Starving on small plates in Atlanta

Thin portions at upscale restaurants are becoming a trend, and some diners are left feeling famished.

It’s 10:30 at night. My party of four just shelled out more than $200 at a restaurant, and now my husband is asking to stop at Taco Bell on the way home because he’s still hungry. Come to think of it, so am I.

When we first took our table, the server asked if we’d eaten there before. Nope. She walked us through the menu, explaining that most of the items were intended to be shared, and added that we’d probably need to order a bunch of them to make a meal of it. OK. Agreed. We’re all on the same page. So, we ordered and ordered and ordered some more.

Memorable was the bowl of mussels — that came with just one piece of toast. I guess we could have cut that into quadrants. Instead, we ripped off crouton-sized bits to make it shareable. The fish broth was delectable. We wanted more toast for sopping it up. It took a painstaking 20 minutes, but we managed to finagle one more piece of toast. One more piece of toast that we again proceeded to divvy among the four of us so that we could all enjoy a dish that was, we understood, intended for sharing.

The pay-to-starve meal is becoming more commonplace at upscale restaurants that focus on small, or shared, plates. I’m a bit concerned about where this is all headed.

Let’s start by qualifying things. It doesn’t take a lot to feed me. I’m pretty slight in stature. My husband is slim as well, but tall. He doesn’t pack it in, however he does need a full meal to fill his belly. Neither of us is the type to go for seconds.

Granted, I realize that, at finer restaurants, I am not only paying for the food — better sourced ingredients, proper execution and exquisite composition — but also for attentive service, design and atmosphere with personal- ity. Yet, I am hoping for a scant bit more on the plate.

I’m not the only one. A friend recently relayed to me her experience of dining at a much-talked-of Atlanta restaurant. She was excited to bring friends there to celebrate a special occasion. They had a fine evening. The food was great. The flavors memorable. The plating exquisite. But, after they each shelled out $50, when they walked out the door they were still hungry — and a bit miffed about a few things. Like, when they ordered bread and two pingpong sized rolls came out. How does a party of three split two rolls fairly?

If a standard bread order is two rolls, the server could have informed the table, and then offered to bring a third for an charge extra, or even comp it if it was apparent that these diners planned to make a meal out of more than bread. For the restaurant, it might seem like an extra roll. From the perspective of my friend and her pals, it’s the missing roll they will remember.

And all those minor things add up — just like the number of shareable $6 to $14 plates, served in dinkier-by-the-day ramekins, that you need to order to get somewhat full.

I’m learning, for example, that at upscale restaurants specializing in small plates, an order of French fries is not McDonald’s small. It’s artisanal McDonald’s mini — as in, each member of a four-top gets about five beautifully handcut fries to dip into fancy housemade ketchup. Now, I know to place two orders for such delectable frites.

There is this mutual agreement that exists between us and restaurants when we walk into the establishment: I will pay you X and in return, I expect Y. Lately, though, I feel like that has been a bit lopsided at the fashionable small plates spots. I’m ordering food and paying a fair price (at a minimum, we’re talking $50 a person plus tax and gratuity) and coming home tummy growling.

My choices: 1) To speak up, kindly, to ensure I’m getting what I need. 2) To order and pay for more food. 3) To go to Chick-fil-A when I need to “eat mor chikin” after dinner. Or 4) To not frequent these types of restaurants.

In the first instance, it requires not losing my calm; rather, knowing what I want and verbalizing that to the staff. It’s hard, and a lot of diners shy away from confrontation, going home mad and disappointed rather than having a dialogue with someone from the front of the house.

There’s a limit to the second; I’m not a bank with unlimited funds.

As for the third option, I really don’t want to make a run for the border because, to point No. 4, I want to support the exciting culinary creativity that is energizing Atlanta’s dining scene.

As for restaurants, they can: 1) Realize that party sizes don’t always match up to portion sizes. Then, read the table and react accordingly to find a solution that leaves everyone happy. 2) Increase ever so slightly portion sizes and prices on shareable plates. 3) and 4) Expect to lose our business to restaurants that fill us up for a cheaper price.

I prefer tidy solutions, yet I can’t resolve this one for restaurants. The ping-pong bread ball is on their side of the table. And, there’s a Zaxby’s drive-through just up ahead.

I’m learning, for example, that at upscale restaurants specializing in small plates, an order of French fries is not McDonald’s small. It’s artisanal McDonald’s mini — as in, each member of a fourtop gets about five beautifully hand-cut fries.

ILLUSTRATION BY STEVE LOPEZ