the perfect dinner

*note: the meal which I am about to describe falls squarely outside of this blog's stated financial parameters ("a college student's budget") but long hair don't care, it was too good to not write about

A perfect meal. I think every time people go out to eat, this is their goal, whether they know it or not. It's a malleable concept with a malleable end, and 100% situational. Thus, my belief that you can't plan a perfect meal (sorry, proposal dinners). A planned "perfect" meal can be good -- really good, even great -- but will never achieve perfection. An element of expectation will always hang over the meal, the question "Is this everything I thought it would be?" ever-present in the participants' minds, whereas the perfect meal is perfect by virtue of the total and unexpected satisfaction it provides on levels that exceed the merely (though still critically important) gastronomic. It's like a gift in that it need not be extravagant to move the recipient: what you're getting/eating matters, but so is who you're with, where and why, sometimes even more so than the "what."

The premise of this meal: a birthday dinner for two friends at Mas. The time: 8:00 PM, in an attempt to be Spanish. Party of six, a warm spring night. 

The 45-minute wait outside -- on a Monday? in central Virginia? still perplexed/delighted by this -- should have been the start to something bad.  But some spirit moved us and instead of being pissed at the hipsters and their dogs being seated before us we laughed instead. And despite the 40% chance of rain, it didn't. Also I only yelled at one passing waitress to "Seat us please I'm STARVING." Portent of a perfect night number one. 

Then, the sangria, served in a gigantic and opaque pitcher so as to give the impression of bottomlessness. Perfection portent number two. This coincided somewhat with the panicked filling-out of menu cards, but it was the good kind of panic, the one where all the words kind of jumble up and you have the frenzied realization that everything is going to be delicious. 

And then it began. The siege of tapas. It came in waves so gentle, so olive oil-graced, so damn delicious it felt like the culinary equivalent of a Trojan horse; I'm sure they were pickpocketing us or raiding our city or something while we were eating and to tell the truth, we couldn't have cared less. Translucent slices of jamon and queso. Cauliflower with chorizo that crackled when you bit it. Chevre with artichoke hearts mashed and baked in a tiny skillet (if this is Mas's answer to spinach-artichoke dip, I'll take it), surrounded by crusty rounds of bread. Seriously huge shrimp swimming in aioli. And the DATES. My god, the dates. Bacon-wrapped dates served so hot they were still popping in their grease. I didn't know you were allowed to do that, tempt your patrons with pig candy so seductive they'd willingly burn their tongues with boiling fat. The roof of my mouth is still raw and I applaud them for it. 

Somewhere in between the second and third round of tapas we all realized what was happening. The table had that glow. And I could try and dissect it here, attribute it to the sangria-induced buzz or the conversation or the clearly bangin food or the beloved people at the table, but I don't feel ready to nor am I sure I want to. It was unexpected, and it felt a little like love; because it happened, I know it won't be long before each of us goes seeking a perfect meal again. 

(love to the birthday peeps <3)

das friends

monday's menu