Three Tasty Tales for Valentine’s Day

Isn’t it romantic?

They’re a little hazy, but I can almost see them walk into Four Oaks Restaurant. I guess it’s just my imagination, but she is smiling, telling him how happy she is to be here.

“I chose it just for you,” he is saying, holding out his arms in a gesture that gathers up the cool night air, the starlit sky, the trees out on the patio and the warm glow that illuminates these cozy walls. It is a gift. He says, “I know how much you love these country places.”

And so she does. My childhood was spent in quaint restaurants with names like “The Spinning Wheel,” “The Old Mill Inn” and “The Silvermine Tavern.” But she looks troubled. “Darling,” she says, drawing up a chair and turning to the fire, “this is really lovely. But isn’t it very extravagant?”

He looks hurt. He reaches across the table, kisses her hand and says, “It’s our anniversary. Just for tonight, let’s not think about the cost.”

“I’m not really very hungry anyway . . .” she starts to say. It is an old litany. “I think I’ll just have a bowl of soup.” But as she says it the waiter is pouring the champagne and the man is saying, “Please. I’ve already ordered. Just sit back and enjoy it.”

Will she be able to? That this is foolish, wasteful, expensive flashes across her face. And then she takes a sip of champagne. Her face softens. “What are we eating?” she asks. He grins delightedly and says, “You’ll see.”

And so they sit waiting in this romantic room, two older people sipping their wine in contented silence. Her salad comes--chicory with warm bacon--and his face lights up at her contentment. “This vinegar!” she says, and he takes a bit of bread, reaches across and runs it across the surface of her plate. “Superb,” he agrees, “but wait until you taste the soup.” He is eating a potato soup strongly flavored with smoked morel mushrooms.

“Darling,” she says reprovingly, “slow down a little. It’s not going to go away.” He smiles, looks up and says, “For 38 years you’ve been telling me to eat more slowly.” “And,” she replies, “for 38 years you’ve been ignoring me.”

Now the waiter is arriving with a plate. As the man watches expectantly, the waiter removes a crust of rock salt from around a baby chicken and puts the bird on a plate in front of the woman. She looks entranced. “Taste it, taste it,” he urges. She slices off a bit of meat, sighs and says, “It reminds me of Paris.” She takes a bite of the poached vegetables that came with it and sighs again. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” she says. After a moment she turns to ask politely, “And how is your rack of lamb?”

“Perfect!” he says, slicing off a sliver for her. “And you must taste these wonderful white beans. And this little potato cake.” He hesitates a bit and adds, “You’ll probably notice that there is a lot of garlic in the potatoes. I hope you won’t mind.”

“Just for tonight . . .” she says indulgently.

Dessert comes. His eyes glow as she tucks into a warm apple tart with home-made ice cream melting across the top. He dazzles her with his roasted pears in brandy. And then he raises his glass, toasts her and blows a kiss into the air.

Are they really there? Perhaps. My parents would have loved Four Oaks, and every time I eat there, I imagine them sitting at the next table. When the meal ends she always says, “You chose the perfect restaurant.” And he replies, with just a trace of smugness, “I did, didn’t I?”

Four Oaks, 2181 N. Beverly Glen Blvd., Los Angeles. (213) 470-2265. Dinner for two, $80-$110.

Love and fishes

There are less than a dozen seats in this small sushi bar. When the couple walks in, none of them is occupied.

The man breathes in the sweet, sharp, sugar and vinegar smell of the sushi bar. He bows, slightly, to the chef. “Imai-san” he says, softly. He pulls out a seat and folds himself into it, taking the paper off the chopsticks and rubbing the sticks together in what is clearly an old ritual. “Ah,” he says, “it’s good to be here again. I wish I could afford to eat here more often.”

The chef grins at the two. “For you,” he says, pointing to the woman, “sushi.” He points to the man, “and for you, sashimi.” The woman shakes her head, a vigorous no. Under her breath she says, “He always gives you the sashimi. And it’s always better than what he gives me. Today I’m insisting on sashimi.” The chef nods and begins to select fish from the case.

There is a comfortable silence; the woman breaks it. “Remember,” she says, “the first time you brought me to visit Imai?”

“Yes,” says the man. “It was 1969. It was your first visit to Los Angeles. You kept complaining about the heat.”

“And then you dragged us down to Tokyo Kaikan and made us wait and wait until there were seats on Imai’s side of the sushi bar. We thought you were nuts. And then the bill was so high we were afraid we wouldn’t have enough money left to get home the next day. But I didn’t care; I thought it was just about the most delicious food I’d ever eaten.”

