On March 19th, a mere week from tomorrow, I am going to be eating dinner at Iron Chef Michael Symon’s restaurant Lola, in Cleveland. I have been hoarding Christmas cash, we have a free night in a pretty swanky hotel, we’re going to The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, we will be kid-less, we’ll be celebrating my 112th birthday, but the best, the very best thing is that I will be eating in one of the restaurants I read about in The Soul of a Chef. (My chances of getting to Yountville to try out The French Laundry are pretty slim, and even if got there I might have to wait until I turned 113 to get a reservation).
If I’m really lucky, Michael Symon will actually be there, making my dinner.
I never went through a Tiger Beat crush phase as a girl; I always thought David and Shaun Cassidy, Donny Osmond and Lief Garrett looked like girls, and that there music was kind of stupid. (I was a big fan of the Beatles and Joan Baez, myself). Today, at the advanced age of, uhm, 111, I am wicked passionate about my chef crushes, and Michael Symon is near the top of my list. He made Cleveland a restaurant destination city, he beat out amazing competition to become the newest Iron Chef, and he sounded sort of wild and smart and creative in The Soul of a Chef. He’s also much cuter than David, Shaun, Lief and Donny, and will never embarrass himself by appearing in an off-broadway revival of “Pippin” or trying his hand at a hip hop CD.
What will I wear? What will I order? (I confess that I visit the Lola website nearly every day and consider my options). Will I see Michael? Will he see me and recognize a true and devoted fan and foodie?
Will my husband arrange to have me institutionalized, in the gentlest possible way, after reading this and take some saner (but duller) person to Cleveland?
Michael would never allow that. He loves me too; he just doesn’t know it yet, but when our eyes meet over a sizzling Venison Loin….