New West Network

My Page: Danielle Lattuga

Column: Missoula's Dish

This was the kind of night that carried me through the slow seasons—a night when the restaurant felt like the center of the world and we rose to meet such a lofty feeling with the grace and energy of gears moving in unison. Yes, the well-oiled machine . . . a gentle, but commanding steady hum.

The thing is, I really know nothing about a well-oiled machine, so when the one that I rely on becomes broken, I feel a bit helpless. Yes, the confident, well-informed waitress, who abandons her klutzy nature on the dining room floor, has just dropped her plates. I can fix a weed whacker, but I can’t fix my truck. [more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

I am leaning up against the rectangle of glass, my elbows pressed firmly into it, forming a triangle around my face, so that my hands can shield me from the reflections of Mt. Sentinel and Mt. Jumbo framed in April blue. The tip of my nose is flat against the glass too. When I breathe, the picture before me blurs and then slowly clears. Focus, fade, focus, fade.

I want in. I want to see if it feels any different, because this stillness is different than the stillness that occurs at the interface of waking and sleeping. This is the stillness that slides into a place when it is about to transform, in shape, utility and energy.

Through the blur of my nose print, I look at the polished green bar and can’t help but wonder if Riedel wine glasses bounce differently on wood than they do on concrete. I hear the resonant hum of glass against stone and then hum a few bars from the Sade song that started (and finished) many an evening at 529 S. Higgins. I press a palm against the glass and take a deep breath, trying to swallow all the stories locked inside. [more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

On the river, we can read it, but we can’t write it. In the ocean, we are rolled, pushed and carried by it, yet another story of the tide. We might be able to smell the rain when it is about to descend upon us, but we can’t make it, no matter how hard we might try.

To me, it’s a no-brainer. Customers should have water the moment they sit down at a table. [more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

As a species that constantly inflicts or affects change on the world around us, and feels a steady compulsion to alter, improve and invent, I find it amusing that we resist change when it comes to our own lives. Yet, it is a common human trait to exhibit fear of change at least once in one’s life, if not multiple times, across numerous years.

While much of the time, I recognize fear of change as an endearing, very human quality and am inclined to forgive based on that vulnerability, there are occasions in which I would prefer to expose and destroy the fear in a less than gentle manner. [more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

We went out for a few drinks and some snacks the other night. We went to a place that has consistently provided poor service since its opening, but I’ve applied the first year rule to it and keep giving it chances.

Much to my pleasure, our waitress wasn’t half bad. She was pretty efficient and funny too. Best of all, she served me a really good glass of wine that was way bigger than the conventional pour—good for me, not so good for the proprietor. . . [more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

“Please, wait before tasting. I want to tell you the proper way to drink Tequila.”

We are standing in an earth finished adobe distillery. It’s dark and cool in here, and behind us, the barn-size door frames are warm squares of white light, opening to a brightness that bathes the agave hillside in such vibrancy that the blue of the spiny leaves bleeds into the air. Agave azul.

“If you drink it with air in your belly, it will not be good. Take a deep breath in. Let it out slowly. Then, drink.” [more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

I am not the kind of gal to frequent boutiques and the like. Not that I have an aversion to pretty things. The magpie in me loves sparkles and shimmers. But as a magpie would do, if you get too close, I am likely to start squawking and flapping my wings. Really, when a Shop Girl comes up to me and leans in like we are in cahoots; like a sister or best friend would do; like she’s going to share some secret, and whispers, “Isn’t that just divine? I mean I just love how the neckline falls, and that color is just timeless,” I am always tempted to bark, “Give me break, are you for real?” My elbow twitches slightly as I resist trying to forcefully reclaim my personal space.
[more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

I’ve grown to love more than loathe this week of my life, every year. As each day of it passes, I wake up with more ease, almost restless, but well rested. My focus settles on the simple processes of life and the intensity of the senses that grows also with the passing days. My body feels lighter, more vital. I am comforted by the sheer notion of taking care of myself—even when I am choking down the 14th glass of ruby tinted fluid; a blend of beet, tomato, celery, parsley, spinach, carrot, and cucumber. Sometimes I am tricked into thinking that I am drinking dirt. And in some way, I am—all these vegetables, born of the soil. The earthly bounty; uncooked and juiced to infuse my body with nutrients, goodness and “cleansing” properties. I’d be lying if I said I loved the taste of it. [more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

At the end of a busy night, I love nothing more than to sit my metric ton booty down on a bar stool, sip on a glass of wine and balance the till. The stories of the evening pass through my fingers on the tickets I’ve written for each of them: "Those two were sweet, sharing every course, clearly, madly in love. That family was funny and a little crazy -- the kid drank milk like a fiend and wouldn’t touch anything green. Those guys were a little uptight, until I got food and a good bottle of wine in front of them...Oh yeah, and then there was that one table. Three of them were just fine, but he, HE was an arse. But I won’t start with that, or it will just make me angry all over again."

That night, I thought all the stories had been told. [more]

Column: Missoula's Dish

Regardless of the title given to those of us who have spent hours scraping, scrubbing, spraying and stacking all manner of cooking and eating utensil in the illustrious dish pit, one thing is for certain, it is a position of respect, one that receives little public attention, but on which the flow of the service is so undeniably reliant.

Case in point: I recently visited an establishment to try out their version of a dirty Grey Goose Martini. Yum. It was a busy evening. We ordered our drinks and waited. Yum was on hold. For twenty-five minutes. When our server returned, the drinks were nowhere to be seen on her person. I glanced behind her back to see if she had a tray full of beverages anchored to her butt. [more]