Table for Two: Bistro 33

On far too many a weekday afternoon, I eat a far too overpriced, underwhelming meal. A sandwich. A salad. A carton of soup. The types of food one grabs, then consumes -- with incredible haste and lack of grace -- in punishable form by the computer.

What luster we indentured servants forfeit with the eaten-in-the-cubicle lunch, we strive to recover in the proper meals we eat with another, with someone. Long a fundamental courtship ritual, the dinner-date provides us with the opportunity to experience, rather than merely consume, our food. On first dates and anniversaries alike, the act of sharing a meal becomes a vehicle for expression, a metaphor for emotion. And for better or for worse, the relationship between food and sentiment becomes particularly apparent on Valentine's Day.

Thus, on the eve of this national holiday dedicated to romantic expression alone, my heart went out to all the (poor) guys pressured to think about what to offer their sweethearts in the way of food, and all the girls wondering (as always) what all of those choices meant. More importantly, perhaps, I pondered whether the theatrics of Valentine's Day inherently undermined the intent of the ritual itself.

Could dinner bear the weight of expectation?

Seeking an answer to the question at hand and eager to escape the love-struck masses, I happily, curiously trekked to Astoria's Bistro 33 with D. What we found was a sepia-hued eatery with aspirations to French-Japanese cuisine, and little desire to encroach upon Manhattan's trendier behemoths. The corner slice of an apartment complex on Ditmars Boulevard, Bistro 33 houses little more than a handful of tables for two, and doesn't mind it a bit. Neither did we.

My initial disappointment at the replacement of the usual menu with a prix-fixe Valentine's Dinner was tempered by the breadth of the offering, a narrative of textures. A simple coat of toasted almonds on slices of raw tuna brought body and warmth to the familiar (albeit welcome) sashimi. Subtle crunch and silk soon gave way to velvet, in the form of lobster macaroni and cheese. While I longed for the kick of cayenne's heat, I could not deny the mild comfort of penne in its cashmere swath of fontina, manchego, mozzarella, and black winter truffles. (We spied a woman across the way exuberantly expressing her desire to "crawl into the pot and stay for a while.") A sushi roll of fried oysters provided a welcome counterpoint with overt crunch, the freshness of scallions, and firm green papaya.

Pan seared scallops might have made a wonderful final course, but left something to be desired. If not for the smear of orange miso beurre blanc that brought some intrigue to the plate, I might have dwelt too long on the salad, an undressed overabundance of cilantro and dill. And while D and I agreeably scooped into the chocolate dessert (who wouldn't?), we were off-put by the grainy texture and unfinished quality of both the brownie and the accompanying espresso stout ice cream.

Despite these shortcomings, I could not help but feel that dinner had not only survived, but was bolstered by the pressures of the day. To the dismay of my little cynic within, Valentine's Day will return every year in all of its heart-shaped, candlelit glory. But at the very least, and at its very best, it encourages us to eat food the way it was meant to be eaten: together, at the table, with nowhere to go but down the path of languid conversation, digestion.

And that's something any cubicle dweller can appreciate.