pretending.
We were at a special, sold-out, reservations-only chef’s tasting at a new bistro about to open in Jamaica Plain. A glowing review from an influential food critic would probably help the future of the restaurant. For $10 each, we sampled 8 plates of savory and sweet creations. From candied brussel sprouts to rabbit ragu, to honey caviar and hazelnut mousse, we felt totally in…which meant everyone else was out. And literally, too. The doors were locked and passers-by peered in the window at the cozy arrangement of tables and couples and waiters carrying tiny gourmet plates. You could see it on their faces: “What’s going on? How did they get in there?” We had something they didn’t have, and based solely on the fact that they didn’t have it, they wanted it. Kevin and I made snooty faces at each other, turning up our noses and saying things like, “Well, too bad. Insiders and food critics only.”
Note: We are not insiders. We are not food critics.
I heard about the tasting night via Twitter, and since I love food and writing about food, I thought it would be a nice introduction to the foodie community, a community that can be very outsider-unfriendly. But we weren’t intimidated. We had bought tickets fair and square, we have interesting things to say about food, and we love to eat.
Before we left our apartment I pulled my long hair into a sleek ponytail, put on sparkly earrings, and applied a bold lipstick. I wore black pants and a black sweater, and made sure to sit up straight (Mom, take note). We kept our napkins in our laps, drank our water slowly, and stifled as much laughter as we could. We looked the part, and we played it well (And to think we’d almost cancelled the night to eat leftover pizza on the couch!).
Kevin and I worked as a team, taking tiny bites from our tiny servings, raising our eyebrows when presented with caviar (which we had never eaten), and nodding as if we regularly ate exotic, expensive food (“Can’t ask questions,” we agreed, “or we’ll look like rookies!”). Pickled mustard seeds, of course! Our favorite! Right after flying roe tartar! We vowed to just keep smiling (easy to do because the atmosphere, food, and servers were wonderful). Act like you belong, and everyone will assume you do. “Did you eat the two green things? I thought they were garnish!” I said, panicked. “Quick, put one on my plate, so it looks like we each ate one!” Kevin can be cooler than chilled cucumber pesto, or the mint pesto we tried, after which I told the waitress, “I would have liked it thinner maybe? And more minty?” (How professional is that?)
When the braised pork belly was served, I shook the chef’s hand and introduced myself. Then I asked about the pastry chef, and our waitress eagerly promised to bring all the chefs over to meet us. We almost choked on laughter. “What will I say if they ask me something?” Kevin shrugged. “Who cares?” He smiled the way he did when we accidentally took a tour of the Church of Scientology in Nashville. It’s a smile that says, “Just go with it. We’re making memories here.”
I’ve faked insider knowledge before. All the time, actually. In New York City, when I don’t want to pull out my map and look lost. In a work meeting, when I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t know what an “interstitial” is (I know now, thanks to Google). At home, when someone tells a story about a coworker or student or friend I have never actually met.
The difference at the chef’s tasting is that I wasn’t faking it alone. We were a sneaky little duo, with our own inside joke. And even though nobody else in the world was actually affected, it was fun to think that we were pulling a fast one on the restaurant, on the people walking by outside, and even on ourselves (Hey, if I eat good food, compliment the chef, take notes and write about it later, then technically I’m doing the very thing I’m pretending to do. But that was too deep a thought for our fantasy world where we are high society food critics, always eat caviar, and frequently meet the chef table-side. In this fantasy, our experience and subsequent review could make or break this tiny new place!). At our corner table (we pretended they’d saved us the “critic’s corner”), we were untouchable. Our own inner circle with our own measure of imagined celebrity. Nobody on the outside was invited. It was a private event, reservations (and wedding bands) required. And in our little world, we were closer than ever.
Our waitress came by before we had finished our wine and final plate of chocolate mousse with cooked cherries and a semi-sweet ganache. She looked nervous. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I wanted to bring the chefs by, but they’re so busy with the next seating about to start.”
“Don’t worry,” I said with a smile, forgetting who I had been pretending to be. “It’s totally fine. We’ll be back.” And with that we put on our coats, walked out into the cold, and drove home to our very normal, but suddenly more exclusive life. Kevin ate a cupcake, we watched something on Netflix, and slept very close together.