Waiter! There's Art in my Soup!

As a culinary aficionado, I have developed certain idiosyncrasies.  They are little rules I engage in with myself.  It bothers me when they're broken--like wearing white shoes after Labor Day.  Even though I've heard that now you can, I just wouldn't.

I wouldn't cut a sandwich any way but diagonally.  It just looks better triangular.  Don't you agree?  See what I mean?

I wouldn't put anything on your plate that couldn't be eaten.  A garnish should be edible.  If it's not, what were you thinking?  That bay leaf should've left before it hit the table.  Those chilies too.  What are you doing, placing fear and trepidation in front of your guest?!

I wouldn't put two or four of anything on a plate.  There should be three or five.  It's just the way it's done.  Place two potatoes next to that steak.  It looks so wrong.  Too symmetric.  Add another--oh yes!  Much better!

Sauce gets draped across chicken, but not pork or beef.  I know.  I'm weird, but really, it's a rule.

In cooking school, there was a class for this:  Color and Aesthetics.  We studied the color wheel:  families, opposites.  We discussed plates, shapes, food arrangements, height.  We learned (yes, I'm not kidding!) how to make squiggles, swirls, fantastic polka dots, beautiful chaos on a plate.  We created towers, jenga structures, pictures on a plate.

There was the lesson on contrasting colors:  red with green, the colors of hunger:  diced tomatoes in a salad, sun-dried tomatoes with pesto, a palette of peppers.  There was a lesson on color families:  warm colors:  yellows, oranges, and reds.  I built a matchstick house of peppers and placed that chicken breast next to it;  sprinkles of paprika and a red pepper coulis tied it all together.  I discovered that the ubiquitous blue plate special was actually blue for a reason:  blue does not appear in food.  (Blueberries!?"  you say?  Not really.  They're purple....)

We learned how to stack, how to drape.  One of my chefs made an arrangement of flowers using candied fennel, over-dried tomato petals, and fried basil leaves.  Another taught me that every salad should be a bouquet, and then he proceeded to make one!  (It was delicious!)

The most important lesson from this class was "plating."  You've got it all done, your creation is waiting on the plate, your fingerprints have been cleaned off the border.  Wait!  You've forgotten to sign your art!  You need that garnish.  A garnish is that last touch.  It takes a dish from bistro to Restaurant.  A garnish may be as simple as a sprinkling of freshly-cut herbs, an edible flower, a blooming onion.  It's not the complexity that matters.  At home, we tend to ignore this last hurrah.  I suggest you try it.  Yes, it's "one more thing," but it's the thing that changes your meatloaf and potatoes into Meatloaf and Potatoes.  They will actually look at their plates.  Savor the sight. 

 Squiggle that sauce.  Sprinkle that parsley.  Grab that little box of flowers and watch your salad become a bouquet.  Turn a tomato into a rose!  Spoon a little quenelle of tapenade next to that tuna.  Snuggle a few raspberries between your ice cream scoops.  Arrange a few long chives on top of that protein.  Scatter some fried capers (yes!  fried capers!) atop that fish, that steak.  Sprinkle a little cheese over that soup.  Some croutons. 

Garnishing is a learned  habit. Such a small gesture, but that's what people see!  It shows your care, your attention.   It can turn your weekday dinner into "What's the Occasion?"  Just smile, pick a reason--or not-- and enjoy the ambiance you've created.