Every night around seven p.m., my dad would turn on Ready, Set, Cook! on the Food Network and watch it while he drank wine and made dinner, and I would sit at the kitchen table and read the most recent Zagat guide to New York City. I would work through it page by page, starting with the most popular (Union Square Cafe), then the pages with the top food rankings, the top service rankings, and the top decor rankings, and then the alphabetical restaurant listings, skimming for the names in all caps and checking their scores. Have you been to Le Bernardin? Yes. Have you been to Jean-Georges? Yes. Why isn’t there anything above a twenty-eight? Because things can’t be perfect. But why isn’t there a twenty-nine? I don’t know, Brette. Maybe next year.
I learned that my parents had been to Daniel, too, and that the restaurant was pronounced Dan-yell, because the chef there was French. It was a twenty-eight. Later that year, when my parents asked me what I wanted for my tenth birthday, I asked if we could have dinner there.
At Daniel? Yes please.
I’m not sure if my parents were surprised or appalled or pleased that this quiet girl of theirs who wore basketball jerseys to school had just asked to eat at one of the fanciest and most expensive restaurants in New York City. But they said yes. They were in. I was delighted.
My dad supervised as I called and made a reservation, exactly a month in advance. My voice shook on the phone: Can I please make a reservation for three people? (My little brother, who was six, wasn’t allowed to come.) Oui, mademoiselle. My dad got on the phone afterwards to confirm. It was settled. We were going!
The night of the dinner, my mom blow-dried my hair and I put on a lavender suit and a matching headband. We drove for an hour, into the city, and when I walked into the restaurant—in my mind, a darkened arena ringed with lights, with a man in a suit stepping out behind the host stand to bend down and shake my hand—my eyes widened into saucers. I was so incredibly happy.
These are the things I remember:
by Brette Warshaw, Lucky Peach | Read more:
Image: uncredited
