By Anne DesBrisay
It took dull, dogged discipline to look past the signature fish and chips, and drift down to the bottom of the page where floundered a dish of steamed cod. But point to it I did, with teeth-gritted determination. My doc had made me promise that I would eat less fat. This, for God sake, thanks to blood work done the morning after an evening of sumptuous food-judging at the Gold Medal Plates. The results were surely skewed, I complained, by all those rich little treats with wines to match… a bit of beer, too… don’t forget the beer. I think it’s fair to say she had little sympathy.
So here we are, my friend and I, at Le Resto in Chelsea, on a sunny Saturday afternoon. We are seated at one of the window tables, the blinds down a bit to block the parking lot view and keep the November sun from boiling our wine. We’ve gone for a two-hour hike in the hills. We order: she, the aforementioned fish & chips, known (not just by me) to be among the best in the region; I, the very-good-for-me-but-not-very-exciting steamed cod.