I’ll Be Fine
I have always wanted to try fine dining. In movies, I watched diners sit at the table without a care in the world while servers ferried plates like it was a dance that served food for a finale.
Each course brought with it a novel touch and a slight surprise — scallop foam, edible sponge. I wondered what were on these people’s minds when a dish arrived and it’s a tiny square of something strange with blotches of sauce surrounding it.
Do they think, “Ah, I know exactly what this is,” or does it ever cross their minds that, “I’m paying RM100 for this measly thing?” Most of all, I wanted to know what that nicely plated food taste like. But let’s set aside the fact that it costs a bomb to dine fine, I had a bigger problem. My worst fear in fine dining was the tedious etiquette. Not knowing anything about something tends to makes it seem a little terrifying (more than a little). Did I actually know enough about fine dining to want it? What if they can tell it’s my first time? How would I know which cutlery to use? What if they kicked me out for bad behaviour? — which of course, never would have happened.
When I unfolded the white napkin and placed it over my lap, I didn’t know how easily it would fall to the floor.
Okay, no one saw that. I’m good.
Just the waiter this time, I’m sure he’s used to seeing these things.
Oh for God’s sake, why have a napkin if it doesn’t stay on your lap.
The number of forks on the table was really beginning to worry me too. Just how many forks does one need to eat a meal? Worse, were they all for me? (They were). So when that French butter dish came filled bountifully with black truffle butter, a sense of relief washed over me. I knew without a doubt that the butter knife, befittingly rounded at its point, was the one that would spread soft butter on the warm artisanal bread. I got this, I thought. That butter, brilliantly tainted with black dots of truffle, still sits at the top of my butter list.
Then the server set down the sea urchin, a glistening blob of golden yellow in its shell and I paused uncomfortably. It looked splendid and I was dying to try what little of it but how? I sneaked glances around the table to see if anyone else knew the answer and voila! It was that spoon on the far right. Where do people even learn these things? That rich, creamy sea urchin lifted to life by the curve of my spoon, was phenomenal and I thought, “I would pay RM100 for this,”
After every course, I held the cutlery awkwardly in my hands, uncertain. If I left it on the table, it might stain that pristine white tablecloth. But if I placed it on my empty plate, they might take it away. What if I still need this fork? It looks… useful. In the end, they took away that fork and I got by with the rest of them. I learned that in a place like this, they’d never allow you the abomination of reusing your fork. What would that do to the flavours of your next course?
Since then, I’ve ventured into a few more fine places and with the newly acquired knowledge that no one actually notices my perpetually fallen napkin, I now do it with much confidence — fine dining, not napkin-dropping.
And you know what? The fun in fine dining is actually in not knowing what that formal ambience or the elaborate menu will bring. There is always something wildly exciting about the unknown — yes, even fumbling with a hundred different cutlery has its charm, and it sure brings about an odd satisfaction in finally figuring out what’s what.
