Small Bites: The joy of a fancy dinner

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“Small Bites” is about exploring the broader world of food and drink in Madison through approachable and specific experiences.

As a 40-year-old who still remembers taping late-night TV shows on VHS so I could watch them later, my general media engagement isn’t as current. I understand the concept of trendy short-form social media videos in principle, but there’s a disconnect in how my brain wants to process the information I see before me. The “POV” videos that are entirely shot in third-person give me a headache. Dance trends that act out song lyrics instead of channeling music into physical movement hurt my stomach. And then there are the random phrase trends that devolve into nonsense. For me, none take the cake quite like “almost forgot this is the whole point.” 

I get the sentiment—it’s easy to get sucked into work and find yourself wondering where, exactly, you’re supposed to find and experience joy. But the song used in the trend is from comedian Matt Berry’s third album, Witchazel, a semi-comedic album that features fellow British comedian Peter Serafinowicz doing a Paul McCartney impression for backing vocals on a different track. In trying to figure out why “Take My Hand,” a 2009 song from a mildly obscure comedian, was trending as part of a self-care internet trend, I discovered it was used in the end credits for American Murder: Gabby Petito, a docu-series about the murder of Gabby Petito released earlier this year. That means someone watched a brutal documentary about murder, heard the credits song, and thought this is perfect for a video of me driving my boat.   

I can’t shake the thought myself, though. Like an annoying commercial jingle that gets stuck in your head, the phrase repeats. Almost forgot this is the whole point. Have I almost forgotten that “this” is the whole point? What is “this” for me? Where do I find my own expression of joy in this modern world? Why can’t I stop this phrase from cycling? Do I have an annuity and need cash now? 

These videos often show people engaged in true leisure: lying out at the beach, reading a book in the shade, playing fetch with their dog, and yes, of course, dining at a fancy restaurant. I’m not going to lie; those meals look great.

As much as I like writing about accessible food and approachable cooking techniques, I’m a sucker for a nice dinner out. I want it to be a production. First, you order a cocktail as you’re seated, sipping on whatever your version of an aperitivo is while you browse the menu. Then you pick a variety of plates to share, sip on your drink, think about what you want as your main course, order a glass of wine with the food, and live out the entire evening in the barest form of luxury available to the common class. In short, a fancy dinner is the closest I’ll ever feel to a king, or at least a third-tier diplomat posted to a country who believes hospitality is core to their identity. 

It’s difficult to write about the service industry from a progressive or leftist perspective because it can feel odd to want a high level of service built into your evening out. It’s less difficult to write about your expectations of the service industry when you have spent years in the service industry yourself. The first time I had high-touch service was at the now-shuttered Green Zebra in Chicago, and it immediately made me want to be a better barista. The server there was attentive, kind, and overall, genuine. You could tell he wanted our party to experience the joy that the restaurant had to offer, and you could tell he knew his service was a big part of that. I wanted the customers I handed lattes to every morning to feel that exact same genuine care and attention. 

Great service requires knowledge—if a restaurant patron asks what they should order, the server should have a wealth of knowledge about everything on the menu, not just a script about the most popular items. Great service also requires attentiveness. Anticipating that someone might need a refill or might have questions about the food set in front of them eliminates any unease. At a restaurant, the patron is at the mercy of the server—you can’t just walk up and make yourself another drink if you’ve run low. Every restaurant is a foreign environment, and establishing comfort is the best way to allow the patron to enjoy their meal. 

For some people, a nice dinner is an accompaniment to entertainment, perhaps on the way to see a show or a concert. For me, dinner is the entertainment. I’m at my happiest when I’m eating incredible food surrounded by people whose company I enjoy in the most frictionless environment I can imagine. To me, it’s the best way to unwind. I like hosting people for dinner at my own house, but at a high-touch restaurant, I can stay focused on the conversation as the night wears on without having to clear plates or refresh drinks. 

At service-focused restaurants in Madison like Sardine, Mint Mark, or The Harvey House, you’ll likely have a server who takes your order, a food runner who brings your meal immediately when it’s ready, and a server assistant who refills water glasses, grabs empty plates, and catches a drink order if they see you finish your final sip. It’s an impressive system, and by no means is it plausible in most restaurants. It’s also expensive to run—those three employees need more training and oversight than a casual spot, and menu prices need to reflect the amount of labor that goes into getting your food to you as much as they reflect the labor that goes into cooking your food. A nice meal out, it turns out, is not an everyday source of joy. 

Still, it’s the type of thing that I don’t mind paying for. If a nice meal can turn a tough day at work into a memorable evening with a loved one, then maybe that’s the whole point. Working for a living is a drag, of course, but the dignity in being human is connecting to those things we love through the money we earn at our jobs. And even if TikTok wisdom doesn’t always translate cognitively, maybe, I suppose, it’s not so bad to pull back on the judgment and just cruise on the vibes. After all, maybe I forgot that this was the whole point.