A Blithe PALATE

Keiko at The Wolsley

Monday afternoon

Among the things I enjoy most about the food blog community are the very wonderful and very kind friends I have met online.  Keiko, of Nordljus, was one of my first such friends.  After a year of missed attempts to meet in London, we are finally able to meet up.  Keiko suggests meeting at The Wolsley for tea.

Hubby meets with me outside our hotel and asks about my foray at the British Museum.  It's hard for me to keep the hysteria out of my voice as I recount the presence of the mummy.  He's trying very hard to be sympathetic but he's on the verge of laughter.  He thinks it's funny that I am as fascinated by ancient Egypt as I am terrified of the same.  Like an adolescent boy who has discovered the joy of taunting girls with reptiles, he finds grabbing me and shouting, "Anubis has  you!" while I scream irresistible.  He might not find it as enjoyable had he been my date the night I saw "Stargate" and proceeded to scream in shock when one of Ra's guards is seen for the first time with his jackal headed helmet.  My date got to deal with a babbling idiot for five minutes.  Needless to say, there was no second date.

"Well let's go meet your friend," Hubby says when it becomes apparent that he is neither sympathetic nor empathetic.

"Meet me by the Eros in Picadilly Circus," Keiko's message had suggested.

Both Hubby and I remember the fountain of Eros on our ride into the city from Gatwick.  I am reliant on Hubby's natural New York instincts to guide me through the subterranean transit system and the surface streets.  His navigational abilities far surpass mine.  And while he is not as unerring as Kaly, she has the benefit of a frequent visitor's familiarity with London.  It's very interesting, the differences between them:  Kaly, an adoptive New Yorker, moves like a darting little fish, wending her way in and out of the pedestrian London traffic and requires me to follow her efficiently and quickly.  Hubby, a native New Yorker, simply drops a shoulder and surges forward, parting waves of people as I follow in his wake.  Broad shoulders and a purposeful stride are useful.

Seated at the fountain, we are discussing our planned excursions for the week when I see a woman searching the area: it's Keiko.  A quick hug, exclamations at meeting and we're off.

The Wolsley is not so far away, only a few minutes' walk. It's a lovely building, a cafe-restaurant with soaring ceilings, wide windows and marble work.  Keiko orders the risotto with girolles; having had that the night before, I pick a coq au vin; and Hubby has the duck confit.  Keiko, whose photographs are absolutely stunning, shows me her camera and manages to snap some photos of an oddly compliant Hubby (who never likes his picture taken).  A few minutes pass as I ooh and aah over her camera before a waitress approaches us and explains that photography is not permitted in the restaurant.  Chastised, we put away our cameras but not before Hubby did a wicked imitation of the waitress.  Our entrees are delicious though the coq au vin is a bit rich -- very hearty, very heavy. 

Keiko is as elegant and as sweet as the confections for which she is known on her site.  She brings gifts for me:  tea and elderberry syrup.  I cannot wait to go home and make something special to go with her wonderful gifts.  I am so excited to meet Keiko -- it's the same joy I got from meeting Stephanie from Dispensing Happiness -- a fellow foodie! 

When we part ways with Keiko, Hubby notes, "She's so very nice."

And I think, all the food bloggers I know are absolutely lovely...

London Bound - Need Advice!

So I won huge wife brownie points last month when I gave Hubby a choice between attending the World Cup or Wimbledon (tickets compliments of some very kind and connected friends) for our anniversary.  His first choice was World Cup -- but unfortunately the game we had tickets for ran smack into a scheduling conflict with work (his).  He was bitter for a few days -- being a soccer fanatic, it was hard for him.  But, we're off to Wimbledon instead and he's just as happy.  He decided we should spend a week in London since we hadn't traveled there together yet.

I'm so excited because I'm going back to London and I've got my favorite eating and drinking companion with me.  This being said, I'm actually appalled to realize that apart from The Fat Duck and Restaurant Gordon Ramsay, and the places my sister took me, I really have no idea where to go in London proper.  All this time I thought I was a restaurant-goer par excellence and I discover, I'm a hack!  A hack!  I need to start digging through my favorite food blogs in the UK for advice on where to go.  I've got eight days (breakfast, lunch and dinner, or approximately twenty-four eating occasions) to fill. 

If you've got ideas, send 'em my way...

Baby Shower Luxe

Yesterday I went to Chris and Micki's baby shower in Atlanta. Micki's still so tiny it's hard to believe she's eight months along -- but she is, as always, utterly adorable. The guests were an eclectic assortment -- understandable given that we are all friend with Chris and Micki via their restaurant. Coupled with family who had flown in from Texas and Biloxi, and the room bubbled with bright, cheery people.

Our host, John, lives in a gorgeous apartment overlooking Peachtree Street with a superb view of the Fox Theater -- windows opened to a blue sky and filling every single room with light.

