If anyone asked me to label the sort of cuisine created at Snuggles Restaurant, I would be hard-pressed. Certainly, I could easily describe the many tasty barley and rice casseroles, noodle dishes, and belly-warming soups. Certainly I could make it known that Snuggles is vegetarian. Certainly I could say that restaurant owner and head chef Christine capitalizes on as much local produce and product as possible. I could say all that, but in this case, the whole is certainly greater than the sum of its parts.
The integral life force in the well-fed organism is Christine herself. I first knew her as my hairdresser, but came to know her as so much more than that (as hairdressers often are). She practices the rare art of mindful human connection; she is a humble chef in the back kitchen, where customers routinely visit her while she ladles pumpkin soup or massages beautiful scones into form. The care and quality that is ensured in each and every dish upholds a modest and consistent integrity that other restaurants would be lucky to emulate. I never realized such an art existed about taking perfectly browned and broiling casseroles out of ovens. Christine is a Picasso of her craft (though her artistic energy and verve remind me more of the prolific Mexican artist Frida Kahlo).
This past winter I had the great pleasure of helping Christine in the kitchen. I would go down during the week from about ten until two, at which time we’d break for our communal lunch after the last of the lunch rush had left. Rather than describe in abstractions the sort of feeling and care that inhabits this delightful place, I invite you to read instead a piece of writing inspired from my learnings:
On my second day four of us were working: Christine, a man, myself, and an older Taiwanese woman. The woman and I became fast friends working the front counter together. She dealt with the customers, and I constructed salads and prepared hot drinks. I do not use the word “construct” lightly, for in teaching me how to make them, Christine profited fully from the house building metaphor to supplement her smooth, nonverbal gestures she made with her hands to symbolize a sort of lively fanning out, which all well-realized salads should express. First, you must put two spoonfuls of yogurt in the bottom of the bowl. The yogurt holds the foundation in place. It is the foundation of the foundation. The foundation must be strong, so you must use the stiffer, whiter parts of the lettuce leaf. This is the newer growth. Do not be afraid to tear and reconstruct as you see fit. Once you have this solid foundation laid, choose leaves that are leafy but not too wilted. These leaves will “flare,” if you will. Again, do not be afraid to tear. It is lettuce, not lace. Arrange the top leaves in such a way that they appear to be moving. I must have looked incredulous at this point in my instruction, for Christine said, “You will know it when you see it. This is feeling it.” The lettuce portion should take up about two thirds of the bowl.
Then comes the real fun. Choose two slices of each: carrot, cucumber, and celery. We had cut them in such a way that the ends of the celery actually curled, and the firmer vegetables were not straight but elegantly curved. These can be arranged just next to the lettuce mass according to the maker’s feelings. This part arguably consumes the most time, for I found that my feelings about the aesthetic kept evolving. The celery started out in front and ended up behind. But you will know the arrangement when you see it.
There comes a time when you must just accept the salad as it is and add the final touches. Add two or so dollops of the peach-colored sauce. Then, drop a few raisins on top of the dollop. Finally, sprinkle the parsley flakes for the final garnish. Now, step away from the salad. Let it be taken away by the server, let it be eaten by someone who will know nothing of your multiple attempts at celery symmetry, or of your brief moment of horror as the peach dollop threatened to slide off the leafy face into the chthonic under layers of yogurt. They know nothing of the art of it, but they will feel it. They might taste it. It must be known, in order that it should be felt, that a salad is greater than the sum of its parts.
And so it is with the entire restaurant. Feeling, friendship, and most importantly, delicious food create a well-spring of good things. People seeking wholesome, nourishing food from a wholesome, comforting staff need look no further.
