spätzle-related incidents.

I had two spätzle-related incidents last Saturday. The first was when we were out yard-saling, and I happened to run across something that I thought was a potato ricer. I walked over to the book section of the sale to show it to Josh, thinking he would be very impressed that I could correctly identify a potato ricer. I was going to neglect to mention that the only reason I knew it was a potato ricer was because I had seen one before at a thrift store and thought it was a huge garlic press, only to be corrected by a burly mountain man.

Anyway, I got over to the books, and said, "Hey, look, I found a po-"

"Oh, you found the spätzle press," interrupted the gentleman working the sale. "It's from Germany." Oh. Does this world really need three different devices that squash things through tiny holes?

I decided not to buy the spätzle press, because I'd never even had spätzle before. I might not like it, and then I'd be stuck with a giant garlic press. I don't even have a regular-sized garlic press.

The second spätzle-related incident was at the eastern european restaurant where we had dinner. See, Josh and I had a fancy date, where we actually dressed nicely and then went out to dinner and a show, as opposed to eating a homemade dinner off of plates on our knees while watching a crappy Bela Lugosi movie. We're just keeping the romance alive here. In preparation for our fancy date, I had harnessed the power of the internet to find an interesting restaurant in Raleigh and had come up with J. Betski's. Why did I pick this restaurant? Because I am a food adventurer, and I had never eaten any incarnation of many of the things on the menu.

The restaurant was tiny, and our little table for two was sandwiched in between other little tables. It was packed, which meant there were about 30 people there. We ordered a glass of Hungarian wine for me and Lithuanian beer for him, plus a pierogi appetizer. For dinner, he had the schnitzel, and I had the duck, which came with spätzle. The menu was like a lyrics sheet for a song about words that are fun to say. Schnitzel. Pierogi. Lingonberries. Macadamia!

The bread came, warm and with whipped butter on the side. It tasted very...authentic, which is to say that it must have been invented in Europe during a war or some other shortage of ingredients that make bread delicious. It was very bitter. But me, ever the optimist, said that at least we wouldn't have to worry about filling up on bread before the entrees came. The pierogies were okay, but only okay.

And then the entrees came, smallish portions beautifully arranged, and one bite erased any doubts I had about the restaurant based on the bread. I was shoveling this food into my mouth, and I became fatigued as if the all my energy was being used by my taste buds in the enjoyment of each bite. We reached across the table to trade forkfuls of wonderfully weird food. Everything was delicately and perfectly spiced, as if the chef introduced all the flavor friends to each other and had a big flavor party. I was already calculating when I could come up with an excuse to come to this place again so I could try something else. Or maybe the duck again.

Though I had struggled to finish every last bite of my meal (and I did it, dadgummit), I knew dessert was in order. A table across the aisle was enjoying some sort of pastry covered with caramel stripes and filled with thin apple slices. We ordered one of those (strudel) and a pot of coffee. Yes, a pot. They brought out a large french press for the pair of us and brewed our coffee right there. It was fresh and delicious. I felt revived.

We were sad to have to leave, but we had concert tickets. We left full and elated, slightly caffeinated. I was thinking of the many new treats introduced to me. The spiced cabbage. The pickled pumpkins. The spätzle.

The spätzle!

I should have bought the spätzle press.