One of Chris' friends is the owner of a noted restaurant in town -- he catered the event and brought his executive chef to prepare what I think was one of the most luxurious buffets I've ever raided: scallop ceviche, sauteed mushrooms, steamed, crisp asparagus, grilled squash and zucchini, olive infused Israeli couscous salad, lemon infused shrimp, baby artichokes tossed in a vinaigrette, prosciutto and a peppery salami, frisee salad with grated Parmigiano and lightly coated with a Balsamic vinaigrette, and oh yes, my favorite: lobster medaillons in a citrus sauce. I think I raided the lobster tray at least three times but every time I went back, it was filled up again. The flowers were prepared by another friend who is a local florist who provides Chris with flowers for his restaurant.

John and another of their friends, Bill, are wine connoisseurs and John had chosen four superb bottles of red wine to go with our buffet. The 1999 Dom Perignon was served to accompany the cake.

Having friends who are foodies is a wonderful thing; having friends who are in the food business is another level of joy altogether.

Magic Fingers

Had my own version of “last call” last Friday.  Peggy and Sunil left three days ago to take up their new posts at ASU in Arizona. Last Friday, Hubby and I had plans to go to Athens (where I was hoping to try out the noted Five and Ten restaurant) and catch one of our favorite bands, The Avett Brothers. Said plans went grossly awry when I wasn’t able to leave work early enough to make it to the show in Athens, but serendipitously, it worked out for us to race up to Atlanta and catch dinner with Peggy and Sunil. 

Our choice was MF Sushibar.  We’ve been eating there since the restaurant first opened, and we know the owners (chef Chris Kinjo and his brother Alex) well.  So well, in fact, that Chris invited us to his wedding in New Orleans last month.  A friend noted over lunch one day that he’s been eating at the same restaurants repeatedly for years and has never gotten to know any of the servers or anyone at the restaurant well enough to know their names much less be invited to their weddings.  When I was living in Atlanta, Peggy and I ate in front of Chris at the sushi bar about once a week and we routinely brought business guests and friends to eat there with us as well –so it really isn’t hard to make the jump from regular customer to friend.  J 

Chris' first words to Peggy when she entered the restaurant:  “Arizona?  Where the hell are you going to get sushi?”  She promised to fly back frequently.

I could rave incessantly about MF Sushibar but better and more celebrated food critics already have.  I’ve eaten sushi on two continents and in countless states.  It’s easy to say that MF ranks as one of the best.

Our first meal together seven years ago was over sushi, at Soto’s.  This is probably as good a time as any to comment on Soto. In the spirit of full disclosure, it should be known that I’ve been boycotting Soto for five years.  I used to eat there quite regularly – once or twice a week, along with Peggy or other friends.  I also brought countless guests there and got to know the entire staff really well – Ferdy, my favorite waiter, Takuya, another great waiter (who I ran into when my sister Hani and I ate at  Blue Ribbon Sushi in New York last year!), Claudia, the hostess par excellence, and the effervescent sous-chef, Taka, who later went off to found his own sushi joint in Buckhead.  Then one night (on the same night the exact same thing happened to Peggy, who had eaten there earlier), Soto pissed me off so much that I never went back.  It should say something that an insano foodie would forgo superb food simply because she hates the chef’s guts so much.  

Let’s just say that while I admire Soto’s exquisite food sensibilities, his absolute obsession with perfection, and his brain-surgeon-like intensity, his riff as the Sushi Nazi leaves a lot to be desired.  He has no sense of customer service and lacks an appreciation for the people who enjoy his food. Soto’s like an art genius who wants to create solely for himself and believes that no one is worthy to look at, or to own his work. I don’t enjoy eating at a restaurant where I’m a burden to the chef no matter how wonderful his food (for fuck’s sake, I’m told Masa at the fabled Masa in New York has time to chat with his guests even though he’s running the whole damn show).  So un-Buddha-like.  It’s been five years and I’m STILL pissed off at him.  I understand that he has revamped his menu and it is now strictly omakase:  $70/per person and the meal takes four hours.  Cynically speaking, the only thing that differentiates this new format from the previous is the omakase part.  The cost and the interminable wait for food (on average food didn’t arrive until 90 minutes had elapsed) sound pretty much the same to me.

Feh. But on to happier subjects:  Chris and MF Sushibar.  Chris’ nickname is “Magic Fingers,” hence the “MF.”  It’s strictly sushi at MF.  No cooked foods; no teriyaki and if you only like California rolls, don’t bother coming. Chris gets his fish flown in fresh daily and he takes his fish and preparation as seriously as does Soto; the difference is that Chris is delighted when his guests are thrilled with his dishes.  He’s not as cerebral as are some sushi chefs; but don’t mistake easy going for lax.  Chris moves like magic behind the bar and we always know when he’s not making our dishes. There’s something about his cuts that distinguishes plates prepared by him from those sent out by his sous-chefs.  All the more reason to always have omakase with Chris.

This being our last meal together in Atlanta, we asked Chris to choose everything – including our sake.  He sent out four dishes at a measured pace, each more sublime than the last. 

