We toasted over Campari cocktails with a spritz and grapefruit, munched on won ton crisps dunked in edamame dip. Everything was homemade and gluten free, in a vague attempt to accommodate Mr. Noterdaeme’s warm-weather allergies.
There were quail eggs pickled in rice vinegar and fresh beet juice and topped with chives and freshly grated horseradish that looked like a palatable museum display. The couple used to run the Homeless Museum of Art out of their apartment, a conceptual project of Mr. Noterdaeme’s, with Mr. Isengart dressed up geisha style, serving food as Madama Butterfly.
For dinner, we moved to a stark, white flowerless table.
“We are modernists,” Mr. Isengart said.
Crossing his long dancer’s legs and taking a sip of pinot noir, he basked in his creation, while orchestrating