My Page: Danielle Lattuga
Column: Missoula's Dish
The Red Bird, and Servers of a Feather
I didn’t have a clue what to expect, walking down an alley in my new hometown. The lights above cast only a sepia tint, lending slight color to the black and white. I would not have been surprised to see a gumshoe, hat pulled low over his face, lighting a cigarette as he leaned against the corner of the building. Instead, I turned that corner and looked up at elegant, fluid writing over the entryway, announcing a softly lit restaurant with no windows, a mural on the wall within, and a smoky eggplant spread, replacing the butter on my bread. It was seven years ago and my first experience with the Red Bird restaurant. [more]
Column: Missoula's Dish
Have Wings, Will Travel“Are you aware of our three ounce rule?” She held her gloved hands in tandem, poised over my bag, ready to plunge in and extract the offensive object.
“I thought it was for toiletries -- toothpaste and stuff.”
“Either I dispose of it, or you can take it back out through the gate and put it in your checked luggage.”
“My luggage is already checked. I can’t get it in there.”
“Are you aware of our three ounce rule?” She had blue eyes, I think, but they kept getting narrower. She did not find me charming.
[more]
Column: Missoula's Dish
The Silence of Breaking GlassPlates break differently, popping, with a flat, tinny sound. Sometimes they are tree branches cracking in wind. Crystal wine glasses sing when they tip, bounce, and finally explode. They also send fine shards into crevices previously unnoticed. Coffee mugs prefer to fracture, and split, opening like the earth in a quake and flooding the counter and the apron (or lap) with the Double Americano, the Hot Chocolate, Sweet Masala Chai, or Vanilla Steamer -- blisters on your thighs, a stain in an embarrassing location.
But no matter the form of breaking glass, one thing is certain: It will change the shape of chaos, and a few fleeting sympathetic looks will find their way in the direction from which it came. “Sir, I am so sorry.” Enter: the dishwasher, with a broom and dustpan in his green-gloved hands. “Oh honey, it’s okay.” Someone blushes. This may be a turning point in the evening. Typically for worse, but hey, why not for better?
[more]
Column: Missoula's Dish
I Don’t Know What to EatYou are probably hungry, but today, I am starving. Please give a morsel of your own wisdom. A crumb of bread, a drop of wine, a grain of sugar (or a whole piece of cake).
Welcome to the first ever Missoula’s Dish survey. I will, on occasion, like any good server, ask you what you want. For what is a meal without good conversation? (I have enjoyed your comments!).
[more]
Column: Missoula's Dish
You Had Me at “Hello”If only it were so simple. You walk into a restaurant, and everything is covered in a hazy glow, the kind that you’d see around a girl with feathered hair on a sunny afternoon in a 70’s movie. The service staff is unbearably attractive and as they greet you, their smiles glint like candlelight in crystal. In that single moment, they’ve won you over. It’s just a bonus that they remove your shoes and carry you to your table, only to bring you exactly what you want: baby arugula topped with pomegranate vinaigrette, crab stuffed puff pastry, melt in your mouth leg of lamb, and a vat of wine. [more]
Column: Missoula's Dish
Raiding the Tomb of AssumptionsPull up a chair and join me, as we embark on a feast of undisclosed proportions in the second installment of Missoula’s Dish: an exploration of restaurant life in Missoula, and its microcosmic implications.
I am dressed entirely in black, sprinting down the sidewalk on South Higgins Ave., enjoying the drop in temperature that comes just after sunset, on a summer Saturday. Oncoming cars bounce light into the corner of my eye, from the evening’s chosen bling that dangles around my neck. The ends of my ponytail slap my flushed cheeks, as I give a quick look both ways before entering the street.
I am chasing after treasure, but no, I am not Tomb Raider, although that would fulfill the juvenile fantasies of at least one of my co-workers. It is small treasure, albeit, and perhaps from the perspective of some, not worth the run, but for me, it’s all about the principals (or lack thereof) of the situation.
[more]
column: missoula's dish
Don’t Fill Up On BreadPull up a chair and join me, as we embark on a feast of undisclosed proportions in the first installment of Missoula’s Dish: an exploration of restaurant life in Missoula, and its microcosmic implications.
And so it’s begun. The place and the woman exist as a single element that has mingled with your memory, welcoming you in from the cold to shift your senses and nourish you. You have chosen to subject your mood and your meal to external factors and your experience in the bistro could alter your evening for better or worse, and for some people (perhaps you), on some particular evening, it could alter the course of life.
If the woman sat down at your table when she brought you your soup, she might tell you about the power of convivial life and the stories that collide in a restaurant. She might tell you that she is crooked - that the right side of her body bears weight with ease that is disproportionate to the left and dominant side of her body; that there will always be a divot on the crown of her right hip bone, where she’s rested wine bottles while preparing to present and open them. This is what her body has learned in 16 years of an unintentional career, that has carried her through school (all the way to a Master’s degree), through an unpredictably long stint as a ski bum and raft guide, and through the juggling act of making a living and pursuing a passion in Montana.
[more]