The first plate was a quartet of appetizers:  tempura fried lobster tail with a spicy cream sauce topped with hunks of red tobiko; toro tartare –delicately chopped chu-toro clinging precariously together with chopped spring onions and topped with spicy wasabi tobiko, salmon tataki, a lovely play on the more common tuna version, this time with delicately seared slices of salmon doused with a light Ponzu sauce, and finally, bound together with light Japanese mayo, pine nuts, and flavored with unagitare, the tuna tartare.

Next up was Chris’ signature lobster custard, an airy, rich egg soufflé infused with lobster broth and bits of lobster.  [The French Laundry does a version of this dish, which is essentially egg yolks and infused cream baked in a bain mairie (water bath).]  Presented in pear shaped clay pots, the scent of the lobster oil wafted around our table when we all lifted the lids at once.

Our waitress was sent over to grate fresh wasabi for the forthcoming sashimi platter.  The blobs of wasabi that usually accompany a sushi dish have about as much in common with fresh wasabi as imitation vanilla has with a vanilla bean.  Wasabi paste is made from imitation flavors based on horseradish, mustard powder, and green food coloring.  The wasabi plant (Wasabia japonica) is a member of the cruciferous  family (of which brussel sprouts and broccoli are members).  It is native to Japan the earliest known cultivation of the plant dates back to the 10th century. The root-like stem which grows above ground is called the “rhizome” and it is this part of the plant which is grated.  There are two varieties:  daruma, the most popular version which has a strong heat but sweet aftertaste, and the mazuma variety, which is hotter than its cousin.  Chris has his servers use sharkskin graters; first, the root is washed under cold water, then the outer skin is scraped off, exposing the light green root.  The server rubs the exposed root against the grater in a circular motion, using a chopstick to scrape off the fresh wasabi.  Unlike wasabi paste, fresh wasabi has a sweetness and a lightness of texture that makes it a better compliment with sashimi.

And speaking of, there’s no need to describe the third dish when a picture does better:

Suzuki, hamachi, salmon, tai, aji, and a symphony of tuna:  maguro, toro, chu-toro and o-toro so fatty it melted from the warmth of the tongue.  I actually turned to the table next to us and said, “Chris loves us. We’re special.”  Bear in mind, we were working our way through our second bottle of unfiltered sake.  Hubby says I am a mean drunk.

Chris, knowing we are plebeians at heart, sent out as a finishing touch, four spicy tuna handrolls, the nori still perfectly crisp and crunchy to the bite.

I suppose it’s fitting that our last meal together in Atlanta should be over sushi because that’s how our friendship began.  When four friends who can discuss every subject from classic watches to other people’s child-rearing practices to why R2-D2, who knew the whole saga of Anakin Skywalker, chose not to say a word to Luke (“who, by the way, can understand him.  Beeep booop boop bup beep bu?”), cease to talk just to indulge in the joy of eating, it’s a good night.

Tea and Sympathy

I’m in hell.  The cigar experience yesterday has induced flu-like symptoms today.  In addition, Jules and I only managed about two hours of sleep – she, suffering from transcontinental insomnia, and me, due to an inability to breathe.  I feel like someone stuffed my head full of cotton today.  It’s probably about as much brain as I’ve got anyway.

I’m so exhausted and out of sorts I couldn’t even haggle with one of the booksellers along the Seine.  I half-heartedly began by offering her €3 less than the price she’d marked.  She beamed and said, “Ah non, ce n’est pas possible.  C’est un livre nouveau.  C’est un bon prix.”  (Sorry, can’t; it’s a new book.  That’s a good price). I took a breath and couldn’t bring myself to engage.  I reached into my bag and gave her the asking price.  She looked both stunned and disappointed.  I think I let her down.  Hubby text messaged me and asked if I was feeling better?  I wrote back that I couldn’t even bargain with a street vendor.  Mon Dieu, he answered.  Now I know you’re sick. 

Too tired to do anything adventurous, Jules and I went to the Mariage Frères tea room and shop in the sixth arrondissement.  In fact, it’s located down the street from Les Bouquinistes, where we had dinner the other night. The tea rooms are decorated in the French colonial style – rattan chairs, bamboo wood, large shutters, ceiling fans, and potted palm trees.  Think Indochine and every Saigon-at-the-turn-of-century-under-French-rule-before-Dien-Bien-Phu movie you’ve ever seen.  I’ve been the main store in Marais, but my new favorite is definitely this one in the sixth.  It’s much quieter, and the window overlooks a lovely little street off the rue des Grand-Augustins.  The servers and tea masters are all dressed in crisp, white linen suits with vests. 

