My friend Peter and I were roughly a third of the way through our 18-course omakase dinner at the Omakase Room, a handsome ten-seater perched atop the relentlessly popular Sushi-San in Chicago’s River North neighborhood, when the spiny lobster course arrived. The rare Japanese crustacean was steamed in sake and paired with velvety butternut squash purée and a shaved heap of also-rare Umbrian truffles. I was still gabbing on about something or other as Peter popped this delicate one biter, closed his eyes and sat back in his chair.
“Shhhhhhhhhh,” he said.
“I’m sorry, did you just shush me?”
The two of us have been friends since college, and there are few people I enjoy taking the piss out of more (and vice versa), meaning the incident became a source of comic relief over the remaining dozen courses. Lowering the stakes further was the fact that this was a media invite, which I’d accepted primarily because omakase is a bonafide cultural phenomenon that costs far more than any paltry fee I’d ever get for writing a trend article about it. (Yes, writers are in trouble!)
But to say we represented the lighthearted minority of the clientele would be a wild understatement. Some of this is due to the hushed reverence that tends to pervade tasting menu restaurants—even those that aim to set a more relaxed, upbeat tone like the Omakase Room. It feels disrespectful to gossip or cackle heartily in the presence of glinting cleavers and tiny porcelain spoons, quivering lobes of foie gras, and bluefin tuna cheek piled with glossy caviar pearls—on par with taking a call on speakerphone in some grand, old library. There’s also inarguable pressure baked into a meal for two that costs the same as a coffee table, unless perhaps you belong to the income bracket that considers omakase everyday dining. (If so, I’m glad Jack Sweeney is documenting your private-jet travel for the whole internet to see.) Hence why most of us reserve omakase only for special occasions.
Indeed, at chef Kaze Chan’s behest, we went around the table introducing ourselves to start the meal, at which point Peter and I learned that we were in the company of some major milestones that night, including a recent engagement, two round-numbered anniversaries and a 30th birthday.
It’s no wonder we so rarely embark on meals this nice with a relaxed mindset. I suppose it’s a choice at the end of the day, but it doesn’t feel that way. It’s a lot like deciding to go out on Valentine’s Day or making a night of it on New Year’s Eve, occasions that notoriously leave us disappointed in our nicest outfits. And to think this was supposed to be fun!
The last time my husband and I went out on Valentine’s Day seven or eight years ago, we ate at a fancyish bistro known for its burger, which Sean ordered. It arrived indefensibly overcooked, so I suggested he send it back, knowing full well he hates doing that almost as much as I do. A passive-aggressive argument ensued that cast a pall over the rest of the evening. Fortunately, our romantic fail set us back several hundred dollars less than a tasting menu would have—though one should also factor in the emotional cost of my huffy silences and blistering stares. I’m certain that had the burger offense been committed on a random Friday night, it wouldn’t have mattered. Yet we can’t help but heap extra pressure on events that are supposed to mean something, even if we weren’t the ones who decided they should.
All that is to say it’s better to open that fancy bottle of wine you’ve been saving on some random Wednesday or book that extravagant omakase dinner far from a looming milestone, when getting shushed by your friend in a room full of strangers will never seem funnier.