remind me of those little paraffin bottles full of sweet-flavored syrups I used to have as a kid.199
“What was that?” I ask as a waitress whisks the glass into the dining room.
The bartender explains, “That’s our Martini Library. The individual pipettes hold different-flavored martinis, so you can mix and match them.”
“How do you drink them?” Fletch asks.
“Why do you drink them?” I add.
“How about you see for yourself?” The bartender reaches under the counter and presents us with a glass containing two fuchsia pipettes. “On the house. This one’s raspberry.”
I pick mine up and I’m completely flummoxed as to how to get its contents into my mouth. Maybe this really IS one of those Nik-L-Nips from my childhood. Maybe I’m supposed to bite it, drink it, and then chew the container till my jaw hurts? I kind of don’t want to suck on it because I have a small phobia.200
Before I begin tearing it with my teeth, Fletch demonstrates the proper technique. He lifts it to his mouth, tilts his head back, and squeezes it from the bottom. He considers it for a moment before proclaiming it, “Nice.”
I follow suit, taking care not to squeeze it so hard I drown, or so lightly it dribbles on my dress. Raspberry-flavored success! Tasty though it may be, I figure if I get a whole cupful of these, there’s bound to be an accident, so I decide on a different cocktail. We watch as the bartender assembles our drinks. Mine contains a mixture of gin, white grape juice, lime, and brandy. Fletch opts for something made of rye and grapefruit juice—gross—but the bartender assures us it’s a crowd-pleaser.
Assembling each beverage takes a couple of minutes and a lot of concentration. The bartender pivots back and forth behind the bar, grabbing ingredients and measuring apparati. “Sure are lots of moving parts to this operation,” Fletch notes and the bartender nods serenely while he pours and mixes. I can tell Fletch is itching to hop behind there to fix it himself. When we were in college, he always prided himself on his speed as a bartender. His cocktails were never good, he’d make customers jump when he slammed empty bottles into the trash, and he made waitresses cry, but he was fast—I’ll give him that.
The bartender tenderly stirs each of our drinks before using eyedroppers to add the last bits of ingredients. “Enjoy!” he says, placing the chilled glasses in front of us. As soon as we taste them, we understand these were worth the wait.
Grudgingly, Fletch admits, “Yeah, I probably couldn’t have done this myself.”
“Check it out,” I say. “The grapes on my swizzle stick are frozen.”
“Mine’s got a cube of frozen grapefruit juice in it,” Fletch tells me.
“That’s so Schoolhouse Rock!” I exclaim. “ ‘They had a fun time making sunshine on a stick!’ Remember that?” Before Fletch can agree, the hostess informs us our table is ready. She suggests we leave our cocktails at the bar, and someone will deliver them to us.
“I’m already impressed,” Fletch whispers to me. “That’s great service.”
“Oh, please,” I say. “We used to do that when I worked at the Olive Garden.”
We enter a minimalist dining room, dark save for the few pools of light coming from candles scattered on ledges. One wall is lined with padded banquettes in a neutral color and a large, light curtain masks the wall across from it. Tables are small and close together, and each is covered with a simple white tablecloth. There are no centerpieces or art anywhere.
There’s nothing on our table except a napkin, a water glass, and a piece of paper describing the wine pairings for the two tasting menus. When a hostess called to confirm my reservation, I had to choose between the ten- and twenty-course option, as there are no other dinners here. I went for the ten when she informed me the twenty takes over five hours to serve. Who has that kind of time?
After the waiter confirms our order and wine pairing, he returns with two bowls. “This is your menu,” he tells us, referring to the thick piece of printed parchment. “All of your upcoming courses are listed on it. In the bowl you’ll find a balsamic reduction and ramp butter. You can begin your meal by eating your menu. Enjoy.” And with a slight bow, he backs away from our table.
I run my fingers over the menu, which is actually a piece of herbed crostini printed with edible ink. I break off a piece and cautiously dip it in the butter. This feels so wrong, but the second I catch a whiff of the fragrant spices, I change my mind. I take a bite, savor for a moment, and exclaim, “Wow . . . this menu is delicious!”
