“What does in situ mean?” my fiancé asked me.
“In place, at the site, I think?”
At In Situ, the restaurant at the SFMOMA, the menu offered two explanations. One, what I had guessed; the other, “Relating and collaborating synergistically.” My dad passed the menu to me, saying, “I have no idea what this definition means.”
“It’s an adverb.” I tried to remember what those are. “So I guess it would be something like, you and I are in situ right now as we’re working on this project. Man, we’re so in situ on this issue!”
My dad looked skeptical. I was used to that. He had skeptically gazed at the menu a few minutes earlier, saying, “I started thinking that salmon thing could be good. But then I read the rest of the description and I was like, mm.”
The salmon was served with flying fish eggs and, I think, pickled ginger. It looked delicious.
My dad lamented the lack of steak on the menu. My mom complained she was having stomach issues the past few days. They deliberated as if nothing looked good, whereas to me, literally everything did. I was nervous. When I’d sent my parents the menu a week ahead of their visit to San Francisco, aware that they would be treating us, I couched my suggestion in concerns about the pricey-ness and adventurous-ness of the food. “Sounds great! Let’s do it!” my mom wrote back enthusiastically over Facebook messenger. I don’t think she consulted my dad.
Adding to my nerves, the situ was somewhat lacking. We were at a communal table although I’d requested on OpenTable not to be put at one, if at all possible, citing my out of town parents’ noise concerns. I knew it was a lame request, not likely to be honored, but still, it would have been nice. (Our table only had room for two other communers, who luckily never appeared.) My dad waffled over which side of the table had comfier seating — low couch or low chair? — and finally picked the chair. Across the restaurant, we could see the non-communal tables, warmly lit and secluded by walls dotted with modern art. On our relatively deserted side, the ambience was more museum-cafe, with big unshuttered windows bringing in the 7pm summer daylight and street traffic. The waitstaff was slow to check on us and casual, until halfway through our meal, a charismatic man in a suit appeared to take our wine and dessert orders, as if someone had alerted him to the parents.
After a few drinks at our home in the south of the city and incredibly bad rush hour traffic, we arrived early for our restaurant reservation, but without enough time to justify spending $100 on MOMA tickets — which is open until 9 on Thursdays, the day we dined, though it usually closes at 5. Instead, we made our way through the gift shop (my dad bought a packet of colorful chip clips, I bought a paintbrush — two of the best-value items, it seemed to us). The limited-time souvenirs from the Magritte exhibit reminded us of our failure to view said exhibit. My mom loves art, and I felt bad. We headed into the restaurant and ordered the limited-time Magritte cocktails, which were speckled on top to look like giraffes in a glass; pretty, but a bit bland for my taste. My dad got something with rum that turned out, upon closer inspection, to only have three ingredients: rum, lime, and pineapple. It was surprisingly delicious.
Picking starters was easiest: my parents went for the tapioca fritters and the asparagus. My mom and I ordered the carrot soup (a single serving was $7). I silently mourned that we would not be trying the cuttlefish or the salmon. We ordered bread for $4, and the brown butter it came with was definitely worth it.
As soon as the starters arrived, exquisitely presented, my nerves began to settle. My dad and I dove into the asparagus, while my mom and my fiancé at the other side of the table split the fritters, each end informing the others that what they were tasting was really really good. Our soups came in double-walled glass espresso cups, with a bit of foam on top, and the flavors of the carrot and curry spice were comforting, familiar, yet unusual. The asparagus dish had a number of thrilling accoutrements — fried maitake mushrooms, homemade tofu, and a sesame dipping sauce. The tofu’s rich flavors had me feeling like I was experiencing soy for the first time. My dad couldn’t get enough of the mushrooms (although unfortunately he had to, there were just a few bites each). When we got to try the tapioca fritters, my mom and my fiancé weren’t wrong — crunchy on the outside, delightfully sticky and chewy on the inside, dipped into a kind of complex sweet and sour sauce, they were perfect.
I was beginning to feel confident. My parents sang the appetizers’ praises, reminiscing about a very expensive dinner on vacation in Peru, similarly inventive, “a cut above.” We explained about Michelin stars, feeling it prudent to note that this restaurant had just received one.
My parents had opted to split the egg-yolk stuffed halibut entree — when it came my dad noted that it was cooked “the way chefs like,” as in, a bit soft, not necessarily the way he likes. I tried a bite and thought it was cooked perfectly — flaky, not slimy. Egg yolk seeped and mixed with the fresh peas, forming a delicious sauce that my fiancé scooped into his mouth after the parents were done with the dish. He and I were splitting the mysterious “Lamb Carrot”: the lamb buns, a kind of Chinese-style sweet bun stuffed with lamb, were delicious, as was the large carrot on the plate, also stuffed somehow with lamb. We split the farro risotto too, a zesty dish with cheese, pesto, and maybe something pickled — instantly satisfying, indeed a bit too satisfying for me to finish my portion.
We expected modern touches throughout, and MOMA didn’t disappoint. The napkin that my parents marveled over, a cross between paper and cloth. Glasses of wine inventively paired with the dishes in a hard-to-read alphabetical code going up the spine of the menu. The utensil, not a spork but a kind of spife, that was perhaps used for slicing as well as spooning, as our non-suited waiter explained half-heartedly, although that didn’t explain the notch in its side.
Everyone was very full — though my parents, ultimately, seemed to have eaten little — when dessert arrived, a cheesecake that we’d ordered because we had to order it ahead, which made it seem very special. I’d missed this, and the description of the dish, because I’d been in the bathroom (Are all bathrooms in SF going to become unisex now?, my mom wondered at the stalls. They were individual rooms, I explained). My fiancé was expecting something savory, but my parents were somewhat shocked at the cheesecake’s appearance: a round of Brie on the plate, surrounded by butter cookie “crackers.” They were more shocked by the flavor: indeed, soft and pungent Brie itself, with an outer layer of sugary caramel. My fiancé and I loved it, but the cheesecake proved too adventurous for my parents to finish their portions. Still, they insisted they were glad they’d tried it instead of something ordinary like the brownie, which they might have liked better, but…
I’d been worried that my fiancé and I were getting free dinner at a place that only we enjoyed, but in the end, my parents seemed truly impressed with their meal. We left feeling proud that we had given them a unique, San Francisco experience. I was proud of them for keeping an open mind, too. The food was worthy of its Michelin star, and everyone had seen that. We had overcome. We were in situ.
A few days later, we had my parents over for homemade brunch, which my dad applauded as the best meal he’d had in a while. Better than In Situ. My mom gave him a look.
“I loved that meal,” she insisted, and told a story about how their Airbnb host (presumably, a Californian herself) had sniffed over the expensive and fanciful “California” cuisine.
“It was definitely interesting,” my dad said, and left it at that.