Lunch for One

I normally work Monday through Friday these days. So when I had the chance to take a mid-week day off I decided to splurge and treat myself to a good lunch. After spending entirely too long hunting the largest thrift shop in town for interesting finds (and clothes that made me laugh out loud) it was past the usual lunch hour. I have been wanting to try a tiny tapas bistro in the Riverside area that promises a unique Spanish style tapas experience for Jacksonville. I walked in 15 minutes prior to close to see if it was too late. The gal greeting me cheerfully informed me the kitchen would close in 4 minutes. I decided to come back another time when they wouldn't feel compelled to count down the minutes till they could turn off the burners. I'll give it another shot another day because it does look extraordinarily quaint.
My next choice took me to Taverna in San Marco. Formerly Cafe Carmon held this location which retains the warm low lighting, interesting art on the wall and white linens. I opted to sit outside facing San Marco on the covered patio. I realize there's a certain stigma associated with eating alone. It seems most people, especially women, will avoid it at any cost. Personally I enjoy it periodically. I like to pretend I have my own mysterious story for being solo. It's a time to reflect quietly, savor my own company, indulge in a good book while eating something especially good. A really good drink is essential to eating alone. I started this lunch with an Italian red wine. My server, Felipe, recommended a glass of Forte Canto Negroamaro Salento Rosso. I'm definitely no wine connoisseur, but it was delicious. He also brought a plate of warm, crusty bread with olive oil for dipping. The specials were duck confit wood-fired pizza or caprese salad.
Now I'm a sucker for all types of cheese. The caprese salad was comprised of the in-house made mozzarella cheese so I had to try it. I also ordered the gambas al ajillo which on the menu is described as prawns with garlic and chili. Maybe I should have asked Felipe about that before I ordered it.
The caprese salad came on a long, narrow platter with little towers of the homemade mozzarella, tomato, basil leaves and a heavenly balsamic reduction and olive oil drizzle. Chef had also sprinkled some coarse salt over the dish which enhanced the flavor of the almost bland tomato. The "prawns" came in a tapas size cast iron skillet on a bed of chili oil with slivers of garlic. They were definitely shrimp- not monster size prawns- and they were a little soft. The shrimp were a little oily but the slight heat from the garlic and chili flakes was good. I would definitely try a different tapas plate next time like the herbed ricotta with fig compote and grilled peasant bread or a wood-fired pizza.
Felipe brought me a dessert menu and I told him I wasn't interested until I saw the chocolate torte. Another highlight of eating alone is splurging. Nobody can judge you and your server always encourages you to try something. It's pretty fun. So I ordered the chocolate torte with whipped mascarpone cheese, caramel and candied pistachios. It was spectacular. The small chocolate torte was creamy and rich. The pistachios were candied, crushed and a little salty. A delicious complement to the honey caramel that lined the torte. The plate was visually alluring with the pure, whipped mascarpone next to the dark chocolate and a swirl of golden caramel. A delightful dessert experience.
This day I was reading a book about a woman that lives a nomadic, single life after an ugly divorce. It's a true story and she inspires me with her sense of adventure and unquenchable drive to travel and learn new cultures. While I savored my lunch for one I imagined the adventures I will be creating in my future. I realized today I'm fortunate to be in a loving relationship where my partner supports my desire to go to faraway places. He understands that there are more grandiose reasons to eat a meal these days. To enjoy food and ingredients means my soul can be nourished.

Take time to stop and smell the falafel.

For what seems like many years now I have driven down Mayport Road going to or coming from the beach. I've always glanced over to make sure the lights are still on and the blue and white flags are still waving in the wind at Nick the Greek.

This tiny corner restaurant is a walk-up window where you place your order to go. The traditional greek lettering spells out 'Nick the Greek' and there is an awning proclaiming numerous greek delights- souvlaki, hummus, falafel, gyro, baklava. It's on the edge of a sketchy looking neighborhood in the tired part of Mayport Rd and his signs all look home-made. Maybe that's why I've been kicking myself every time I drive by and don't stop. Could home-made signs mean truly homemade greek food?

