The Long Lunch at Sorel
We sat down at half past twelve. We left at five. This is a record of what happened in between.
We had not planned to spend the afternoon at Sorel. We had planned to eat quickly and continue to the coast. Soren had already looked up the bus times. We were being sensible.
Then the bread arrived.
The restaurant at Sorel has no name that we could identify — the door has a painted number and a small handwritten card that says open. The menu changes daily and is delivered verbally. Our server, an older man with the unhurried authority of someone who has been doing this for decades, listed what was available that day with the confidence of a person reciting something obvious.
We ordered everything he recommended. We then ordered more bread.
The Meal, In Order
The bread — dark, dense, served with something whipped and pale that was not quite butter. We asked what it was. He said it was a good question and brought more.
The small plates — four dishes, arrived in intervals, never rushed. Soren identified three of the four ingredients in each one and was correct about two of them, which he considered acceptable.
The main — fish, simply prepared, with something green we couldn't name but have been trying to recreate at home since. We have not succeeded.
A cheese — one kind, serious, with a small amount of something dark and sweet alongside it.
Coffee — arrived without being asked for. This seemed right.
A long lunch is not about the food. It's about agreeing, together, that nothing else matters more than this afternoon.
We missed the bus. We caught the later one, which took a longer route and arrived at the coast in the dark. Neither of us minded.
We have talked about Sorel almost every week since. We are trying to find a reason to go back that doesn't sound as transparently self-serving as we want to eat there again.
We have not found one. We are going anyway.