Mariage Frères was founded in 1854 and is the oldest tea company in France.  Tea came to France about 20 years before England made tea its national beverage.  The French king, Louis XIV, was said to be quite fond of tea and one of Madame de Sevignés letters refers to the habit of adding milk to tea.  The Mariage family has a storied lineage in dealing teas.  Ancestors Nicolas and Pierre Mariage first traveled to Persia in the 1660s as part of a trade delegation under Louis XIV.  It was they who initiated and signed trade agreements to deal in teas and spices for the French East India Company.  In 1845, their descendents, Aimé and Auguste were still chief tea and spice dealers to the French court under the banner of Auguste Mariage & Compagnie.  Nine years later, Aimé’s sons, Henry and Edouard, founded Mariage Frères.  The company sells over 500 teas, and are well known for unique blends with romantic names like as Lu Yu, Thés des Poètes Solitaires (Tea of Solitary Poets) and Thé Sur le Nil (Tea on the Nile).  Mariage Frères developed tea-infused jams in 1986. Made with lemon juice, sugar and pure tea, they come in yummy flavors like Marco Polo, Earl Grey, and Podréa, which we had this morning with a campagnète au grain (whole grain baguette).

I’m a huge fan of Mariage Frères teas – the Marco Polo blend is my favorite.  It’s a black tea with very distinct Chinese and Tibetan floral and fruit notes.  Hubby’s favorite occasional weekend indulgence is cream tea:  warm scones, Devonshire cream and a pot of tea.  Once, I offered him a choice of Marco Polo or Vanilla Almond from The Republic of Tea.  He asked for Vanilla Almond.  When I brought in the Marco Polo, he accused me of hoarding the “good French stuff!”  I reminded him I had given him a choice.  “Yeah, but if you’d said it was the good French stuff, I’d have chosen that!”

I haven’t found a purveyor Stateside for Marco Polo yet.  Somehow I can’t bring myself to buy in the States either; it’s far less expensive in France (even with the horrible exchange rate) and I’m of the (biased) opinion it’s fresher here.

Jules ordered the Thé des Impressionistes (Impressionist Tea) – a much lighter green tea base with floral notes, and I had Marco Polo.  We also ordered a plate of sorbets, infused with three different Japanese-inspired teas.  After incredibly fortifying tea and sympathy, we went downstairs to purchase teas and jams and other items to bring back.  You can order the teas in distinctive little black tins with the yellow Mariage Frères emblem (the French do packaging incredibly well – everything is attractively put together), buy tea bags, or buy loose teas by the grams. I’m partial to the loose bags by grams because it’s more economical, but also because I can never bring myself to throw away empty tins and my house doesn’t need to become a pack rat’s dream.

There’s something oddly soothing about watching the men behind the counter move quietly and confidently, efficiently measuring out your tea selection with old fashioned iron weights.  Their process is as much a ritual as the tea service itself.

Armed with a fresh supply of tea and jam, I’m ready to head back home and revisit my afternoon in Paris.

Tres Gauche

We ate on the Rive Gauche last night.  Lan tells me that the French don't refer to the embankments on either side of the Seine as geographic descriptors.  "Left Bank" and "Right Bank" are terms apparently more American than French.  They consider locations by arrondissements.  After the mouse encounter at Fauchon, Jules and I headed off towards Les Bouquinistes, located in the Sixth (St-Germain-des-Prés), overlooking the Seine. 

It’s a lovely walk – past the Louvre and along the Seine, traversed by several ponts including the Pont Neuf, which we crossed to get to the restaurant.  Les Bouquinistes is named for the booksellers who line the street on the left side of the Seine with stalls of second hand and antique books.  Being a bibliowhore myself, I’m a little unnerved by displays of hand blocked prints which are obviously torn pages from books.  Writing in books is one thing.  Tearing books apart to sell the pictures piecemeal is an unnatural act.

Twilight in Paris is a dusty blue; the river turns black and lights from the street glitter on the water’s surface.  Brightly lit tourist barges occasionally destroy the serenity but they sail by quickly and the dusky colors settle on the Seine again.  Along the river, couples are kissing, lost to the moment and to each other.  It’s Robert Doisneau’s photo of the kiss at the hôtel de ville in situ.  We think they’re French because we can’t imagine Americans being this openly passionate.  Then again, we are in Paris.  A dear dear dear friend once said with feeling, “It’s ironic to be in the city of love with a broken heart.”  I think it’s the best time to be there:  nowhere else is there such a clear affirmation of romance.

Les Bouquinistes is one of five Guy Savoy restaurants in Paris.  It’s high end, upscale, minimalist interior chic.  There are restaurants similar to it in most of the major cities in the world. Not necessarily tourist friendly but foreigner accessible.  In fact, we heard a lot of English on either side of us.

Having already distended ourselves with our chocolate luxury two hours earlier, we weren’t too hungry.  The menu featured seafood with one or two poultry dishes.  Jules ordered the Thon "cru- cuit" en trois préparations, riz Basmati et sauvage aux herbes (Tuna Raw & Cooked, Three Styles with Basmati Rice and Wild Herbs) and I was torn between the Risotto crémeux au tourteau et langoustines rôties, bouillon de crustacés (Risotto with Roasted Prawns and Crab in a Seafood Broth) and the Sauces D’Asperges au langoustines rôties (Roasted Prawns in Asparagus Sauce). Ultimately, my deep affection for risotto won out (I just can’t say no to a carbohydrate).