“Can’t eat the menu at your precious Olive Garden, now, can you?”201 Fletch teases me. Then he takes a bite of his menu heaped with butter. “Hands down, this is the best menu I ever tasted.” He chews thoughtfully. “You’ve got to give them props for coming up with such a clever way of dealing with bread service, which is generally pretty pedestrian, no matter how nice the place is.”
“I know! I’d love to have some more. I’m all, ‘Excuse me, waiter, can I get another basket of menu for the table, please?’ Seriously, between this and the drinks, I’ve got a feeling this meal’s going to be an adventure.”
Our plates are cleared and our first wine match arrives. We receive our first course, Moto’s take on a Denver omelet, which is served on a long, narrow white plate. We get what appears to be one Tater Tot, a spoonful of scrambled eggs over a pile of tiny diced vegetables, and a small, buttered English muffin. But I’m quickly learning that nothing is as it seems. The Tater Tot’s actually a cube of deep-fried shrimp, and the eggs are a deliciously fluffy powder that evaporates the second it hits my tongue. And the bread’s a big puff of meringue topped with something sweet and peachy.
The whole time we’re eating our first course, we’re laughing. I mean, Tater Tots are supposed to taste like grease, salt, and potatoes. There’s no shrimp involved. Eggs are, well, they’re eggs. Except here, they’re totally not. We both agree we like the first wine pairing. “How on earth did the sommelier figure out what best pairs with cartoon food?” I muse.
As a nod to where I’ve come from, I begin to record my reactions to each wine in Lolcat. Wine Spectator may give this bold New Zealand sauvignon blanc an 89, but I rank it a “nom.”
Our second wine pairing arrives, and Fletch and I have a small spat over it. It’s a Moscatel Secco, which Fletch swears is what Fred Sanford drank on Sanford and Son. I argue that can’t be true because his yard was filled with old toilets and stuff and there’s NO WAY that Fred’s “muscatel” could be related to this fine (nom plus one) Portuguese offering.202
“This is instant risotto,” the waiter says, setting two small square bowls in front of us. “Take your spoon and mix the sauce with the grains, and it will instantly ‘cook’ them.” We follow our instructions and stir our servings until all the rice and the pieces of fresh scallop are covered. Even though th
e “rice” is more like a dried noodle,203 the result is both al dente and creamy, exactly like real risotto.
At this point, neither Fletch nor I can contain our giggles. Even though we’ve not consumed one whole cocktail each, we feel euphoric. Maybe it’s something about finding comedy injected in a situation that, although it’s often pleasant, isn’t usually funny.
Next up, we get what the waiter calls “deconstructed French onion soup.” He presents us with an almond-shaped bowl that has golden Gruyère melted in an artful swoosh on the inside lip and a pile of sautéed, shredded onions placed in the corner. Then he takes a fragrant broth and pours it over everything.
The scent of the broth hit me while the waiter was ten feet away, so I already have my spoon ready the second he leaves our table. I dive in. “Everything I eat here suddenly becomes the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I remark. Fletch can’t respond as he’s heroically fighting the urge to bury his face in his dish.
Before the fourth course is served, I glance at my watch. “Do you realize we’ve already been here an hour and a half?”
Fletch’s eyebrows fly up. “Really? I had no idea.”
Our fourth course is Moto’s version of chicken wings. “We’ve taken seared capon and served it on a bed of braised celery. This here”—the waiter gestures to a long swath of a creamy pinkish substance—“is your bleu cheese puree, because you can’t have wings without bleu cheese, right? This”—he points at an angry red dot in the middle of the plate—“is our house-made wings sauce. And, finally”—he points to a plastic-wrapped bit of parchment bread with a photo printed on it—“this is a picture of your plate. You can eat this, too.”
“How?! How does the chef come up with this?” I wonder out loud.
Fletch shrugs. “He must have really played with his food as a kid.”
I imagine some guests bring their plastic-wrapped photo home as a souvenir, but not me. I rip that thing out of the packaging and stuff it in my mouth. This one’s different from the other one. Instead of garlic and Parmesan, it’s flavored with chili powder and tastes exactly like a wing. The heat gets me and I discreetly cough into my napkin.