Just to give you an idea of why we love Lan so much, this was the lineup for our $50 (apiece) chef’s tour Friday night:
Pre-dinner “snack”: Fried wontons with white bean hummus
Amuse bouche: A single mussel in shell topped with a Siracha and somethingerother sauce
Course 1: Curried rabbit soup with enoki mushrooms and cilantro
Course 2: Fried clam salad with lemon vinaigrette and chorizo; hard-boiled quail egg
Course 3: Breaded, fried sweetbread “chicken nuggets” and crispy fries with tarragon mayonnaise
Course 4: Puff pastry “Hot Pocket” stuffed with smoked mozzarella, salami and tomato with a garlic herb sauce and marinara and a roasted serano pepper
Course 5: Chevre (regular and smoked) and beet tart with honey, hazelnuts and truffle vinaigrette
Course 6: Flounder stuffed with spinach and crawfish and smothered in beurre blanc with roast red potatoes
Course 7: Seared scallops with pineapple salsa and parsnip/potato mash
Course 8: New York strip with papaya barbecue sauce and zucchini
Course 9: Lamb pot roast with a strawberry port wine sauce
Dessert: Chocolate mousse tart, buttered popcorn ice cream
As good a story as any to start with, I guess?
So I’m searching for regular-salt, all-fat, NORMAL cream of mushroom soup in Sweetbay’s massive Campbell’s display. Sixty-something guy behind me turns and asks, in not the friendliest manner, “What kind of sauce would you serve with roast beef?” indicating a bag of sandwich meat in his basket.
My thought bubble is nothing but an asterisk and a puff of smoke from the short circuit.
“I…uh…like a horseradish…something?” I sputter.
“Something here?” he asks, indicating the wall of condiments, the steak sauces right in front of him.
I grab a jar of creamy horseradish and hand it to him. “Maybe like this?”
He is annoyed/incredulous. “You’d serve this? With roast beef?”
“Well, yeah, I guess”–I’m annoyed that I feel apologetic–“like maybe on a sandwich or something.”
“This isn’t for a sandwich,” he huffs. I shrug, at a loss, and he turns back to glare at the A1.
We should also note that I was wearing basketball shorts, a dirty white t-shirt and flip-flops. My greasy hair did not scream “foodie.”
I dunno what the hell he’s looking for, but I’m staying the fuck away from that guy’s house for dinner.