If nothing else, our little excursion into Morocco earlier certainly freed up some time to go exploring.
“Hobbit, just how long did we just spend in there?”
I have that idiotic grin on my face, indicating I’ve just spent an embarrassing amount of time in the Living Seas. Full disclosure here – I love aquariums. Leave me unsupervised and I turn back into a five-year old and leave nose prints on the acrylic windows.
“Long enough,” I say, without the least bit of shame.
Leaving me poorly supervised is worse, because then the supervisor has to listen to the supervisee talk his or her ear off about whatever marine fauna is before us. The unwitting supervisor will therefore be in for multiple hours of a Wikipedia-esqe infobarrage: long-winded, poorly edited and largely factually correct but displaying a distressing tendency towards open-source exposition.
The cool thing about the Living Seas (or at least the part that I sold Emily on) was the ride in the beginning. It’s one of those “OmniMover” attractions like the Haunted Mansion or Spaceship Earth that all employ a long chain of seats creeping along the ride’s track. This one is Finding Nemo-themed, and when it takes you in front of the aquarium sections, it employs some pretty clever projection technology to create the illusion that the Finding Nemo characters are swimming among the Living Seas.
It’s awesome.
And it drops you off in the heart of one of the world’s largest aquarium complexes.
“Oh god!” Em says. “I can’t believe I ever got you out of there.”
For the record, she’s still dragging me by the arm. Yes, this is necessary to prevent me from detaching and drifting back into the marine abyss that is Disney’s Living Seas like so much plankton and krill. We all have our vices; zoos and aquaria are two of mine.
“Are you…hungry?” she asks. Finally, something to snap me out of my idiotic stupor. Now that I think about it, I’m starving.
I clutch at my stomach. "Okay, yeah, me too." Dear god, I'm ravenous. It's not until Em mentioned it fifteen seconds ago that I realized I haven't eaten anything since I had a piece of chocolate in Italy.
Instantly we're up and moving. Nothing motivates us as a couple faster than food, and Disney food in particular. There is a pervasive stereotype in the public mind about Disney food, that it's all about sodium-laced mutant turkey legs and undercooked fries. Charcoal-briquette burgers whose extraterrestrial surface is pockmarked with craters and grease.
To be fair, you can get that if you really want it. There are plenty of chicken fingers and burgers and the like, because let's face it, kids are picky eaters and there tend to be a lot of those at Disney.
You have to look past these artifacts of the 1970s, and when you do, you'll discover that there's actually pretty great food all around you. This past winter, at the (unsurpriseful) Harry Potter world trip, we'd regularly drive onto Disney property and sample the restaurants. You can get spectacular Spice Road specialties like tandoori meats and bread and dipping sauces at Sanaa. You can go to Ohana for some of the best bread pudding I've had ever - and this includes places like the famous Bon Ton in New Orleans.
There is gastronomical wonder all around you, and all you have to be willing to do is look for it.
Or, in my case, have an Emily with you. She pretty much planned all the meals before we ever hit Florida, and believe me when I say that there have been graduate-level theses with less research put into them. The upshot is that we never find ourselves wanting for good food when visting the House of Mouse.
Let's focus on our late-lunch destination: Le Cellier. Travel down the winding path of the Canada pavilion, through the courtyard and down past the pond, whereupon one finds a wine cellar and steakhouse in the castle's depths.
"Eesh. It's officially dark in here," I say.
The name of the place is accurate. It's a darkened wine cellar, all stonework and heavy unfinished oak and candlelight. The ceiling is buttressed with thick wooden beams which hold minimalist chandeliers. "Cozy" best describes the place; our table is against one of the walls, secluded and romantic.
Emily plunks straight down in the chair and snatches up the menu. I'm not far behind. We're dizzy with hunger and the prospect of food is driving our animal brains mad with anticipation.
"I'm getting the filet," Em says, after all of five seconds of deliberation. Just then, our waiter appears. He's a genial middle-aged chap with a spectacular mustache, with 'Robert' on his name tag. "Hey, welcome to Le Cellier! What would you like to drink?" he asks.
"I'll have a Coke-" I start.
"Sweet-tea-and-we're-ready-to-order-thanks," says Em, sporting the same face your cat gives you when you're holding the treat bag out of reach.
Not missing a beat, Robert jots our order down in his mind and presses on. "Coke, sweet tea and what would you like for lunch?" he asks.
