A sprawling meal

I’ve never spent an entire day at one restaurant, but imagine sitting down for lunch. Imagine ordering appetizers and a glass of something, maybe piquette, something light but still edge-removing. It’s you and one other person — maybe me. Next, a coffee. We’ve been sat for an hour, a crust of bread sits marinating in olive oil, a fly buzzes by, lands on it briefly, you wave it away. Our other friend arrives — they just happened to be walking by and saw us in front of the restaurant. We wave them over. They order a cheese plate, we order olives.

We all order another round of drinks — radlers — and a bowl of moules-frites. And soon it’s dinner, and three other friends descend upon the table, and now we’re too many for the patio, and we move inside to a six-top, where we order fries (shoestring with a rosemary aioli), a bottle of wine (vinho verde), soon another (prosecco), a full meal (half a chicken, shrimps, two salads, clams, blistered carrots, various cheeses), another bottle of wine, desserts (gelato, various tarts and cakes), espresso, finally a few affogati, our last request just as they bring the check, and the sun has set, but it’s hot out yet, and we stand in front of the restaurant, turning slowly to each other, exchanging our handshakes, hugs, and glances, until it’s time to go home, until the day is well-spent.

“That’s too much food. You only need three, maybe four, dishes.”

We were sat in the window of Artis, a restaurant in Lisbon. It was just after 7:00 p.m. local time, an early dinner. New York City’s post-pandemic dining culture had calcified our restaurant etiquette — we attempted to order in one go, expecting to finish in ninety minutes, which we explained to the waitress (disgust on her face). We’d ordered too much food. She told us we could order more later; don’t worry.

We had baked brie, chourico de porco preto assado, (you can look these up if you want, I clearly don’t care,) gambas fritas, amêijoas à bulhão pato, peixinhos da horta, two bottles of wine, crème brûlée, and espresso. The total was €89,60 (they use a comma in Europe). We were there for two-and-a-half hours.

Two nights ago I went to dinner with three friends, former colleagues I hadn’t seen in eight, ten, and eighteen months. We dined for nearly three hours at Fort Greene’s Colonia Verde, and it was a lovely evening, but a single glass of Portuguese white cost more (adjusting for both currency and inflation) than a whole bottle back at Artis. My portion of the bill alone was almost equal to the entire bill for two at Artis. Sure, fine, but this is not a Lunch about economic realities on opposite sides of the Atlantic. It’s a Lunch about sprawling meals.

In early May, on a Sunday night, I went for dinner to a friend’s loft in the area of Manhattan known as NoMad, where he’s lived for over twenty years longer than that real estate term has existed. I arrived at eight to as hospitable a spread as you could find — just the first round — fresh squid salad, olives, crudités, bread. Everything from the greenmarket. Prosecco. I left over four hours, three more courses, and one further bottle of wine later.

In New York City, it is too late to say “as the weather gets warmer.” It has warmed. It will cool but slightly and it will warm a few degrees further. While the weather is warm, while the city’s patios are overgrown, I urge you — dine for hours. It’s the summer solstice today, as I write this. The sun has almost set. We are running out of time, but it lingers.