Just Bring Me the Skate Wing

I had my biggest couple date ever tonight (five of them plus me) and I drove further for it than I usually do to share a meal with the mated.

But an occasion was involved (my father's birthday) and all the couples were related to me somehow (including my favorite sister as well as my least favorite sister; the other three didn't attend) and I never mind a relaxing road trip up Route 301 to Fredericksburg.

We met at the Kenmore Inn for cocktails because several of the attendees were staying the night there. It's a quaint old house and a great place for wine and cheese in front of the fireplace.

Naturally, we lingered longer than we should have to make our reservation on a timely basis, despite the fact that it was a mere two-block walk away.

My Dad had chosen La Petite Auberge, a mainstay in Fredericksburg since the chef/owner left La Nicoise in DC to open LPA in 1981 and give the locals traditional French cuisine in a very old-school-looking dining room.

The only fly in the ointment was that it was the dreaded Restaurant Week, a virtual guarantee of crowded restaurants and slow service.

Luckily, we were in no hurry; even better they put us in a smaller room just off the main dining room and assigned us two servers, one for drinks (Tippy) and one for food (Jody), no doubt a strategy to contain us in the room.

In addition to the regular menu, there is always an extensive list of daily specials and tonight there was also the Restaurant Week menu, making for an infinite number of choices, or so it seemed with our large group.

My choices were narrowed down immediately because one of the specials was skate wing with capers and black butter.

What followed was a table-wide discussion of how nobody had ever seen skate on a menu before (one guest wouldn't consider eating it because she "likes" skates; must be their winning personalities). This is the point where I start looking for strength to deal with my family.

It took a while for Tippy just to get all the wine and drinks to the table, an unenviable job considering how well lubricated this crowd already was.

And now I have to mention the music because a) it was so unexpected given the restaurant and its clientele and b) it plucked on my last nerve for the four hours I was forced to endure it.

Classic rock. In a French restaurant.

I spent the evening listening to Bob Seger, Steely Dan, Led Zeppelin, the Eagles and worse. Every time the guy next to me recognized a song but couldn't remember the artist, he turned to me for the answer.

In quick succession, I satisfied his curiosity: Argent, Cream, The Band. I know the pain was written all over my face.

Luckily the food was a good distraction. My mesclun with shaved Manchego, dried cranberries and pine nuts was a nice little combination before an entree I knew would be obscenely rich.

And was it ever. A generous portion of skate wing sat in a pool of black butter with capers scattered about and snow peas on the side so that my arteries wouldn't close immediately; the potatoes Lyonaise I never touched. I love the sweetness of skate; it reminds me of scallops without as much texture.

Around me, others got rockfish (the fish my family grew up eating at least every other Friday for my entire childhood), stuffed flounder, salmon, mussels, crabmeat, steak; two of my favorite people at the table couldn't resist the calf's liver special, endearing them further to me.

After all the disdain for my skate order, two people requested a bite of mine and one came back for seconds.

Both proclaimed it delicious, but the others remained highly skeptical. Sometimes I wonder how this family produced me. Make that often.

But extended family conversations are great fun because everyone has different memories of the same event. It was hysterical hearing different people's versions of long-forgotten vacations, conversations and escapades; I shared nothing for fear of being trampled underfoot. Who hit whom with a broom that summer in Maine?

And because we are a family raised on the principle that dessert is an inalienable right (we had a different dessert every single night growing up), all kinds of sweeties showed up after the meal.

There was chocolate mousse, key lime pie (in a chocolate cookie crust and drizzled with chocolate sauce), poached pears, creme brulee and chocolate ganache cake, which was my choice.

After-dinner drinks and coffee abounded, but not a drop of cream or a hint of sugar were to be found anywhere on the table. I come from a long line of people who consider it a personality flaw to drink coffee any way but black. It doesn't affect me, because I don't drink it at all.

By the time everyone was pleasantly replete, we were just about the last customers in the restaurant.

We bundled up, said our goodbyes to each other (some of these people I only see once a year at this dinner) and made our way out to the frigid street.

It was a beautiful and bright drive home thanks to the magnificent moon that followed me down 301. For long stretches, I was the only car on the road, which made it all the easier to relax into my thoughts and my music.

Without naming names, you can be sure I didn't play anything remotely resembling classic rock.

Okay, Decemberists followed by Lissie. I felt infinitely better before I even hit Bowling Green.