I was, understandably, quite nervous.

Here I am, hand in hand with my fiancé—the LSC—walking through the not un-cozy confines of the Highland Inn, finally meeting my future in-laws. (The Inn itself is quite a charmer; someplace that reminds me of New Orleans. It has that unmistakably musty smell that always puts me in mind of old books.)

I remember that I shouldn’t have more than one glass of wine with dinner lest my tongue be loosened and I make a fool out of myself. (Something that has been known to happen with the judicious application of too many cocktails, I must sadly confess.) The LSC advises me to discuss a subject he knows I am a fanatic about: food.

In my purse is my digital camera, ready to be used as a discussion piece for our dinner at a little restaurant next to the Inn, Eclipse de Sol. Since I work a couple of storefronts down from Eclipse de Sol, I’ve often found myself wondering why I haven’t dined there already, or at least checked out their beautiful intimate bar for one of their signature “grapefruit and rosewater martinis.” I moved here to Atlanta back in 1999 and the space Eclipse de Sol is now in was a boho-chic sort of café back in that day, a place to have a strong espresso, smoke Gauloises, and conjure up the ghost of Sartre. In fact, a lot of long-term Atlantans still mourn the passing of that café.

Nonetheless, after the initial introductions to the LSC’s parents, we decide to make our way next door for a meal, some wine, and conversation. I already know that the majority of our conversation is to be about me, so I keep crossing my fingers mentally and inwardly chant, “Only one glass of wine…only one glass of wine…”

The heated patio is quite warm and comfy; I’m surprised as usually most heated patios are unbearably drafty no matter where you sit. I find I can take off my jacket without being chilly.

The waitress comes over and everyone orders their drinks. A red wine for the LSC, a glass of white for me, a local Sweetwater 420 for his dad, and his mom decides to hold off ordering anything until she’s had a look at the menu, citing wanting a wine that will go with her meal—something I heartily approve of.

Poring over the menu, a nice simple array of choices, but slightly disappointing as the menu looks plainer on paper than it did online. (One of my worst sins, I know, scouting and looking at restaurant menus before actually eating there.)

We all agree to sharing a cheese plate (a sampler of 4 for $10). Of course, when it came out to the table, I indulged in my first photo for this blog:

There was Idiazabel, a smoked Spanish cheese (fairly yum); Drunken Goat, a Spanish red-wine soaked goat cheese (which I liked a lot when I first ate it a couple of years ago, but now bores me); Valdeon Bleu, a Spanish—you guessed it—blue cheese, (ohmigod, possibly my fave, especially with the green apples); and Grafton Cheddar, a Vermont cheese that I thought was okay but was much more appreciated by my tablemates. I have two major food weaknesses: bread (artisanal ones, not the shite you find in pre-sliced loaves) and cheese (all of them, even the crappy ones). Even the cheeses here that I only sort of liked, I still would’ve stabbed you with a fork if you tried to get the last bit—which the LSC did, sorry about the flesh wound, sweetie.

Onward to the entrées—the LSC would like you to know that entrées are different things in Quebec, they usually mean starters, not the main course.

The LSC’s dad ordered something fairly surprising: the veggie burger. Now you all know that I could NEVER get anyone in my family to order one, much less consider one, in a million years. I guess I confuse my Southern family’s dietary habits with everyone else’s. I leaned towards the veggie burger myself, but opted to waffle a bit on my decision. His dad’s veggie burger was garnished with the usual LTO, but also with grain mustard and gruyere; it came with house made potato chips. His mom decided on the butternut squash ravioli sans walnuts; I forgot what else was in there and it’s not on the online menu so I suck at remembering. Here’s his dad’s delicious veggie burger:

If there is one sort-of junkfoody sandwich that I love—nay, crave—it is a turkey burger. You can get a turkey burger anyway you want, just as though it were a real beefburger. It’s also extraordinarily hard to find in the confines of Atlanta. I can name a couple of places that do it up right, but that’s another post. My slavering tongue finally alighted upon the turkey burger melt replete with melted gruyere (I sense they really love that cheese), cranberry relish on toasted pumpernickel bread. I opted for the equally homey comfort of garlic mashed potatoes. It was like a homage to the holiday that had come before.

Oh, I wanted to love it. I wanted to enjoy the contrast of the smoky charred meat with the smooth cheese, the tart cranberries, and the peculiar taste of the rye bread. Oh, how I wanted to. But sadly, all I could taste were the damned cranberries. It was sweet, cloyingly so. The cranberry relish squished from between the bread slices, coating my fingertips, making them unpleasantly sticky. I couldn’t enjoy the cheese because I couldn’t taste it. The burger was there; it registered as a texture but not a flavor. Disappointment. A heavy sigh. Those garlic mashed potatoes didn’t miss a beat, though. They were a tiny bright light in an otherwise hopeful meal.

The LSC’s dish was by far the winner. Feast your eyes upon his meal of roasted chicken, truffle mac’n’cheese, and steamed haricot verts (that’s French for a kind of green beans).

That dish was amazing. And I should know—I grazed at his after I realized the sadness of mine. The chicken was moist and perfectly cooked with just the barest hint of herbs. I couldn’t really discern too much of a truffle flavor in the mac’n’cheese, but heck, I didn’t because it was mac’n’cheese. The green beans were crisp and snappy and not the slightest bit overcooked (a major thing I dislike about traditional Southern cooking). The fiancé finished it off with relish, even tried my sandwich and agreed that the cranberry overpowered everything else.

Contentedly full (except for myself as I started drinking a lot of water to wash away the sweet sugariness of the cranberry relish away), we all sat around for a bit, talking, then said our goodbyes for the night.

In short: his parents are wonderful people. Cheese is awesome no matter what it is. I do not think I care for cranberry relish. The LSC’s dish won. I only had one glass of wine. And Eclipse de Sol is very nice; I’ll have to go back there some day and try something else, but I am especially trying that grapefruit-rosewater martini.