It was a food-loving table for eight.

A mix of food-writers, food-painters, food-bloggers, and just plain lovers of food.

Sitting in the kitchen of Talula’s Table. 

Yes, with the aprons and the chefs and the sauces.

A revelation.

It was like going over to your best friend’s house for dinner.

Only your best friend is Aimee Olexy.

That evening we sat down together amidst the smells of truffles, simmering duck broth, bay leaves, and garlic.

We witnessed the tiny Gougères emerge from the oven.

We discussed the controversial accent of the Gougères.

We reveled in the amuse-bouche highlight: Thanksgiving in a bite.

Then the poussin with smoked fois gras.

David said, “It’s like heroin injected with heroin.”

There was venison loin with roasted sweet potatoes and poblano. I closed my eyes each time I took a bite. Mike pointed this out. 

My home-sickness for the Midwest was cured. Tenaya’s, too.

There were chats with the chefs.

There was love and magic.

And things bubbling over.

And blowtorches.

But the best part – when you eat in the kitchen you can dance.

I fear I’ve been ruined. Spoiled to death.

There’s only one thing to do. Seek out more kitchen dining experiences…