97 days.
That’s the amount of time that elapsed between the last time I dined in a restaurant pre-quarantine (Feta’s for Dad’s birthday) until this past Thursday, when my wife and I secured a reservation for Au Courant‘s reopening.
It was so long, I’d forgotten what eating in a restaurant felt like.
I know that sounds dramatic, but it’s true. The process of approaching the hostess stand, looking over a menu, conversing with our waitress… it all left me with an odd sense of déjà vu. It was like riding a bike for the first time in years—the experience felt familiar, yet somehow a bit wobbly.
And I loved every second of it.
Because I took restaurants for granted.
Pre-pandemic, my wife and I typically ate out 2-3 times a week at restaurants that came highly recommended to us or that we looked into heavily online. We rarely have a “clunker” meal; some experiences have a few flaws, but the overwhelming majority are pretty spectacular. We tend to leave the meal raving about all the things we loved, not the nitpicks we didn’t like.
Then COVID-19 hit and took that all away. Restaurants were forced to close their doors. Pivot to takeout or board up.
We ramped up our efforts to support local restaurants more than ever, ordering takeout 3-5 times a week while rotating between all our favorites. It didn’t take long to settle into a familiar routine: we’d pick up our meal and crash on the couch to binge Top Chef. The routine was familiar and fun, and we had some incredible meals (special shoutouts to the pizza kit from Virtuoso Pizzeria, the Beef Rib from Porky Butts BBQ, and the Homakase from Yoshitomo).
But as we stepped into Au Courant Thursday, a familiar aura hit me, like hugging a friend you haven’t seen in years.
To be clear, the dine-in experience is very different from what we enjoyed pre-COVID. All employees wore masks, which removed a bit of the human connection (though Au Courant’s dedication to our health and safety is much appreciated). Tables were spaced out further to accommodate social distancing, and the menu was pared down to a six-course tasting menu.
But there was a magical feel to the night. Simply sitting in a restaurant across from my wife injected romance into the evening; we caught ourselves several times sharing long, loving looks that make newlyweds stick out like a Northwestern fan in a Nebraska football crowd. We had conversations that extended beyond what ridiculous situation Top Chef was currently putting the poor cheftestants through. At the risk of sounding hokey, the night just felt enchanting.
And the food! That feeling of anxiety that comes from watching the kitchen door—”Are those next plates for us?”—was back, and I welcomed the excitement. Back was the exhilarating rush each time a new plate hit the table. I struggled to divide my attention between listening to the server explain the dish while attempting to visually dissect every aspect of these delicious plates.
I found myself admiring things I wouldn’t have noticed before, such as how each tortellini was shaped slightly differently, proving that all been made individually and by hand. Or the way the morsels of shortcake, strawberries, cream, and pistachios were strategically plated to encourage diners to get a spoonful with all elements in one bite.
These small, masterful details had escaped me before, but now I hunted for them. Why were the plates set on the table so that the sirloin in the beef duet was directly in front of us, with the carrots and glazed turnips off to the side? How had Chef Ben Maides come up with the idea to place tiny crisps of sweet potato atop the Ahi Tuna Crudo, giving the raw fish just the right of texture and sweetness?
I was taken aback by how much thought went into every aspect of our meal: every element was carefully planned and flawlessly executed, then delivered in a particular way at the exact right time. Behind the wall not 10 feet from me was a kitchen running like an Indy car—many parts working together at incredible speeds to produce an awe-inspiring result. And if one of those parts, be it a line cook, sous chef, or piece of equipment, failed, the entire meal was at risk.
The beauty of that realization is why, much as I’ve loved the takeout we’ve experienced, I now appreciate local restaurants more than ever. The time, care, and effort that goes into every single plate is mind-boggling, and I’ll never take it for granted again.
COVID-19 has likely forever changed the way restaurants will operate, and I can’t say I’m fully comfortable eating in most right now. I still think, at least for some time moving forward, Sarah and I will be getting the majority of our meals to go. There’s always more Top Chef to be watched.
But when we do have those dine-in experiences, I’m going to fully appreciate each and every one. And rather than anxiously watch that kitchen door, dying for my next plate to arrive, I’m going to drink in every aspect of the experience: the composition of my plate; the friendly attentiveness of our server; the dimples in my wife’s gorgeous smile, and the excruciating amount of detail in each dish.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a huge thanks to Au Courant for providing an incredibly memorable meal. The food was, as always, top of the line, but the service, devotion to safety, and overall atmosphere were something Sarah and I won’t soon forget.
Welcome back, restaurants. We’ve missed you.