Dying Art(or fine dining as a gateway drug)By Amy ReileyFor more than ten years, there’s been a movement away from fine dining in America and, in fact, all over the world. Suddenly bistros are the thing - rush in, rush out. The air is filled with an edge of electricity, clanging plates and usually, the taste of something burnt, stale or at worst, rotten. Don’t get me wrong. Bistros are great for a quick lunch, solo dinners or any time we need a quickie. It’s a serious step up from fast food in quality, but in experience its really no better than a booth at the local Mickey D’s. What I’m trying to say is that there is nothing sexy to the style of dining the American public demands. Food is my favorite form of foreplay. The kitchen is the new bedroom. But when you’re far from the kitchen trapped in a cane backed chair scraping a tile floor, with a server who is more likely thinking about his next audition than whether your water glass is full, you’re so far removed from the artistry of eating, the sensuality of food in experience that cuisine becomes almost clinical. But it is a theory of mine that there is still one form of dining out that can bring the pleasure of intimacy, the intensity of arousal and the accentuation of sensuality. This experience is the dying art of fine dining. Recently, I found the perfect destination to put the theory to the test. Often when I travel a deux, I choose room service over dining out, unless I’m obligated by work to scope out the latest hot spots. This is particularly true when I visit resort destinations, where the restaurants tend to overcharge and under deliver. But surprisingly, or perhaps not so much since it is noted as the most formal of all the Caribbean islands, on Bermuda I found the ultimate in food as foreplay. The Newport Room of the Fairmont Southampton, a resort best known for its crystal water and private beach, (said by many travel experts to be among the most picturesque in the world), offers fine dining with the flair of Paris in the ’80’s economic boom. Guests are greeted by tuxedo-clad waiters and escorted to plush, nautical-themed banquettes built for two - the focus of this dining spot is definitely duo dining. Groups are relegated to the less private rounds dotting the central dining area, and large groups are all clustered on the dining room’s far side, well masked from the quiet and dimly lit booths. Service is formal to the point of stiffness until the staff is teased into lightening up. But the formality is all a part of the ceremony, which begins for me when I slip on stockings and heels for a night of luxury. A word on dress code: The Newport Room does demand a certain level of dress. Men must wear jackets, and rubber-soled shoes are met with disdain. I’m not a fan of an imposed dress code. I don’t mind if the guy at the next table comes in his flip-flops with beach-tousled hair. A forced dress code promotes exclusion. However, I also think that dressing up is an important part of showing respect for the chef, who works to create cuisine of the highest level and the staff, who have certainly put on their best for you. Besides, dressing up is all part of the fun. It denotes the evening is special and makes me wonder early on just how quickly I can slip off my rarely worn finery when the meal comes to an end. The tiny courses of fine dining, often surprises from the chef, are always filled with rare ingredients, the kind that make me feel special just licking them from my spoon. The meal’s length, drawn out for two and even three hours, heightens the anticipation by the minute. The wonderful thing about the Newport Room, is that those secretive booths make mid-meal cuddling an easy distraction while the chef takes appropriate care in preparing the next course. A fine meal itself is inevitably peppered with aphrodisiac ingredients - on this particular night there must have been a dozen on my plate alone, from lobster to mango to cucumber foam. Wine flows freely in the Newport Room, with about sixty wines by the glass not even appearing on the list. (As I mentioned, befriending the staff is an absolute must for getting all those little extras). I enjoyed a 2002 Hospice de Beaune, a wine filled with pheromone aromas served in a hand blown Riedel Burgundy glass, the perfect vessel for enhancing those aphrodisiac notes. Meals here end not when the check is offered, but when strong coffee is served with a petite silver tray of candied jewels, most of them chocolate. My companion and I split each one, nibbling a bite then serving the other half with hungry eyes and giggles falling from our lips. Could we have enjoyed dinner in a bistro that night? Certainly the fare would have been fine and the coffee equally enticing, but rest assured that the hour of snarfing steak frites in the neighborhood café could never have elicited the desire with which we tumbled from the dining room and into the elevator back to our harbor view room on the hotel’s sixth floor. Take the plunge: For more fine dining: |
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