Keeping a Rendezvous

I decided to take myself out for a nice dinner. Here is the review.

The restaurant wants to be fancy. It wants it desperately. I am shown to my table for "only one" as the man repeated on the phone twice (at Elmo's, I was taught it is the height of rudeness to say "only one", I would think it would be more so in a culture that so stresses marriage). A small man, a teen most likely, quickly snatches the cloth napkin from my placemat and fuddles with it, trying to get it open. Sadly, he is a bit inept and needs to partake of some deodorant. But, he finally gets it open and spreads it across my lap with a flourish. Then, thankfully, he leaves. Moments later, a woman comes by with the menus. (Why they weren't already on the table seeing as I called ahead...)

If there's anything annoying about Bali it's this: everyone wants to have a conversation. So I am forced to make small talk with the backwait who delivers my silverware. I am forced to chat with the waitress. It's not bad enough that I'm sitting off in the corner, facing the water and not the restaurant because I have the bad taste to show up alone. No, I have to tell everyone where I'm from, how long I've been here, where I'm going next, and how long I will stay. Just to get a drink.

Up first: a welcome drink (as in "Welcome!" not as in "what a welcome surprise"). A shot (non-alcoholic) of ginger, honey, and lemongrass. With an emphasis on the ginger. Spicy! Then, my ordered drink arrives, a dolled-up version of a gin and tonic. It's nice, but I don't know if it's $6 nice (considering the relatively low price of drinks around here).

(I've been charting beer prices. It's 30,000 rupiah (about $3, give or take — I'm too lazy to do math that isn't base 10 while on holiday) for a large Bintang at my last hotel and my current hotel, plus a 10% government tax. At the mini-mart, the same Bintang is about 25,000 rupiah, so they're not wildly marking up the drinks at the hotel. The 10% tax has been standard at any service establishment. I suspect the local warung around the corner is selling Bintang for a little less than 25,000, but it's all about the same. This joint, however, was charging 45,000 rupiah for the large beer plus (get this) an 11% tax. Where does that extra percent go, eh?)

With the silverware comes a "welcome salad": corn and grated... something white. At first I thought maybe coconut, but it doesn't taste that strong. Not even as strong as daikon radish, although it is something of that texture. The corn is fresh and cut from the con. There is a pleasantly salty grittiness to it. It's probably salt, but maybe not. Maybe a mild one — I'm not up on all the fancy salts in the world. Everyone once in awhile, I get a taste of smoke. It's nice. I wish that hint were a bit brighter. And by the end, the salt is taking over. It is lovingly presented in a folded banan leaf bowl, though. (And yet, the fortune teller from the Iron Chef has just dropped the dreaded "too salty" early in the meal. We all know what that means for this challenger.)

The restaurant, I should mention, is empty but for me. It's a Sunday night at 7:15, and the place is E-M-P-T-Y and it ain't got no alibi. I was told there was dancing form 7:30 to 8:30, but if it's happening, it's not happening here.

Another table arrives. Three women of a Western persuasion, so at least I'm not alone. And it's not 8 yet, so if I'm missing the dancing, they must be, too.

Next: tomato and basil salad, with cheese. Already I am worried, this looks like the best knock-off Kraft Singles money can buy at the local Asian grocery. Milkana, maybe? Oh, yes. Shame on the restaurant that claims it uses no preservatives and makes everything fresh. Cheese ain't that hard to make. Add to that, the tomatoes are anemic. This is paradise: they can't get a farmer to keep them in heirloom, vine-ripened tomatoes throughout the sunny, tropical, with regular rainstorms climate? And the dressing is overly peppered. If they can't do it well, they shouldn't do it at all. Pretty sure those are canned olives with it too. Sigh, I should know better than to get my hopes up.

At 8, I hear a scuttling behind me, and I turn to see a woman dressed in a rather elaborate costume. Maybe I hadn't missed the dance after all. Then, she walked with a certain amount of embarrassment towards the stage, in a rather I-can't-believe-I-actually-let-my-friends-talk-me-into-this kind of way. There is a crackle of music. She smiles nervously at the waiter (her boyfriend?). Then the music starts for reals and she dances with that tiny-stepped, backwards-hand-bent style I saw in Cambodia. She also does a lot of side-to-side head bobbling and eye-rolling in a slightly disconcerting bobble-head way (although I'm not sure that's exactly what the ancient Hindus were going for). There is a man creepily sitting next to the stage smiling at her. Ok, maybe I misidentified him earlier as a woman, and maybe he was just off for a smoke where he wouldn't offend the ladies at his table, but it still gives the joint a hint of strip club ickiness.

Then my steak arrives, sizzling on an iron skillet. That ain't the pumpkin the menu said came with. And I thought I went with the brandy sauce, not the cream. Sigh. And by this point, it's not even worth asking. I should have been really worried when the waitress checked to see that medium-rare meant red... I didn't even bother ordering my usual rare-to-medium-rare. I shouldn't go for the Western option, I know! But they advertise local, grass-fed beef! Grass-fed, Gentle Reader! The only thing better than grass-fed beef is dry-aged grass-fed beef. I can't help it. I am a slave to food grown the way nature intended.

Granted, my steak was tasty. Grass-fed beef will do that, I guess. It was medium-rare, although perhaps more on the medium-rare-to-medium side than I would prefer. The cream sauce wasn't too heavy, fortunately, and the mushrooms that came with were fairly tasty. The sizzling skillet was a tad disconcerting, what with trying to type my notes on the iPad while maneuvering around a flaming-hot plate, but I guess I could just focus on eating. (Then where would the fun be for you, Gentle Reader? The things I do for my adoring public.)

But as I sat there with the flavor of mustard from the sauce still rolling about my tongue, and as my knife cut a little too sharply through a not-quite-soft-enough potato, I couldn't help but think: You could be a blot of mustard or a bit of underdone potato.

I wonder what sort of dreams I'll have tonight.


- Do you really care this was posted using BlogPress from my iPad?

Location:Rendezvous Restaurant, Candi Dasa, Bali, Indonesia