I have a very specific fantasy about the restaurant I would open, should someone ever hand me a set of keys and an unlimited supply of funds and optimism. It would be a little neighborhood bistro, the sort of place where the wine comes in mismatched stemless glasses thrifted from estate sales. The menus would be illustrated by hand, which sounds charming until you’ve spent an entire afternoon trying to get the shading right on a watercolor artichoke. There would be personality wallpaper in the bathroom, icy sparkling cocktails, very good roast chicken and a bread service so generous it would probably make an accountant nervous.
Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about razor-thin margins in a fantasy. But even if I did, I know one dish that would earn its place on the menu: cabbage.