I wanted a glass of wine, but I don’t know how to read French wine menus; unlike American wines, which are classified by varietals, French wine menus appear to be arranged by terroir and region.  I asked our waiter to select a wine for me.

“Red or white?” he asked.

“Your choice,” I answered. 

He nodded confidently and brought me a glass of 2002 Faiveley Mercurey Clos Rochette (a white Burgundy).  Mercurey is an appellation in Burgundy and the Clos Rochette is a  chardonnay varietal.  The very first white burgundy I ever drank was in 1992 – an Olivier LeFlaive St. Aubin.  That St. Aubin still ranks as one of the best white wines I’ve ever had (and I don’t generally like white wines; Hubby says I love wines so tannic they’ll strip enamel off your teeth).  The Mercurey reminded me about everything I’d love about that LeFlaive:  round, crisp, with a soft floral note and pear finish.

Perfect with any seafood dish, our waiter told me. If you think it’s funny that I wrote down the names of our dinner dishes, consider that I blinded half the people on our side of the restaurant with the camera’s flash when I took this picture of my dish (I was too chicken to repeat and take a picture of Jules’ plate).

I’ve eaten at countless restaurants like this.  They do lovely, elegant dishes that are often quite good, but usually lack depth or finish – seldom does flavor linger on the palate or in the memory.  What came to our table was one of the most exquisite flavors I’ve ever tasted.

The rice itself was a little softer than I like my risottos to be and the prawns were about 2 minutes from being mushy – but the broth was breathtaking:  aromatic, savory, intense, with a chardonnay base and tasting of the sea.  The spices were incredibly subtle; nothing pushed forward aggressively, but together formed a luscious mouthful.  No offense to Jules, but paired with my wine, I really didn’t want to talk; I just wanted to roll that remarkable flavor on my tongue over and over again.  I should have asked for the broth to go.

Jules loved her dish – a tuna ceviche, a seared tuna belly, and two deep fried tuna spring rolls.  Not being a fan of tuna, I ate one bite and politely acknowledged its serviceable preparation. I was too convinced of my risotto’s inherent superiority.  Before she ate any part of her dish, I gave her a spoonful of my risotto.  She made noises that drew second glances from men on either side of us.

We had the best service we’ve had since we came to Paris.  And no wonder, as service n’est pas compris at the restaurant.  In France, a 15% tip and tax are generally included in the bill.  Lan tells me that most servers are on salary and can’t really be fired so many of them don’t really try because they’re already getting their tip.  Compared to eighteen years ago, “service” in the France has definitely improved…I remember eating with Tata Michelle in 1987 at Maître Kanter near Grenoble and having our waiter tell her he wasn’t interested in explaining what specials were available that day.  In any case, Alexandre, our waiter, was attentive without being annoying and very helpful – important since his tip depended not on the “compris” or “tip included” ‘system, but on service.  I can’t believe I’m so blasé about mediocre service now that I was enthralled with being treated like a customer.  But I’ll take indifferent service for superb cuisine any day of the week.  Except from Soto in Atlanta.  That’s a different gripe. 

…This is why I come to Paris.  To be happy. 

Tea and la souris.

As it turns out, Lan and Quang live four blocks away from Fauchon’s flagship store at 30 Place de Madeleine.  Fauchon is a high end gourmet store, a French version of Dean and Deluca (or maybe the reverse that Dean and Deluca’s is an American version of Fauchon?). Fauchon was founded in 1886 by Auguste Félix Fauchon, a grocer from Normandy. Fauchon learned about the “chain” store concept from Félix Potin, to whom he was apprenticed.  He started with a small vending cart on the Place de la Madeleine in 1885 and opened his first store a year later, as a purveyor of fine foods and gourmet items.  After his death in 1938, the business was taken over by his sons, who later sold the business to business man Joseph Pilosoff.  Under Pilosoff’s tenure, Fauchon expanded to include international items, and after his death, ownership passed to his heirs.  Fauchon was acquired by a private investment group in 1998 and there are now over 600 stores internationally.

Per Wendy’s instructions, Jules and I headed over to the store to partake of the truffle omelet and to buy lobster butter.  Upstairs in salon de thé, Blondine, our hostess, explained that they served the omelet only during lunch, but suggested some pastries with tea instead.  It was 6:00 and we had dinner reservations at Les Bouquinistes, one of Guy Savoy’s restaurants, at 9:30,  but I have no problem beginning with dessert.  Jules ordered the green tea with orange blossoms and I had the mélange Fauchon, a black tea with raspberries, lavendar, and vanilla. We also ordered a half bottle of the house champagne. 

Our dessert selection was vanilla meringue enveloped in a thick dome of Gianduja ganache, textured with chocolate spray (achieved using a paint sprayer with melted chocolate), and dotted with chocolate meringue.

Okay, see that little brown square embedded in the dessert?  It was inscribed with “Fauchon” in gold lettering.  As Jules asked me about my birthday evening with Hubby, I popped what I assumed to be a chocolate square in my mouth.

“So where did you guys go?”

