Memorable meal #1: Zoodles at the art museum
Is food art?
Perhaps appropriately, one of my first meaningful experiences of another person’s creativity came at the Musee D’Orsay when I visited Paris with my family for the first time during the summer of 2001. Ironically, it had nothing to do with the art in the halls—which at the time, felt like a chore to be completed as opposed to an experience to be savored. Instead, it came to me in the museum’s restaurant, situated in a perfectly-preserved grand salon dating back to the building’s Belle Epoque origins. Oven-sized crystal chandeliers hung resplendent from the gilded trim surrounding the empyrean mural at the center of a triple-height ceiling; all of it naturally-lit by vaulted windows overlooking the streets of the seventh arrondissement. But neither architecture nor decor was what captured my nine-year-old imagination. In fact, it was the zoodles.
Up to this point, the majority of my culinary experiences happened at home or in Chinese restaurants—which, at the time, all shared a similar menu regardless of geographic location. On the rare times when we would branch out, we usually ended up at Miyake—the long-shuttered, cheap and popular Japanese place in downtown Palo Alto—or at a Fresh Choice—the defunct chain of Californian salad bar buffets. Even while traveling abroad, we usually slept on the sofas and floors of my parents’ far-flung college friends—who also cooked in their flats and ate at Chinese restaurants menus similar to those near our own home. But in a world without smartphones, we often ended up eating what was convenient to our immediate surroundings—even if my mom would’ve preferred otherwise. That’s how my sibling and I, cranky from a full day of being marched through halls hung with art we were too young to appreciate, ended up being seated in a museum restaurant for what was to be our most expensive western meal to date.
I can’t remember anything about the menu other than what I ordered: Salmon with zucchini pasta. It sounded like something I could get at the Olive Garden, which was the epitome of European cuisine to me at the time.1 When the plate arrived, I was pleasantly surprised by the crispness of the pan-seared skin—having only ever eaten steamed, whole fish with slimy skin up to this point. But I was absolutely bowled over by the “pasta.”
“Zucchini pasta” was not a wheat-based pasta dressed with zucchini sauce, nor was it a flour-based noodle enriched with zucchini puree. The zucchini itself was the noodle. This realization hit me like hearing the punchline to the world’s funniest knock-knock joke (remember, I was nine). The verdant strands were lightly sautéed in a bit of butter and garlic and finished with a squeeze of lemon to tame their astringency without sacrificing texture. It was the perfect foil for the pink and fatty cut of fish—or they would have if I hadn’t finished the entire portion immediately. This became my first conscious memory of the pleasure of recognition while eating.
I have since felt more moments of transcendence while dining than I have with any visual artistic medium. The evanescent nature of eating commands my awareness into the present moment in a way that viewing a static painting or sculpture cannot. The experience changes from moment to moment, not just of the food and drink, but of the company and the surroundings. It all congeals into a single memory to be filed away under whatever feelings arose throughout the meal. Most end up somewhere between comforting and satisfactory and are rarely—if ever—recalled for further reflection. But every so often, I experience a meal that changes me.
A memorable meal opens my eyes to new possibilities and can challenge me to think deep thoughts. But the most affecting ones are just plain fun—like being served zoodles for the first time as a kid, a decade before plastic spiralizers became a thing. It doesn’t take a fancy chef in an expensive restaurant to get me there—although this potent combination hits more often than not. I’ve reached it in food stalls. And in the dine-in kitchen at a friend’s apartment. It can even happen on a weeknight, no-cook potluck. The magic lies in the unpredictable ineffability. Nonetheless, I feel increasingly compelled to try and eff it up2.
I don’t have a concrete plan here, other than to try and write some words worth sharing about memorable meals that I’ve had over the years. So let’s call it the first in a series. I look forward to sharing more soon.
This changed after trying Bucca Di Beppo for the first time for a friend’s 12th birthday party
I blame Pete Wells’s retirement announcement as the NYT restaurant critic above all else