"Tell Me When to Stop"
And why intuitive hospitality is the greatest gift of all.
A year or so ago, en route to Asheville, I popped into Alimentari at Mothers & Sons in Durham for a breakfast sandwich and an espresso, which still remains one of the best-kept secrets in the Triangle. I was running late but when I saw truffles and a truffle shaver pop out of Venny Tuesday’s fanny pack, I nonchalantly invited myself by sitting down at his table.
Truffles dropped onto my breakfast sandwich, one by one, like delicate, earthy, edible snowflakes, reverting me back to a few previous dining experiences where the waiter waltzes over with a whole truffle and a shaver and says politely, “tell me when to stop.”
“Come again?”
“Gaslighting,” I immediately thought.
There’s no way this man is going to continuously shave truffles onto my pasta until I deem it enough. He’ll be here all day. If I didn't say “stop,” would he grab another truffle once this one was finished and continue? The answer is no. A single truffle can cost upwards of $300 per pound.
The same goes for Parmigiano Reggiano grated atop a plate of pasta. I fantasize about never saying stop and not being able to see across the room by way of a Great Pyramid of Giza-sized mound of cheese in front of my face, but really, that kind of defeats the purpose of me going into a restaurant and letting the chef take the reigns of my food pleasure.
This isn’t the same as fresh cracked pepper in a large wooden pepper mill, and even still, you want to let me figure out when to tell you to stop? Not a chance. This could potentially ruin a dish, although I’d let whoever grate fancy Italian cheese on my pasta until I die. Or until they were fired for the excess cost of goods (grated cheese) on a $15 pasta dish.
They should rephrase it as, “have as much as you want, but not really.” I know you know when to stop, so let’s stop playing this game of food gaslighting. Plus, too much of anything is bad for you. It’s important to know when you’ve reached the peak pleasure zone and quit while you’re ahead. Otherwise, you’re going to be sick to your stomach just like that one time in Naples when I ate a very large bowl of stracciatella by myself. It did not end well for me later that evening…
One exception is Chez Janou’s all-you-can-eat chocolate mousse in Paris. A literal dream, the mousse is served in a five-liter bowl with a communal serving spoon. This is not a joke. You can have as little or as much as you want—and decide when it’s time to stop. I am never not happy as a clam as it's a two-way street: the mousse is there, I can have it all, but I end it when I am content. It’s a complete mind fuck and I’m here for it.
One of my previous partners told me he read a tantric sex book when he was younger to train himself to not come until his partner told him to. I was stoked, at first, until it became a chore to have to alert him of when he could come every single time we had sex. “Read the f*cking room, it’s a two-way street,” I thought in the end.
It’s a vibrational experience when you’re on the same page, but until recently, I realized it was mostly the selfish act of a man steering the sex ship. I would like to take a detour, thank you very much. My Champagne lover told me last summer that a woman must always be prepared, for at least 30 minutes prior to sex. (I agree!). I compare this act to a chef perfecting a dish before it hits my mouth so that when it does, I can enjoy it to the fullest. The chef is satisfied, I am satisfied, it’s a true victory.
One of my greatest pleasures in life is sitting down at a restaurant and letting the chef decide my dining destiny. Last Saturday, I experienced complete pleasure from start to finish at Chubby Fish in Charleston, which I still consider one of the greatest dining joints in America.
The night prior I had a glass of wine with a friend and we bounced but I wholeheartedly admit that I was eye-f*cking every single dish sent out of the kitchen. When I popped in for dinner the next evening, a team member said both herself and the kitchen could sense my hunger pains for Chubby Fish.
Intuitive hospitality is so rare these days but has the ability to make you feel like you’re in the dreamiest of dreams. Cue Celine Dion’s “It's All Coming Back to Me Now.” A friend and I sat at the counter and put our stomachs in complete control of James and the kitchen. “How hungry on a scale of 1 to 10 are you,?” he asks. “11/10,” I reply, for the both of us.
Chubby Fish is like a step back in time, a portal where you leave everything but your gut and palate at the door, and simply enjoy. I get all nostalgic and giddy as soon as I see the building. It’s tiny. It’s cozy. It’s warm. It reminds me of Europe. It’s consistently everything I always need. And when you add in the ability to intuitively feed me and I can completely surrender, I’ve struck gold in terms of dining out.
The night started out with briny oysters alongside a ramekin of a jelly-like tosazu sauce, equal parts smoky and umami, and ended with a Life Raft Treats “Not Fried Chicken” ice cream. “I’ll give you a minute,” my dining partner said after I downed a caviar sammich, and I’m here to say once again, it deserves a moment in time.
For three hours straight we grazed like a herd of cattle through the majority of the menu, with James popping over from time to time to analyze our levels of fullness. I could’ve died happy after the grilled oysters sitting in a slurpable sauce made of crab fat, rendered into a vibrant curry coconut cream. It’s the puffed rice and kaffir lime that does it for me, though—the taste oddly reminiscent of eating Fruit Loops or Fruity Pebbles as a kid at the breakfast table, only this adult version…..consists of oysters in the aforementioned decadent, acidic, slightly tangy, stunning sauce.
We survived until the end, joyfully scraping each plate until it was clean, with lots of wine and storytelling in between. Food Lamaze should be a real class as we practiced breathing through the last two dishes with grace. And just like my recent, steamy rendezvous in Lyon, there was a happy ending where both parties just knew it was time….
To stop.
Because too much of anything is never a good thing. A big thanks to Chubby Fish for reminding me that pleasure still exists in dining out.
CURRENTLY BITCHEN ABOUT:
A FRIEND’S NEWSLETTER: Layla Khoury-Hanold started out as my editor at Indy Week. The first piece we worked on together was about biscuits vs. cornbread and truly what I think groomed us to become dear friends. She just launched a newsletter and her words of the day are a great dose of mindfulness.
A PLACE: Charleston. I can’t get enough of the city right now and will be back for a few weeks as of next week. Let’s get a drink!
LOOKING FOR…….I am looking for a cool energy reader for a story idea I’m workshopping.
SUBSCRIPTIONS: I know there are so many out there but if you’ve enjoyed the ride so far you can now upgrade to a paid subscription to help support my career. This is a nice thank you from anyone who has ever consistently “picked my brain,” plus there will be subscriber-only bits + pieces coming soon!
RECENTLY PUBLISHED WORK:
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God it’s good to get your work delivered directly to my inbox. So glad you’re finally doing this. Love, A friend and fan who’ll be forever calling you to visit NZ. Also, very happy (keen, one might say) to be the reader you yourself call out for in this issue xx