“Hold on,” I said, gagging.  “I’m eating cardboard.”  I removed the sodden, teeth-marked piece of paper from my mouth and stared at it in horror. 

Jules doubled over.  “I’m so glad you did that first,” she said.  “I was about to eat it, too.”

It reminds me of a Far Side cartoon in which two sharks are munching on body parts and one shark says to the other, “Is this some sort of cruel joke?”  In the background is a sinking ship with floating boxes labelled, “mannequins.”

Apart from this grotesque pastry trompe l’oeil, dessert was an exquisite play in contrasts.  The ganache was just creamy enough to be rich instead of heavy, and the chocolate fine enough to be subtle and not sugary.  The meringue provided a satisfying “crunch” to an otherwise smooth and lush mouthful of chocolate.

In between bouts of admiring our view (“We’re in Paris!”) and consuming a zillion calories, we were catching up when Jules suddenly reared back and gasped.

“Oh my God!”

“What?  What?”

Jules clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes bugging out.  “There’s a mouse over there!”

I turned to watch a furry little grey body scurry towards the back of the room.  As we were the only two people in the salon, it was easy to spot Mr. Mouse’s  trajectory throughout the restaurant. 

“I’d rather see that than a cockroach,” I said.

“I’m thinking there’s not much difference,” Jules answered, gritting her teeth.

“I was at Nieman Marcus on Fifth Avenue last year when a mouse ran up a woman’s leg.”

Wrong thing to say.  Jules went ashen.  “I’m on the verge on getting on this chair.”  As it was, she had already planted both feet on the chair next to us.  She remain fixated on the area behind me.  “What if he climbs up the wall and gets on our table?!”

“Jules, he’s a mouse, not Spider-Man.”

“Then how did he get up here to this level?!”

“Up the stairs, like everyone else.”

Since I was facing the opposite direction, I could not see Mr. Mouse’s second run at us, but Jules began to sound like Beaker when confronted with an experiment about to blow up in his face.  When Jules is panicked, she also begins flapping her hands in front of her face violently, resembling an illiterate sign language speed demon.

“Oh my God!” she wailed.  “He’s coming right at us!  He senses my fear and he’s circling!”

You know, I try hard, but sometimes, I’m just not as good a friend as I should be.  I began snorting and laughing.  At this point, a waiter walked into the room bearing a tray. 

“Excusez-moi, il y’a une souris là bas,” I told him, pointing at the mouse who was taking a break in the middle of the aisle, likely tired from his divebombing runs at Jules.

He put the tray down and ran towards where I was pointing.  “Oui je la voies.”  He came back towards our table.

Jules began swigging from her champagne glass.

“S’îl vous plaît,” he said, “Je veux expliquer.  C’est Paris.  Il y’a des souris surtout.  Ici, chez moi, surtout.  C’est un magasin vieux, dans  une ville très vielle.  Nous sommes désolées.” (Please, I want to explain:  this is Paris; there are mice everywhere.  Here, my house, everywhere.  This is an old building, in a very old city.  Sorry.)

Then he walked away. The French do nonchalance so well.

“Listen,” I said, “We’ll get the check and you can sprint for the stairs.”

“No, dammit, I’m going to maintain my dignity and walk out.”  (Bear in mind her feet are still planted on the seat at the table next to us). "Okay, okay.  I can do this.  You ate cardboard, I saw a mouse.  This will just be something you'll put in your blog."

Oh, and Wendy, we did go downstairs to the store and look for the lobster butter, but there was none. And Jules said that if I want the omelet and lobster butter today, I'm going to have to go by myself. Maybe la petite souris will join me again.

Happily Eating Crow

Look out the windows folks. Porcine aviators in sight. I've been proven gloriously wrong about Columbus, GA restaurants. Even if it *is* a singular anomaly in our town, I don't care -- good food is good food no matter where it is.

Hubby and I went out to dinner Saturday night and I had the most outstanding meal I've ever had in Columbus (which isn't saying much since we have four hour waits for Olive Garden) but it was also one of the most best meals of recent memory for me (which is, since you read about my foodie obsessions in Vegas).

Allow me to bring to your attention Miriam's Tapas Bar. Say that real fast and you'll understand why Fay Simmons (the new owner who bought the entire operation from Miriam) now calls the restaurant Tapatinis at the Village. Apparently she had several people call, offended. They used to have T-shirts that defined the word "tapas" on the back and said, "TAPAS, not TOPLESS." That you'd need a t-shirt at all speaks volumes about the confusion. On the other hand, we do have a nice concentration of shirtless bars in town so I suppose it was a necessity.

The new chef, John Melton, is a graduate of Johnson and Wales, one of the top culinary schools in the country. Other graduates include Emeril Lagasse (feh) and Tyler Florence of the Food Network. Melton is from Auburn and did his externships throughout the south, mainly in South Carolina. His cooking, however, is world class.

Tapas are simply appetizer-sized dishes meant to share. It's a great way to try different things and Hubby has no choice but to share (normally I have to move quickly to avoid getting forked in the hand if I try to eat something off his plate. The serpentine weave and wave method of stealing food works well. However, his hand-eye coordination is getting better).

