Napkins from the Underground
Some days you wonder how you fit it all in. You slave at a vocation that feels more like involuntary servitude than an investment in your…
There are days you wonder how you fit it all in. You slave at a vocation that feels more like involuntary servitude than an investment in your future, with multiple bosses demanding after hours assignments. After literally racing away from work, peer pressure compels you to sweat it out at whatever sport is trending: Pilates, Capoeira, retro foursquare. By the time you drag yourself home you’re so depleted you can’t imagine making dinner, or even expressing what you want. These aren’t evenings for fussing over a chef’s tasting menu or learning how to say “hand over the noodles” in Mandarin. You need calories, pronto.
I registered appetite’s inner contradictions as I dined with two companions, one older and in a different social circle from me, one much younger and oddly clingy. We had a meal at an underground, unsanctioned, never-before-reviewed supper club I’ll winkingly call Base de la Maison. While the chef/owner duo are oddly obsessed with letter grades, ironically they won’t tolerate one for their own operation.
Base has a minimalist set up: a communal table overlooks an open kitchen, outfitted in an unfussy Swedish aesthetic. Seating is for the lucky few: the restaurant tops out at five. Instead of hip taxidermy or a speakeasy vibe, there are photos of family members on the walls and splattered cookbooks on display. I assumed they were props, but after a string of meals I realized the proprietors’ transparency was guileless. Neither has been to culinary school.
The chefs — it’s a husband/wife team — swap executive and sous chef duties as the mood strikes. You never know what you’re in for at Base; there’s no Instagram feed or even printed menus. Moments before plating the first course the chefs announce what’s on the menu. Other times they slide it in front of you while drinking a glass or two of wine. It’s strikes me as rude, yet unlikely to change.
The chefs seem to play a culinary Whac-A-Mole. Courses and cuisines pop up at random. But over time, patterns emerge. Monday night always features pasta, like the classic macaroni and cheese, acknowledging that urban life requires comfort before another grueling week. Other Mondays the duo whip up fettuccine served with beef ragu. In a city as cosmopolitan as ours, primo piatti can swap places with American southern fare, with a sly nod to the staple that unites them.
My favorite meal featured a charming, DIY archipelago of bowls arranged on the dining table. Ceramic ware are festooned with a single ingredient: shredded cheese, mashed avocado, diced romaine, yellow rice, a mound of sautéed sirloin chuck. Nearby, crunchy tortilla shells wait to be filled. Fidelity to regional Mexican cuisine takes a back seat to what makes these meals most memorable: they invite participation without crossing the line into labor.
Quirks abound at Base de la Maison. The husband chef once mentioned how much effort he put into the meal after being stressed out by whatever offsite vocation he pursues, as if it’s polite for servers to mention work beyond feeding their guests. Unbidden, we were further informed that both chefs tackle all the menu planning, shopping, prep work, cooking, serving, even clean up. This is laudable but seems obvious. Despite the owners’ self reliance, they insist on demanding symbolic assistance from each guest: we are forced to bus dishes at the end of each meal.
Which brings me to another unorthodoxy: Base’s financial arrangements. We’ve been hearing that fine dining restaurants are on the cusp of abolishing tipping. After a few mistakes, I quickly learned this is a strictly no-gratuity establishment. More intriguingly, the bill is always on the house.
My companions and I did our best to leave uncommented our chefs’ eccentricities, in case dessert would be “forgotten” since we were being “argumentative.” An example: the chefs often paid such close attention to us that dining felt like an interrogation. Where were you between the hours of so and so, who were you with, did you eat lunch? Imagine a B&B with the most nosy proprietors, now multiply that by a billion. I quickly learned to adopt my older companion’s technique. Answer monosyllabically if at all. Eventually they’ll lose interest.
Other times our presence felt like a passing fancy. I had grown used to our servers eating on their own after we finished, but one night the husband drank an entire bottle of Malbec and took a slice of Neapolitan pizza — crazily, from my plate. Meanwhile, his partner consoled him with unintelligible words like litigation, insolvency, and being “under water.” But it was charming to learn they might move in with their parents, whom I adore. When the chefs spoke in code, I chose not to pay attention. Perhaps I should have: the following weeks they exclusively served rice and beans and wondered aloud about intermittent fasting.
Dinners wind down at Base de la Maison with a satisfying routine. Bowls of ice cream end most meals, yet I’ll never get used to the arbitrary and cruel “no more than two scoops” rule. Baked desserts were such an annual rarity they are accompanied by much singing and clapping.
Clashes of caprice and care, quids and quos, are as beguiling at Base as they are bewildering. Yet I never left hungry and the proprietors often kissed me. I’m sensing I’ll be here again. And again. And again.
One star, pending review of the dessert policy.