A friend once asked me, rather out of the blue (this was at another overpriced restaurant in Pasadena, come to think of it), “What are your thoughts on aging?” I immediately replied, “Don’t do it.” Do not go gentle into that good night; old age should cloak itself in as much Botox, retinol creams, and antioxidant supplements as it takes to rage against the dying of the glow of youth. I’m often assumed to be younger than my actual age. This is no accident; I adhere to a rigorous beauty regime to maintain the illusion. I am Dorian Grey, but instead of a portrait, it is my body that threatens to leak its secrets, with each stiffened joint and retarded gait.
Birthdays are tricky affairs. We are resolved to enjoy ourselves on our special day, yet a birthday is inherently also a reminder that we are a year older, and hence, to put it plainly—that much closer to death. Perhaps it was fitting, then, that I celebrated my birthday this year at Perle; a restaurant experience that was as paradoxical as the birthday I was celebrating. Perle was at once high-priced and dissatisfying. The most delicious course of my meal was the $11 ramekin of soup, while my pricy main dish was less enjoyable than something I could whip up myself with some Barilla and Rao’s Marinara; in other words, the cheapest item on our bill was way better than the most expensive food item. Additionally, Perle’s pretensions to being a far more glamorous restaurant than it actually is can be said to parallel my own pretensions to being a far younger woman than I actually am, which, ironically, is much younger than I unfortunately feel.
And yet, Perle does have its redeeming qualities; the service, as I’ve mentioned in an earlier blog, is impeccable. Odin, the extensive vegetarian options, and my French onion soup are the reasons why I’m giving this restaurant a B- (and the soup is an incentive to possibly even dine at this restaurant again). There is also the possibility that I happened to order the worst dish on their menu; perhaps if I had gone with the vegetarian “Coq au Vin,” I would be writing an entirely different review. But, I ordered what I ordered, and this review must honestly reflect my disappointment with the place while acknowledging the few factors in its favor.
Incredible as it seems, getting older, while being mostly a horrid experience, appears to have a couple of advantages too. For one thing, one’s vulnerability to embarrassment dulls with advancing age; mauvaise honte is as much an idiosyncrasy of youth as susceptibility to peer pressure or predilection for inane TikTok videos. I remember being reluctant to converse with strangers or worrying about how they perceive me, but now, I speak to whoever I want whenever I feel like speaking, and (unless it’s someone I know within the context of my job) I no longer obsess over how I appear to people who have little to no influence on my professional or financial well-being. I anticipate that by my next birthday, I’ll give no fucks at all. Hope I’ll be giving those zero fucks at a much better restaurant than Perle!