This is a sampling from memory of the 6 dishes we had Saturday night:

- Spring risotto with peas and carrots and roasted chicken
- Veal medaillions in Zinfandel sauce with leeks
- Squash blossoms stuffed with mushrooms in fried tempura batter with white truffle emulsion
- Horseradish encrusted tenderloin with roasted fingerling potatos
- Andouille encrusted sea bass with white bean salad and heirloom tomatos
- Grilled cornish hen on polenta pancake

We also got two desserts, the chocolate crème brulee (which was QUITE good) and the Neapolitan mousse (chocolate, vanilla and strawberry mousses in a cocktail glass) which was exceptional.

They also have one of the nicest wine selections I've come across in some time. They carry bottles I don’t normally see in restaurants much less in Columbus. Fay also pours by the glass -- even the fabulous bottles. Hubby and I love pinot noirs, particularly Oregonian ones. Fay had a bottle we'd never heard of called Archery Summit on the menu. We thought we'd try different pinot noirs, but when she came back and said how excited she was that someone had ordered a glass so she could taste now (she was going to open the bottle just to pour my ONE glass), we thought, man this is probably good. So Hubby decided to have a glass too. Right out of the bottle on the pour, the wine was so fabulous that we decided to buy the entire bottle. They also have a great martini selection. I may have to rethink my problems with vodka (this relates to the vomiting-every-time-I-saw-my-husband episode).

Without that bottle, we would have paid the exact same amount for dinner for two at Carrabas with appetizers and entrees. This was FAR superior and the environment was gorgeous. The bar is located upstairs (our first test, which we failed miserably since we tried to go in downstairs) and overlooks the first floor which gives the place an odd upscale treehouse sort of feel. Very stylish in a San Francisco / New York hip kind of place. Dark woods, high tables with dark wicker and rattan chairs (not good to sit Indian style because your feet can't touch anything as I did, unless you want waffle weave patterns on your ankles) and soft lighting. Perfect date night location. Or girls' night hang out.

Needless to say, I loved every moment of my experience. The ONLY thing I don't love is the fact that they're only open Fridays and Saturday nights (6 pm - 11pm).

But who cares? I now have a place to go on the weekends. Which means, that when the guys decide to go play poker, WE can go out and have martinis and tapas. Can't wait to share it with you all.

Tapatinis at the Village
1350 13th Street
Columbus, GA
706-327-0707

French Laundry: Culinary Nirvana

It's safe to say that eating at The French Laundry was the apex event of my culinary life thus far. I have steadily checked off visits at several Zagat and Michelin starred restaurants in the past two decades and with few exceptions, have loved each one.

I am always a little leery and afraid of eating at acclaimed restaurants. It's like going on a blind date with someone who everyone says is amazing and what you find is that the person in question is nice. Just nice.

My last great restaurant experience (meaning, it measured up to the hype) was at Le Cirque, which I had the great pleasure and fortune to eat at three days running (ah the expense account...). Le Bernardin, which followed a mere two days later, did not fare so well -- the atmosphere was exquisite, the service was impeccable and the food was ... well, great. Great, not amazing. Don't get me wrong: it's a GREAT restaurant; but my food lacked that essential sublime quality that would have made me a convert otherwise. Maybe if Eric Ripert had walked out and talked to our table, I might have been more favorable about my food; but I shouldn't rate my halibut by a chef's smoky eyes and seductive penchant for referring to food as "sexy." I was talking to one of my sisters a few years back and she said she was going to marry an Italian chef. I begged her to marry Thomas Keller or Eric Ripert. I found it singularly uncooperative of her not to take my request seriously (bear in mind that one has a steady girlfriend and the other a wife, and my epicurean selfishness is such that I still suggested this).

Before eating one morsel of Thomas Keller's food, I was already an acolyte. I own his cookbook. To paraphrase Tony Bourdain, it's the equivalent of porn for foodies. Who, for instance, would pair up tapioca pearls with oysters and caviar? And more importantly, make it work?!

We took a cab from our hotel to the French Laundry. It's a lovely stone building that overlooks the main street in Yountville. It's actually quite romantic looking. We couldn’t find the door. There are no finger-pointing "This Way" signs up so we traveled around the side of the building. We saw a big blue door but figured that couldn't be it -- too large -- probably for handicapped access. This was next to a large window and a door so we walked over and opened the door. And interrupted a staff meeting. One of the waiters took pity on us and pointed to the blue door. Huh. Whaddya know? It WAS for the handicapped -- say, the mentally deficient. Finding doors to restaurants are troublesome for us.

I at least had an excuse for being as sharp as a bowling ball: I was still drunk. Let me back up a little....