“This is the most delicious,” he says, spearing a bit of clear, unctuous tuna with his chopsticks and following it with a thin slice of translucent halibut. “Have you tasted this clam?” The woman is just picking up the large, red-tinged mollusk. She puts it in her mouth and closes her eyes, chewing sensuously. “It tastes a bit like oysters,” she says dreamily.

Now the chef is slicing squid into strips and putting them into a bowl with a bit of sesame seed, some quail egg, a little bit of chile. He hands them each a bowl, smiles and starts to chop again.

Another bowl. It is Spanish mackerel, diced and mixed with ginger, cucumbers, a bit of shiso and some secret of the chef’s. The two are eating, almost in silence, when a large man walks in, pinky rings flashing on his fingers, and plunks himself down at the counter. “You know how to make California roll?” he demands. The chef, stone-faced, shakes his head. “It’s easy,” the man says, “I’ll show you.” The chef is unmoved. “I don’t make that,” he says quietly, “Go someplace else.” The large man looks bewildered, shrugs, and leaves. The chef smiles triumphantly; once again his principles have not been violated.

“Sushi now,” he says to the two, handing them each sweet, soft slices of yellowtail on little pads of rice. It is followed by another fish that neither can describe. “From Japan,” says the chef. “A kind of herring. I pickle myself.”

Now he is selecting sea urchin from its wooden tray, carefully choosing the buttery little rounds. As he hands them over he says, “You know, I am going to have to leave for a while. This building is going to be earthquake-proofed and I am moving out in April for a year.”

“Where will you go?” asks the man alarmed.

“Oh,” says the chef, “I’ll be around. You’ll find me.”

“Of course he will,” says the woman. “After all, he’s been following you from restaurant to restaurant for more than 20 years.”

Sushi Imai, 359 East 1st St., Los Angeles. (213) 617-7927. Dinner for two, about $40-$80.

A kiss on the cheek . . .

Although the room is softly pink, quiet, and pretty, they don’t look happy to be here. They look frazzled. There is an almost palpable tension in the air around them. The waiter hovers at the edge of it, afraid to get too close. Finally he squares his shoulders, approaches, asks if they would like a drink.

“Just the wine list,” says the man, without looking up. He fingers the ashtray like somebody who hasn’t smoked for years but still wishes that he could. “How was your day at the office?” he asks the woman.

“Miserable,” she says. “How was yours?”

“Let’s order a really good bottle of wine,” he replies.

He selects the ’79 Gruaud-Larose, and they say nothing until it comes. Then they each take a sip, sigh, and take another. “Thank God for good wine,” says the woman. “Let’s have some of those great little potato and caviar things.”

While they await the arrival of the caviar-topped potato cakes, they attempt to one-up each other on the misery monitor. He has no time, she has less. He has a sick mother; she has a baby, a sick mother, and an aunt. “Our lives make no sense,” he says, taking the first bite of caviar. “Mmm, aren’t these good?”

“Divine,” she says. “I just remembered that I didn’t have time for lunch. Let’s have some more.”

“I didn’t have time for breakfast or lunch,” he says. “But there are so many other things on this menu I want to taste.” His eyes run from top to bottom. “They have the best salads here; I love that Japanese-y one with daikon and salmon skin. And all these pasta dishes. . . .”

In the end they spend so much energy negotiating the menu that they almost forget to be miserable. And the service is so pleasant that they can’t complain about that. Finally his salad comes--all crunch and flavor--and he loses himself in enjoyment of it. Meanwhile she is eating oysters as if she were auditioning for a part in Tom Jones. “I do think La Toque has the best oysters in town,” she says. “They’re so fresh.”

With the arrival of the next course he can actually be seen to smile; meanwhile the edges of her mouth are trying to turn up. She tastes her fettuccine with eggs and truffles, and they actually do. “It’s so good it seems sinful,” she says. He is equally ecstatic over his sole with lobster sauce. “Sometimes,” he admits, “I forget how much fun life can be. Why are we working so hard? What are we doing wrong?”

By the time they get to the cheese course, and the second bottle of wine, they have figured it out. They select slivers of cheese-- one more flavorful than the next-- and talk about the possibility of giving up their jobs, selling their house and moving on to a simpler life.

At least until the arrival of the truffle ice cream. Then she asks hesitantly, “Do you think they have truffle ice cream in rural America?”

“I doubt it,” he says, savoring the earthy, icy mouthful. “But they should. They should sell this stuff at Baskin-Robbins.”

“It occurs to me,” she goes on, “that if we cashed out, we wouldn’t be able to afford to eat here any more.”

“I don’t know about that,” he replies. “La Toque isn’t all that expensive. Even if we didn’t make much money, we’d still be able to eat dinner here. At least once in a while.

La Toque, 8171 Sunset Blvd., Los Angeles, (213) 656-7515. Dinner for two, $60-$110. DR, SUZANNE DUNAWAY