Steamed by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page B

and cheer that somehow felt false. “Just a small misunderstanding about their bill. Happens all the time at restaurants. You should always check your bill. Remember that.” Eric winked at me.
     
    Freak, freak, freak!
     
    Cassie set two plates down in front of us. “Here’s your first course. Garrett has made you lobster and Brie wontons with papaya-mint dipping sauce. Can I bring you anything else right now?”
     
    “Double vodka,” Eric directed her.
     
    I wasn’t sure that even lobster could compensate for my date’s behavior, but when I took my first taste, I knew I was wrong. I’d put up with anything for this. Two crisp wonton skins, perfectly browned, held rich bites of lobster meat floating in melted Brie. I decided that I could survive on these for the rest of my life. Easily.
     
    “This is what I’m talking about!” Eric nodded, his mouth full of food.
     
    “Amazing,” I agreed. “These are phenomenal. I could eat a plateful!”
     
    “You want some more? I’ll get Garrett to make as many as you want,” Eric offered, looking into the kitchen.
     
    “No, no!” I shook my head in protest. “I want to save room for the other courses.” And keep you from embarrassing me yet again.
     
    “All right. So, we like dish number one, then? I guess Essence will need my money to get lobster on the regular menu, though. What do you think?”
     
    “So far, I vote for investing, even if it’s just to save these wontons from extinction,” I said.
     
    When the next course arrived, Cassie announced, “Mr. Rafferty, Garrett knows your favorite. Venison carpaccio with blackberry glaze, cranberry vinaigrette, eight-year-old Gouda, and arugula.”
     
    Wow! Another winner. Eric and I actually smiled at each another while we silently devoured our carpaccio. Possibly by accident, he made eye contact. But really, how could you not connect with someone, at least a little, when relishing such an amazing dish?
     
    “A woman who eats venison. I like that,” Eric said.
     
    Unfortunately, the rest of our dishes were not nearly so fabulous as our first few courses. The Pan-fried Oysters with Fennel-Fenugreek Aioli contained oysters that were simultaneously soggy and chewy. The Foie Gras Ravioli with Sweet Corn and Black Truffle Bouillon did not live up to its enticing name. Eric frowned as he pushed his tongue around in his mouth in a disgusting display of tasting. “I’m disappointed in this. The foie gras is dried out, and the bouillon is flavorless. A totally forgettable dish.”
     
    Our final course, called Grilled Ahi Tuna with Sweet Rice, Mustard Greens, and Hoisin Sauce, was just as unpleasant as the ravioli; the tuna was overcooked, the rice gummy, and the greens bitter. I started to wonder why such delicious-sounding dishes were so disappointing. Eric pronounced the tuna dégousse , which, he informed me, was French for “disgusting.” (French for disgusting is dégoûtant, as I didn’t point out.) Although I agreed with Eric’s assessments, I couldn’t stop picturing him as a child critiquing his birthday cake: Well, Mommy, the overall presentation was nice, but the cake was too dense, and the frosting too sweet for my liking. And the Big Bird candles were gaudy. In the case of Essence, I thought his criticism was justified. I didn’t know whether I’d sink money into this place, which clearly had kinks to be worked out. The quality of the food, for example. Rather a large kink.
     
    Poor Garrett. I saw him in the kitchen, sweating and running back and forth from oven to counter, shouting at staff members, sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish, struggling desperately to succeed. Although this was my first inside look at a restaurant kitchen, even I could tell by watching the manic pursuits of the entire kitchen staff that things were out of control. Eric was watching Garrett as well.
     
    “He seems pretty harried,” I remarked.
     
    “Yeah, well, kitchens are always wild. But I’m