"Filet with the mushroom risotto," Emily says, biting her lower lip. She does that on occasion and I have never ceased to find it adorable as hell. "Medium rare."
I look back down at the menu. I have to have a steak - it's been ages since I've eaten one. Why not live a little, especially since Le Cellier is supposed to be one of the best steakhouses on Disney property? "I'd like to get the New York Strip, 10oz please," I tell Robert. "Ah, medium rare also."
"Great!" Robert replies. "I'll get those started right now. You two seem pretty hungry, huh?"
He's back one minute later, carrying a basket made of black metal wicker, with four pieces of steaming-hot bread sitting upon a sheet of butcher's paper. The aroma of freshly baked bread fills the air, one part steam and one part flour and one part wheat.
The bread is all different. One is obviously made of pretzel dough, smooth and browned on the outside and a creamy white within, heavy with moisture and salt and it's gone before we know what's gotten the better of us.
"Wow," I say, with the tiny remainder of the pretzel loaf between my fingers as Smeagol would clutch at the Ring, "that didn't take long."
Emily nods and tears open the next one, a tangy, pleasantly chewy sourdough. It's followed by a couple of different multi-grain rolls, and before we know it, we've emptied the basket.
"Usually," Emily says, taking a pull on the tea that somehow materialized during the carnage, "eating all the bread tends to fill me up."
I nod, my eyes fixed on a rogue chunk of salt from the pretzel bread. Do I eat it? Would I maintain self-respect afterwards? "Yeah, usually it fills me up too. But I'm still hungry."
Em and I find ourselves pouting across the table at each other.
"This is gona feel like forever."
Indeed, when you're hungry and in a place like Le Cellier, time seems to warp upon itself. We watch the activity of the servers, peeking through the door into the kitchen when the door swings open. All the activity and speed dilates time for them, while outside observers like the two of us at our table perceive time at a normal rate. As in: sloowwwly.
After a tiny eternity of waiting, Robert reappears with a tray in his hand. How strange we must look to him, like a couple of rangy feral cats sizing him up, calculating whether or not to pounce. (Well, maybe we don't look that strange to him, considering he probably gets the stray cat face a dozen times per day. Call it an occupational hazard.)
Robert distracts the savages (read: us) with an offering of lightly-warmed cattle...and some other stuff which is promptly ignored as we tear into the bovine before us. Quietly and efficiently, he makes his escape.
Nothing gets said for a solid five minutes.
My steak is excellent. It's a flavorful cut of NY strip seared an oaken brown on the surface. The juices rise between fissures in the fibers of the meat as I cut into it. Throughout, it's a hot, red color with deep red juices which stoke the primal fires somewhere back in the caveman brain. The XY chromosome is made happy by this bovine offering.
Across the table, my cavewoman wreaks havoc upon an eight-ounce filet sitting atop a mushroom risotto. It's a beautiful creation, with creamy truffle butter sauce cascading down its seared exterior. Below the foothills of the risotto, truffle oil pools with butter and red juices. Catching me staring, her eyes flick upwards. Her head doesn't move.
"Hobbit," she says, "if you want to taste this steak at ALL you need to move quickly."
She's not kidding. Even the morsel she offers me across the table looks like it's going to get snatched back at any second.
"Thanks love." I recognize just how hard this is for her. I haven't had the decency to offer her any of mine yet - a practice we're usually really good at.
If my steak was good, Emily's filet is incredible. As in, it makes my already perfectly-cooked steak feel a little amateurish in comparison.
Let's start with the obvious - it's laden in a creamy yellow truffle butter, savory and gorgeous with aroma that melts into you. The bite of steak itself has that texture characteristic of a brilliant filet, putting up enough resistance to prove satisfying to chew while still sublimating into complex little notes of flavor. Coupled with the truffle butter and the motes of mushroom risotto? It is life altering.
"Hobbit, wake up."
There's a hand waving in front of my face. Emily's polished off the rest of her steak in the meantime. Together we sit, with big dumb steak-fueled grins on our faces. It's probably a good few minutes before either of us can work up to saying anything - which gives us time to finish everything else.
"That..." I begin, before my brain loses track of progress, forcing Emily to step in.
"...was incredible," she says. "So, Le Cellier, good idea?"
"Y-yeah. Good idea."
