Alister Robertson
The wet road darkens on the café-laced avenue as the street lights fail. The heavens rumble and remind diners of the outside world. It is a beautifully slow night in the old-fashioned wine bar. Inside the head waiter acknowledges regulars. ‘What a charming man!’ they exclaim. The bar faces the street like a theatre. Tables in the front row overlook the sea of darkness through open steel doors.
There is electricity in the wet air. The bartender has wiped down every surface of his bar with a warm towel, the coffee machine is clean and every dining table drinking a bottle of wine has been pampered. Every wine from the extensive list is available in the right vintage. His shirt is crisply ironed. Pride gleams everywhere.
A large umbrella appears in the threshold hiding a large man underneath. He takes his time dismantling his apparatus on the red carpet. Window display diners stop and eyeball the intruder. He stands waiting to be seated. The head waiter briskly heads to the bar and gulps down a double bourbon, warning the bartender of the annual visit from this overcoat-wearing figure. Enough courage is summoned to let the intruder know the bar might be a nice place for him to dine alone. His wet black umbrella and overcoat are taken, revealing a tall business bachelor with a face of opinion.
The head waiter warns the bar of the challenging night ahead, ‘He comes here once a year on business. He is just a tasteless and arrogant American. Please don’t let him sit at a table. I can’t handle him. You just can’t please him.’ The bartender is cornered as the giant silhouette approaches, holding some kind of suitcase. Glum is the new black.
‘Hello,’ he booms as he assumes a position on the empty glossed bar, grimacing as if dinner was an arduous task. ‘I’ve had a long day. Is this music going to play all night?’ The bartender smiles, knowing that Sade is singing her last song. With only a glance, he communicates to the nervous waiter to bring bread and settings. Special glassware is set in front of the beast.
Polite exchanges of menus and banter distract while the first gamble is taken. His water glass is filled with assuming nine-dollar mineral water. Bread and olive oil arrive all unnoticed. Dave Brubeck fixes the restaurant soundtrack with ‘Time Further Out’ and the lights are dimmed.
‘This week the oysters from Tasmania and Sydney were terrible. How are yours?’
‘They are freshly delivered from Coffin Bay. Normally they are great, but this week they are spawning. I think our scallops might be a better option tonight.’
The frozen scallops are the only entrée on the menu passable as good food and the bartender has sold them as a starter. The tension starts to ease with the evasion of last week’s oysters. The chef lacks experience and sophistication. Yet there are still two more courses of terrible dishes to choose from …
Finally, the order is taken, the bartender manipulatively twisting every word to subtly suggest the best of the barely presentable dishes. The beast starts off with a glass of South Australian Clare Valley riesling. It is all citrus and minerality. ‘Every man should drink riesling,’ he booms. A decent match with his first two courses, yes, but no relevance to gender.
All prepared, glasses full, the American is left alone while the bartender takes his second gamble. He interrupts kitchen staff eating and chatting on mobile phones to order the food slightly differently, determined to please this ill-mannered man, dealing best with the resources.
‘This is for a Gourmet food critic,’ he lies. ‘Preheat the grill for the scallops. Don’t garnish them. Garnish the risotto dish with those claws you’re throwing out. Fan the lamb. Impress him.’
Four scallops are placed on a square dish on a bed of rock salt in front of the American, next to his glowing laptop. The crisp ochre crust is the result of the grilled saffron-and-garlic butter. ‘Perfect with another Adelaide Hills riesling.’
Every man should drink riesling quickly. As well as sauvignon. And chardonnay. The crab risotto is placed in front of the businessman typing away at a document, a public display of importance and seriousness in the dim wine bar. The risotto portion has been halved and a blanched crab claw dramatically emerges from the centre of the dish. The crabmeat was also frozen.
‘And what exactly should I do with this claw trying to shake my hand?’
Words are improvised. ‘Simply enjoy the spectacle. Chef likes to remind his diners of his dishes’ origins.’
‘Go and choose me a bottle of red to open. I’m not interested in French wine. I would love a Grange but not the ’89 you have. Not the best year. Something local and expensive to complement my main course.’
Soggy ratatouille is fried in olive oil to impress the so-called critic. The lamb, blood red at its core, is sliced and fanned on top and drizzled with a red wine glaze; its presentation contrasts with the usual haphazard arrangement. The laptop is shut away immediately upon arrival. An ecstatic reception. A rich ’97 Majella Coonawarra cabernet sauvignon is poured from one decanter to the other, a textbook example of the region’s best earthy, full-bodied cabernet from terra rossa soils.
After lamb and cabernet inhalation, the theatre show is being viewed through rose-coloured glasses. The businessman is sated and eager to continue conference-calling back in his hotel room. He settles the bill and leaves a hundred dollar note tip on the bar before his final say.
‘Thank the accomplished chef. Change the music and the wine list and I’ll come back next year.’
Direction and lighting can be used to mystify audiences in theatrical performances. Restaurants are no different. Tickets are sold to shows of breakfast, lunch and dinner. Maybe next year the businessman will come back with his friends.