I was so giddy that morning at the prospect of eating at the French Laundry that I told Hubby we were going to eat lightly as not to spoil our appetites for dinner. No lunch, I said. Breakfast only. For me, a bowl of fruit at breakfast. He had enough sense to eat eggs, bacon, fruit and a waffle. We then decided to go wine tasting at a few of our favorite vineyards: Whitehall Lane and Flora Springs on Highway 29, and Pine Ridge and Regusci on the Silverado Trail. In my perpetual state of exhilaration, I did what I had not done since I was a rookie vineyard hopper: I drank every glass that was poured for me.

Now, four vineyards with tasting flights of between 4-6 glasses + a 108 pound woman + a bowl of fruit four hours earlier = stupid drunk.

At some point, Hubby realized that my euphoria had nothing to do with the French Laundry any longer and I was definitely sloshed. This was now 4:38 pm. Our reservation was for 7:00. He hustled me back to the car and got me back to the hotel and put me to bed. I remember him saying something like, "You're pissing me off," but I think that was because I fell out of the car when he opened my door.

When he woke me up ninety minutes later, he actually reared in horror when I opened my eyes. Still fuzzy -- but definitely less sloshed -- I was actually alarmed.

"What? What?"

"Um...your eyes. They're all red."

"You think I can wear sunglasses?"

"Not inside."

GREAT. Going to the French Laundry as Bunnicula.

So getting wasted before the meal of a lifetime was Big Mistake #1. Big Mistake #2 happened because the neurons were firing but none of the synapses were receiving. I ran a shower thinking a nice hot shower would soothe me and wake me up. But before getting into the shower, I decided to dry shave my legs.

And that is the reason why, as I was sitting in the garden of the French Laundry, waiting for our table, my thoughts went like this: "Wow this garden is beautiful. Ow. This wine list is amazing. Ow. I can't believe I'm at the French Laundry. Ow."

Dinner….I thought about blogging the entire menu and my notes but that probably falls under cruel and unusual punishment. Suffice it to say that despite my sorry state, I progressively got better with each dish…and each dish was more exquisite than the last.

I can best describe the French Laundry meal this way: It was so good I fell in love with my husband all over again. There’s something elemental about communing over sublime food – all transgressions can be forgiven when every one of your five senses is floating between disbelief and delight.

As if the meal weren’t enough…the highlight of the entire experience was being invited to come back to the gallery – an alleyway between the kitchen and the dining room where the staff prep themselves and watch Chef Keller at work. Joe, our waiter, was just awesome. He took us back and we stood against the wall, watching as Chef Keller finished every plate before it left the kitchen. Behind him and around him were an army of white clad chefs – I have a strange memory of some of them simply standing idle though I’m sure that’s not at all the case – just watching him – and I can understand: we were dazzled by just WATCHING him. Hubby says that Chef Keller reminded him of a heroin addict: he was so completely focused on the task at hand, the food he was plating, that he saw and heard and experienced nothing else. I’m pretty sure the man knew everything going on in his kitchen – but I can understand what Hubby meant. Saying that Keller was focused is like saying the Pope could be Catholic. The man was intense.

Pretending to be appalled by the bill is just coy. This was the French Laundry. We knew what we were getting into. It was freaking unbelievably the most money I’ve ever seen spent for dinner for TWO people. But … IT WAS WORTH EVERY CENT and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Keller somehow managed to break his laser beam concentration long enough to sign my menu. It’s quite apt and perfectly descriptive of our experience: “It’s all about finesse.”

(originally posted May 29, 2004)

French Laundry, Prelude

For our first anniversary, Hubby (aka "E.") and I have scored the culinary equivalent of front row seats to the World Series, the SuperBowl, the World Cup, the Stanley Cup, and the Masters, combined. I can't speak for him, but I'd pass on all five of those events for what we are about to do: eat at the French Laundry. It's easier to get seats to any of those events (provided the right dinero passed hands) than it is to get two seats at the French Laundry.

You think I'm joking. I am not. Consider: the French Laundry takes reservations two MONTHS to the day of when you wish to dine there. The phone lines are open daily from 10:00 to 1:00 PST and never once, in the past year of trying, have I reached a HUMAN voice in those three hours. And who can plan two months in advance to be at a RESTAURANT? The French Laundry, from what I can tell, is a destination date. You fly to Napa simply to eat there. Napa is peripheral to all else if your intent is to be at the French Laundry.

Which brings up a specific question: is it that good? Well, Thomas Keller, the chef/owner is widely acclaimed by his peers. Peggy tells me that the restaurant was named one of the best in the world.

Okay, so what does this mean? I've heard about amazing chefs who, when put to the test, aren't all that. Take Chez Panisse for instance. I have deep respect for Alice Waters and her accomplishments -- and maybe it was an off night, but when I ate there last year, it was fresh, it was good, but it certainly didn't blow my socks off. There's a marketing concept about meeting or exceeding a customer's expectations -- and then there's delighting them. My expectations were met -- but I wasn't delighted. This is not to say the food was bad -- it wasn't. It was quite solid, quite good. My sister Kaly said she had a great dinner there. So maybe Alice wasn't cooking that night or maybe I didn't order the right thing.

I wax idiotic. So our dinner is set for May 26...

(originally posted May 11, 2004)