For a diner who’s been starved for restaurant delicacies these past months, it’s an overwhelming array.
It’s just before noon in Boston, and restaurants are setting up for lunch. It’s June 8, the start of Phase 2 of Governor Baker’s reopening plan, and the first day they can seat customers since coronavirus shut down regular business March 17. For now, people can only eat outside; dining rooms will reopen on a date yet to be determined.
Everything feels much the same as ever, yet totally different at the same time. A quick tour through Jamaica Plain, Roxbury, the South End, and Back Bay reveals a city still readying for a new normal. Many restaurants that planned to be open as soon as possible — some even taking reservations on the OpenTable app — aren’t quite yet up and running. Some have visible sanitizing stations for customers; others don’t. Some have tables spaced carefully far apart; others have seated unmasked strangers with perhaps 3 feet of distance from head to head. Tiny Boston, where space is at a premium, is not designed for this.
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It is an ideal day for outdoor dining: full sun, a light breeze, temperatures in the mid-70s. At the Thinking Cup on Newbury Street, patrons are sipping coffee drinks. At Wen’s, ramen is the order of the day. At Buttermilk & Bourbon on Comm. Ave., tables are already booked until 9 p.m. A station at the patio entrance is stocked with hand sanitizer and gloves.
La Voile, a sailing-themed French bistro in Back Bay, is just the kind of place people think of when they think of Newbury Street: a charming patio, bottles of wine chilling in a bucket, and plenty of prime people-watching. There’s a small line of customers waiting to get in, talking about the challenges of wearing makeup with a mask on and where to get a much-needed mani-pedi. “Everybody’s dying to sit outside and socialize,” one woman says to her friend. “Get your drink on!” the friend replies with a laugh.
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Servers are wearing masks made from thematically appropriate fabric, adorned with life preservers and anchors. Tables are spaced to accommodate social distancing, but the sun and the umbrellas aren’t cooperating perfectly, and servers keep adjusting them: Some diners are in more sun than they’d like, others in more shade. “Can we see a menu?,” someone asks a staffer, who says, apologetically, “We cannot bring menus!” That’s right. To order, we all take our phones and scan a QR code that directs browsers to La Voile’s menu.
Pate! Foie gras! Escargots! Quiche! For a diner who’s been starved for restaurant delicacies these past months, it’s an overwhelming array. I feel like Templeton at the fair in “Charlotte’s Web.” The blessed sound of a cocktail shaker in action emanates from the restaurant’s interior.
A server wearing gloves pours my water and leaves more for me to refill my glass. “May I give you a little taste?,” he offers, appearing with a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc. It’s perfect without my even sampling it, simply by virtue of being poured by someone who is not a member of my household. I take my silverware out of the napkin it’s wrapped in, so I can lay the cloth in my lap; then, as I put the fork and knife directly on the table, I remember I’m probably not supposed to do that. I’m not offered hand sanitizer, but I brought my own. I use it, then promptly touch about 12 things and wipe a crumb out of the corner of my mouth using my hand. I remember a video I saw recently, filmed by NHK in Japan. At the beginning of a meal, UV paint is applied to one diner’s hands. At the end, the lights are turned off, revealing a room filled with glowing diners, paint wiped all over their faces and everything else. Unlearning normal behavior doesn’t come easy.
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My lunch arrives in one of those petite Staub casseroles that makes restaurant food look particularly appealing. I’ve never been happier to see one. “Be careful. It’s hot,” the server warns. The mussels are plump, the bread crusty. I dunk some in the fragrant broth. Everything is delicious. At the table next to me, two women are sharing food without a thought.
When it’s time to go, I flag down my server. He brings me a paper check and takes my credit card, then returns with a pen so I can sign the receipt. Restaurant dining is all about touch: personal warmth, the exchange of small joys. There is no way to keep it perfectly contactless, because contact is so much of the point.
This first lunch as restaurants begin to reopen is a balancing act between personal comfort, realistic practice, and good intentions all around. I’m looking forward to dinner.
Devra First can be reached at devra.first@globe.com. Follow her on Twitter @devrafirst.
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What it’s like to eat out today - The Boston Globe
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