Sleep for Dinner: A Four-Course Meal

There’s a saying that goes something like, “I’m eating sleep for dinner.” I must admit I’ve tried my hand at this cuisine. It’s not my first choice, it’s not a punishment, and it’s not abnegation. I am merely easily distracted in the evening. By nine or ten, I lack the energy to cook, an appetite for cereal, and interest in take-out. Stomach grumbles disturb my rest, and in the morning, I’m emotional. I wouldn’t recommend it.

I’d rather recommend a more literal approach. You see, it turns out that lucid dreaming is a self-taught skill. It does, however, require a well-formed nosedive down the rabbit holes of Reddit. Tips: Pinch your nose and try to breathe, chant some affirmations, wake up during REM, journal when you wake. Twenty years of Lucid Bootcamp later, I am proud to say I’ve mastered the art. In fact, I’ve defied the borders of possibility.

I’m sure you’ve heard about Freud’s dream theory. If not, the gist is repression; the manifestation of wishes that don’t breach waking hours. Despite his pseudo-scientific process, absent empirical evidence, and preoccupation with the dangers of lesbianism, his theory that dreams represent unfulfilled desires has been popular for decades. I’ve never been much of a fan. But I suppose my hunger-filled fantasies tend to work in his favor. 

Maybe the credit goes to Marx, who long predicted the growing emergence of a productivity based culture. The fact that my to-do list is tied to my self-esteem is certainly related to our capitalistic society. Being willing to exchange increased productivity for nourishment isn’t the inevitable outcome for the human psyche, rather a highly intentional construct. The fact that this is true for me – a university student – means that the US working class experiences this exchange at a much more severe, if not deadly, level. 

Maybe, still, the credit goes to my hours of MasterChef on the couch with my mom. While I reveled in the deliciously scathing reviews of Gordon Ramsey, my Hippocampus was potentially building its own repertoire. My dream journal entries now serve as restaurant reviews. In traditional dream fashion, my beloved best friends are cast in starring roles. 

Last night, I hit the hay at 10 PM. I’m an early sleeper. I put the white noise at max volume, blasted the AC, and tried to focus on relaxing my jaw, slowing my breaths. Falling asleep is a form of meditation. And so I let the mattress swallow me and curled into an infant. The bridge from NREM Stage 1 to an appealingly ambrosial REM is short and sweet. 

Crepes By Denuex

Saint-Raphaël in the sunny south of France makes for a highly strategic restaurant location. Customers can’t help but fall for the round wooden tables and tangerine accents of Chef Shanna Deneux’s culinary studio. Outdoor seating, encircled by bushy trees and pink flowers, offers fresh air to all who might desire it. My entrance was unorthodox. Business policy ordinarily prohibits unexpected apparitions. However, Chef Deneux graciously excused it — more than likely due to my status as the highest-rated food critic in my subconscious. 

While I waited to be served, I was treated to the musical entertainment of world-renowned Chef Mira Santo Tomas (whom I later paid a visit to). She sat in the corner, fingers flying across a silver MacBook DJ program. Unfortunately, I found the plastic nude baby decorating the computer to be highly unprofessional. 

Crepes saved the day. Fresh off the stove, my first bite triggered dinner and a show. Chef Deneux shrank down to a child and consequently was forced to remove the now-oversized toque blanche. Her grandmother materialized quite suddenly and began to teach Chef Deneux the ways of the crepe. It was an after-school treat, and unbeknownst to them, the beginning of a blossoming career. A flash of lightning filled the room, and summer rain began to fall. When my attention returned from the windows to the kitchen, her grandmother had gone, and rowdy teenagers burst in, laughing at jokes that were beyond my translation. 

“Easy to make for many,” declared Chef Deneux. She said the slogan with sincerity. Crepes are a staple for feeding hungry crowds when shortages arise, which happens quite often due to high demand. The secret ingredient? 1-2 tablespoons of rum or beer. Mix it in the batter to enhance the taste, and don’t tell Chef Deneux that I spilled her special secret. 

Somewhere around here there’s a pang in my abdomen. It’s not too notable, perhaps a 60 second commercial break. I squeezed my eyes shut, hit skip, and conjured the next destination.

Avocado Rice Bowl by Santo Tomas 

DJ by night, cunning Culinarian by day, Chef Mira Santo Tomas knows that the simple things in life can still earn 5 stars. The title of her signature dish is fairly explanatory. Avocado…rice….a bowl…the whole shabang. Her restaurant’s atmosphere is decorated in that same minimalistic spirit, taking shape in the form of a bare black box. As it was my first visit, I was not sure what to make of the space. I could not quite decide upon the borders of the box, where the room ended or began. It had the curious quality of a quantum field. 

The setting, I came to discover, was a visual representation of the ethos of Chef Santo Tomas’ specialty. The easy meal is an act of independence — something she makes for herself, by herself, and just the way she likes it. Therefore, before I was allowed to eat, I was forced to abandon my material and spiritual identity to become Chef Santo Tomas. A lot to ask of a customer, in my opinion, but I kept quiet. It was taxing to undergo such a tremendous transformation. My ankles stretched a bit longer, an apron replaced where my pajamas had been, and I began to speak with a voice unlike my own. 

“No one can fill your belly but yourself,” we said wisely. “Independence is a must!”

Chef Santo Tomas and I had now become one, and so in a synchronized manner, began to drown the bowl in soy sauce. 

“Am I done yet?” we said.

“Not quite,” we replied.

We reached for the last ingredient from the abyss. Once our hand had groped through the emptiness for a bit, it emerged. We showered our incestual love child with cracked black pepper. The dish is best enjoyed with a spoon and self-sufficiency. 