Today, again, I passed Nick the Greek and stared a little too long at the waving pendants. His sidewalk chalkboard was out ready to draw me in. I made a snap judgment to pull a u-turn and give it a try. It was a blustery day when I parked and stood in front of the order window. A kind lady slid open the glass and before she could hand me a menu I said, a bit too excitedly, "I'd like to order the falafel". She smiled, handed me a list of greek delights on a take-out menu and said she'd be happy to take my order. Then she asks if I'd like to also try something sweet like the homemade NY style cheesecake or baklava. "I'd better try the cheesecake" I tell her. She tells me how much I'm going to love it. Behind her is a man working the tiny cooking space she's relaying my order to. He turns to greet me as well. I ask them if everything is made right there on the spot. "Oh yes, this is Nick" she says, pointing to the guy cooking. He tells me in his wonderful accent that he makes everything right where I'm peering into, except the baking he does next door. I tell him how many times I've passed by and always meant to stop. "This is your first time?", Nick asks me. I tell him it is. And then Nick wins me over. He pinches his fingers together, brings them to his lips, makes a fantastic MUAH smacking sound and tells me it is so delicious I'll be back again soon. His assistant is smiling. She's been won over by the passion he has for his food, too.

My ride home with a small brown bag on my floor board has never taken so long. I'm hungry, my adrenaline is pumping. I can't wait to see if it's as fantastic as he thinks it is. I'm pretty sure it will be, though.

When I finally arrive home I open the foil and find my falafel wrap. For just a moment I absorb the beauty of what Nick created for me. Wrapped in a warm, soft, chewy pita is my falafel. It is topped with shredded lettuce, tomato, cucumber and tzatziki sauce. I can tell he was generous with that creamy wonder of a spread because it's lingering just on the edges of the wrap ready to fall off onto my fingertips. The taste of ground chickpeas and enough garlic to keep away my dearest friends is balanced with the cool cucumber. I'm pretty sure I licked the drops of sauce off the wrapper when I was done. This was definitely a falafel wrap composed by someone who takes pride in his creations.

My dining epiphany is simple this time. My mom told me not to judge a book by it's cover. While it would be easy to judge the odd little walk up counter that is Nick the Greek, my community would be doing itself a huge disservice not to share in the passion that Nick puts out of that window in the form of his greek specialties. Nick was right- I will be back. Maybe next time he'll share a little more of the magic with me.

Where I'm coming from

Almost as long as I can remember food and eating have been important to me. When I was five years old my parents had an Italian restaurant. I would play dolls downstairs in the kitchen with my sister while savoring the aromas of a simmering red sauce. When I grew up a little bit I would sit with my great-grandmother before she died. I'm embarrassed to admit I don't remember much about my Baba, but I do remember being allowed to make her simple meal of steamed carrots, celery and potatoes with some melted butter. I remember the first time I made scrambled eggs as a kid. My sister and I wanted to surprise our mom with breakfast. It didn't matter that it had tiny fragments of paper thin egg shell for a little extra crunch. We had cooked!
With a narrow part of my DNA coming from my Sicilian grandfather, I was destined to be passionate about something. Food seems so natural. I grew up around passionate Italians. I'm not talking Sopranos-esque Italian American. I'm talking american italian where family gatherings are loud and full of energy. We ate, we joked, we laughed. There were always family vacations where 20 of us would go into a restaurant and ask for a table all together. Before dinner was over the servers were guessing which kids belong to which parent for fun. Through it all ran a common love of eating good food and the bond it created.
So I've tried to refine this passion for food I have. I've nurtured it by creating my own recipes and experimenting in the kitchen. I walk the aisles of gourmet markets like most girls shop department stores. We touch everything, imagine how we can fit it into our repertoire and then justify the cost after the credit card comes out.
What really lights my fire, though, is a perfect meal out. I absorb menus for the titillating effect reading plate descriptions causes in me. I savor the delivery from the server and then sit back to critique what art has been laid before me. Then- and only then- I eat.
All of this to share with you my great passion for eating amazing food. I want to know where my food is coming from and what's been done to it. I want to share with you the epiphanies I experience at the hands of passionate chefs and cooks.