A perfect restaurant

A couple of days ago, I dreamt about my perfect restaurant. A place where you go to feel, just for a moment, that you really are special, and everything that is going on around you is wholly and completely about you.

I must admit that it was just that, a dream, and I cannot claim to remember the details perfectly. In fact, it continues to fade as I type, so it seems prudent to plunge into a description.

It is a cliche, much as all perfection must be. For anything to be without flaw, every aspect of it must be beyond doubt, beyond reproach, save for it being too much of itself.

I remember dimly a room where the walls are covered with wooden panels, warm, polished, without austerity. Lighting is strong enough to be clear, but warm, with that slight yellowish tinge to it that eliminates the harsh examination of light itself. It's not the sort of place you take a first date to, unless you don't give a damn about impressing her. The light's not low, the mood's not romantic, the people not chic. You wear a jacket and tie there, not to look good, not because there's a requirement for it, but because you're comfortable in your clothes, and it just seems appropriate. The waiters are tuxedoed, but not self-consciously elegant, nor markedly ill-at-ease, just perfectly comfortable.

The tables are few, mostly along the walls of the room, situated in those little alcoves formed by smooth leather banquettes. Not the cheap squeaky things that you find in so many cut-rate places, but the sort of leather cushions that you would be incredibly happy lounging upon on a sweltering summer afternoon, the air conditioning blasting away overhead, while you're stretched out and dozing, a book lying open across your belly, forgotten in the pleasure of complete nothingness.

Of course, those little seat alcoves are only for tables for two. Heaven forbid having to sidle along to get in and out of a seat sandwiched between others. A few tables for four are to be found at an angle along some walls, in the standard layout, a square with seats at each edge. A single setting for six can be spied, shuffled into the corner. This is not a room for boisterous socialising. Quiet conversation is assumed here, and the slightest suggestion of excessive noise is met with a warm offer from the maitre'd to relocate the party to another dining room, set off to the side. I must admit that I forget the details of this room.

Walk in, a doorman holding the portal open, and a host introduces himself before politely asking about names. If the name is not on the reservations list, the host refers the guest to another hostess who will assist the party in obtaining a table at a nearby restaurant.

A small lounge is off to the side for those waiting for the rest of their party. No bar here, a waiter asks about any refreshments the waiting guest might desire.

Progress to the main dining room, and feel absolutely no impact from the room. It is designed to be comfortable, pitched at the level exactly below your radar. You do not notice that it is dark, trendy, chic, warm, inviting, cold, austere. You notice nothing at all, except that the table is perfectly situated, not too near any other table, without being isolated. A drink is offered, no crass drinks menu here. Twenty types of mineral water are available, should the guest desire to choose. Otherwise, a bottle is chosen at the waiter's discretion. No charge for the water, of course. Bread, the freshest you could imagine. Only one type here, directly from the oven to the table. After a moment, the chef de cuisine approaches your table to discuss the menu. The number of courses here is entirely flexible, and prices for the menu are constant across the board. Asking about preferences and requests, the chef de cuisine composes a menu on the spot for each diner. Of course, most courses are repeated across the tables, but none of the diners has to know that. As far as each is concerned, a completely personalised menu has been crafted.

Perhaps a couple of little surprises are scattered in between the courses, amuse-bouches to keep people happy while waiting for the next course. Every course is brought to the table in tandem for each diner. No theatrics, just a quiet setting down of the dish, a description of the item and an explanation of the suggested method of consumption.

The flavours are not extreme, do not explode and dance upon the tongue. Instead, they enter the mouth unobstrusively, but grow in complexity as they slide across the tongue, awakening the palate gently. There is creativity, but not gratuitously. Classics are presented, perfectly made, the best version tasted since or ever. The only surprise is the perfection. Perfection and subtlety.

Desserts, on the other hand, are extravagant. Rich, bold, striking. You couldn't down a huge portion, but the modest serving is exclaimed and gushed over. A crescendo is reached, and allowed to pass ever so slightly, hinting to the diner that indeed, he neither needs nor wants anything more to eat.

Only the strongest espressos are served, but a cart of little treats is offered, just in case you didn't get the hint.

As you step out the door, a small package of freshly baked brioche is proffered to each diner. After making you sign that bill, helping you save a little money on breakfast seems the least the restaurant could do.

And that is the perfect restaurant I dreamt of.

Incidentally, the previous night, I dreamt of letting someone's soft soft cheek rest on the back of my hand. Then getting that same hand bitten by a dog.