Tag Archives: soup


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

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…to whom?

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.


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