Caesar Salad

First published in the Chicago Tribune

There is a cosmic spot in the universe where trendy dining, Rodney Dangerfield, and Dr. Suess intersect. Alas for me, I discovered it.

Let’s start with a few basics. I’m a gal who likes quantity in my food as much as quality. When I order moules frites, having the server clear the table to accommodate the giant portion adds to my enjoyment. In food as in other endeavors, size matters.

Returning from a week in Europe, I confess to worshipping their breakfasts. Those tables filled with fruit, cheese, breads, and pastries still make my heart flutter. So much food, and all of it divine.

That wasn’t the case for my first dinner in Amsterdam. Looking at my “winkelier bon” (that’s Dutch for you’ve been ripped off), I’m still foaming at the mouth.

It’s not that I blame my daughter Nessa for the failed dining experience, although in fact I do. But she was in charge of researching where to eat on our first night in Amsterdam, while I was in charge of paying. Our respective jobs fit our respective qualifications.

Nessa made reservations before I had time to remind her of my own particular restaurant caveats: No foam, and no architecture. Froth is not filling, and entrees should rest flat on the plate. If I wanted my meal to resemble a sculpture, I’d order the large fries and start a game of Jenga. Remember my meal mantra: quality and quantity. I like to enter a restaurant hungry and leave feeling full.

Approaching Wolfe Atelier, a large glass boxcar resting atop a 1920s industrial railway bridge, I maintained a sense of optimism. On-line reviewers had given it five stars for the food and the atmosphere. For a moment, I felt really cool. Then I read the menu. “Expect small, fine cuisine full of passion, details and flavors.”

Shall I decode that? In chef parlance, “passion” stands for experimentation, “details” suggests presenting food as architecture, and “flavors” means teeny, tiny portions.

To quote Rodney Dangerfield from Back to School, “I hate small food.”

I knew I was going to leave hungry, yet nothing prepared me for what they presented as a Caesar’s salad. With apologies to Dr. Seuss, I submit the following review. For what it’s worth, I would have preferred green eggs and ham.

I do not like my food as foam,
Eating here or when I roam,

It would not, could not, fill me up
It makes me angry when I sup.

Frothy lettuce in a swipe,
I’m supposed to eat this hype?

Since when did parma come as whip?
I do not care that I’m not hip.

Tiny quail with tiny yolk,
Your silly egg should be a joke.

But on my plate that’s all I see,
Save for foam of anchovy.

Would I, could I, while abroad?
Pay in Euros for this fraud?

This ain’t salad, this ain’t food,
It goes against my tipping mood.

With Euros gone, my lesson’s clear:
I like my foam atop my beer.