I just drove by the sweetest scene: an elderly couple picnicking in Palisades Park on Ocean Avenue, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Elderly, I say, when they are probably only ten years older than me. I am eternally drawn to the romantic notion of al fresco dining. (Al Fresco sounds like the name of a gangster gunned down while dining in Little Italy, though not necessarily outdoors.)
I have a fantasy of serving meals outdoors to be eaten on a long picnic table with a vintage French tablecloth and beautiful cutlery and cloth napkins. I also have a fantasy of hiking Mount Kilimanjaro, but it ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.
While I might like the idea of eating outdoors, I hate fighting the elements and the insects. So I never serve a meal outside and don’t really enjoy outdoor dining unless, perhaps, it’s on a screened-in porch. I like a barrier. I will, however, contradict myself and tell you I choose the patio at most restaurants because it can be infinitely more charming. Like, say, at The Ivy. Ivy at The Shore is safer from wind and flying bugs because it’s covered, so that’s the patio I prefer. But the charm of the patio at The Ivy in West Hollywood cannot be beat.
A very romantic, picnic-throwing person lives somewhere deep inside me. But she appears only every twenty years or so. Like a cicada. That’s how often I will organize (I use the word organize loosely, more like throw together) a picnic lunch. I was once obsessed with those terribly expensive picnic baskets that come with plates, napkins, thermos and all. OBSESSED!! Had to have one. Put one on my bridal registry.
Suzanne Goin, the uber-talented celebrity chef of Lucques and A.O.C.
Wine Bar fame, was rumored to be the front runner for the
2005 James Beard Chef-of-the-Year award, and as far as I was concerned,
she could just skip the swim suit competition and pick up her gold
toque and tongs. Because praise the lord and pass the friggin’ salt
cod, if food could cure cancer, it would be this food. May The God of
Good Eatin’ please keep Suzanne Goin’s hands hale, hearty, and forever
heating up the small plates. 
Having earlier experienced both the exquisite pleasure and excruciating
pain that comes from washing down four or five pounds of Chicken Liver
pate with fifteen dollar glasses of 2001 Chateauneuf du Pape, I was
careful to prepare my sensitive digestive tract by fasting for
practically an entire half-day on Fiji Natural Artisan water, plus a
supplemental half-inch rind of smoked salami that I discovered under a
plastic tankard of Barefoot Contessa Moussaka that I accidentally made
five weeks ago in a bizarre attack of culinary industry. As a note, I
have a firm policy of never throwing away any left-over that originally
took more than sixty minutes to prepare, unless it starts to stink
worse than my daughter’s feet did after two weeks at Catalina Camp,
where filth is a fashion statement.