As much as the height increase appealed to me, I came to the conclusion that I simply couldn’t be Chef Santo Tomas for eternity. The void was understimulating, and her parents were bound to notice I don’t speak Tagalog at one point or another. I decided my next stop would be a bustling city lacking any Gestalt consciousness. 

Kimchi Fried Rice by Lee

One of the many advantages of Sleep For Dinner includes skipping the airport. My Hippocampus is all within walking distance, you see. Seoul, South Korea, made for a particularly mouth-watering hallucination. Chef Sori Lee invited me to try her Kimchi Fried Rice, an honorable opportunity I simply could not deny. 

Though I pride myself in harsh critique, Chef Lee knew my weakness — an Achilles Nose. I was easily seduced by the brilliantly prismatic aromas of her eatery. Kimchi Fried Rice never smelled so good. As a privileged VIP, Chef Lee took me behind the scenes of her creative process. 

After chopping up some scallions at a remarkable speed, she allowed me to throw them in a pan of sizzling oil. Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of attending culinary school, and mistakenly leaned too close to the stove. A few spatters of burning oil popped out at me. Ordinarily, this would severely affect her rating, but I decided to let it slide. My initial irritation was satiated by a lullaby her rice cooker sang to me — 취사가 완료되었습니다 — to the tune of a cuckoo bird. Once the sizzling oil was complete, she moved on to toppings. It was a symphony. Scrambled egg, seaweed, sesame sprinkles, scallion oil, mayo, and Buldak sauce for the finale. I was more than ready by the time the dish was done. 

I had shoveled half the bowl into my cheeks before I noticed a companion. A small girl who resembled Chef Lee was eating across from me. Ashamed of my lack of etiquette, I introduced myself. She told me she was the Chef’s younger sister, and this had always been her favorite dish. But just as the words left her lips, her face and body melted. The New York City skyline grew like weeds outside the window. Chef Lee stared at the now-empty chair. 

Apparently, her restaurant has two locations, an impressively international accomplishment. The original was founded in Seoul, followed by a newer pop-up in a college dorm in Brooklyn. As I came to learn from the melting incident, her younger sister (and first customer) remains in Korea. Her absence was as palpable as the flavors on my tongue. But with Chef Lee’s signature approach, food has found a way to fill that empty chair. 

But sometimes the absences that accompany change don’t result in such a filling. If perfect is the enemy of good, comparing college cooking to childhood memories is a formidable opponent. My next meal went awry due to this very problem. Self-doubt doesn’t pair well with potatoes and eggs. 

Tortilla Española by Blake 

An offensive encounter. Chef Hannah Blake threw me for a loop with a spatula-shaped frisbee. I speak with candor when I say it was an unwelcome disruption from my previously pleasant dining experiences. Alas, a mother’s touch can do wonders. Mrs. Laura Blake was able to tame my temper.

It started out well. Chef Blake’s restaurant is located in a Brooklyn college dorm, which seems to be a growing trend. I can see the appeal; rustic authenticity, laundry-esque decor. But the wait time was atrocious. While the delicacy baked in the oven, various waiters recited a series of fun facts for my benefit: Tortilla is the diminutive of “torta,” which means cake — therefore the dish is a little cake of an omelet — it slightly resembles an uncrusted quiche — origins trace back to the 19th-century Carlist Wars. I could tell they were stalling. 

Chef Blake emerged from the kitchen frazzled and frantic. She carried a round deep dish in her rubber gloved hands, fresh from the oven and steaming with potential. Once she had set the deep dish on the table, she hovered in the corner, staring me down. I tried to ignore her gaze but felt something akin to the middle school surveillance of a micro-managing English teacher. I carefully designed a bite on my fork with equal parts chorizo, potato, and egg. Chef Blake nibbled her nails. Just as I raised the food to my mouth, I was hit in the face by a flying metal spatula. 

“IT’S JUST NOT THE SAME!!!” wailed Chef Blake. All at once, we were sucked into a space-time continuum that spat us out in LA. 

The two of us sat at the table of a slightly cramped, yellow wooden room. The flooring matched the cabinets, which in turn matched the walls. One glance into the reflection on my plate horrified me. The angry red print of a spatula had maimed my innocent forehead. I turned to Chef Blake, filled with righteous indignation and a thirst for vengeance. But my conviction faltered when I saw a woman standing there, stroking a child’s hair. The Chef had been compressed into a tiny little thing. 

Mrs. Laura Blake, the original author of Chef Blake’s existence, had careful fingers. She treated me with aloe til my skin was as good as new. And then she explained. 

When little Chef Blake had especially bad days, her mother would prescribe a hearty helping of Tortilla Española. The Chef’s chronic pain was frequent, and so the treatment was as well. As Mrs. Laura Blake recounted the tale, I watched memories swim in the reflection of my plate. A curly little girl squirming in the mirror, doing silly things while she waited for her medicine. Instant relaxation by inhalation of the smell. A 20-something’s return, a slice-sized greeting. 

“She likes it with lots of Chorizo,” her mother said.

“Cubed potatoes, not sliced,” added Chef Blake.

“It’s the first thing I make when she comes home for break.”

When I looked up from my plate, we were back in the dorm. Mrs. Laura Blake was gone. I received an overly extensive apology from the Chef for the unfortunate Spatula Scandal. My heart had been softened. I agreed to return again one day and promised not to try her mother’s version in the meantime. Comparison is the thief of joy. Since I’m one to keep my word, tonight’s menu is bound to feature a feast of sleep.