Tag Archives: restaurant

London Eating

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As much as I love French cuisine, one of the highlights of every trip to London is the food. This wasn’t much of a draw 20 years ago, but today, with fresh ingredients and heirloom vegetables getting pride of place, things have changed considerably.

For years now, I’ve been curious about the Wolseley on Piccadilly. The posh looking establishment simply oozes old world elegance, greatly enriched by its location just steps  from the Ritz. The windows are covered with bistro curtains, and every time I’d pass, I’d look longingly into the italian inspired decor where a chicer-than-thou crowd seemed to be having the time of their lives at the bar.

Fortified by my new umbrella, and Mr French’s company, this trip I felt chic enough to breach the entrance. A formally clad valet met us on the sidewalk and guided us inside. Inside I quickly observed that the bar was merely a tiny box in a very large, opulently Italianate, art deco restaurant. The Wolseley had been a car for the rich who were not quite rich enough to afford a Rolls, and this had been the showroom. A very handsome and charming host showed us to the bar, informing us that the dining room was fully booked, but they did have tables for walk-ins, if we were interested. “Yes, please!” I replied, completely seduced by this place.

It was only noon and the bar was hopping. One of three very professional barmen put his everything into mixing the perfect martini for Mr French, while I was thrilled to find that they had hot lemon juice on the menu. I got to have something that felt infinitely more grown up than Perrier, while staying fit.

We were soon seated in a small dining room and a funny thing happened. The waiter spoke to us in French. He had heard us speaking, and being French himself, it did not occur to him to address us in English. The menu was French as well, with dishes like coq au vin and croque monsieur. But there was also roast beef with yorkshire pudding and wild Scottish salmon. The food was good, but nothing I’d run back for. The scene however, simply fun, as we sat next to two Sloane rangers and a very wealthy local Indian family. I think next time I’ll come back for tea time, or perhaps  I’ll try for something more wild at the bar…

For dinner, I had done some research, ie I sent a tweet to @jeffreyinmotion a professional in the UK hospitality industry. He gave me the name of a few places and the Harwood Arms was the first on the list to have availability. The menu looked good, and that was good enough for me, so good, I never bothered to looked at where the Harwood Arms is on a map.

Its in Fulham. You’ve heard of it, non? Well, me neither. Mostly because it is a bit remote and far from the tourist path. In Paris that would not be a big deal; have metro, will travel. In London, it’s a deal. We got off at a station to change trains and learned over the loudspeakers that our train would not be stopping at that station over the weekend. Back on the train we tried to connect at another station, but there were five different terminus possible and I got us on the wrong train. We went one stop and got back on to go back where we’d come from. A one stop error cost us 40 minutes of our time and I was very happy we’d planned on arriving early to enjoy a drink at the bar.

Getting out of the tube at Fulham we were in London, but had the impression that we’d stumbled into a sleepy little suburb. Mr French looked at me skeptically, teasing, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” I had no clue, but I wasn’t going to tell him!!

Following the street maps that were helpfully posted every 100 meters, we soon found ourselves on a quiet residential street. I started to panic, but Mr French noticed some bright lights ahead. As we got closer and closer, he became confident that we were in the right place. And we were, in so many ways.

A light, airy restaurant that simply oozes with a relaxed, friendly vibe. The decor is quaint, with wild flowers on the tables, a deer’s head mounted on the wall and black and white photography of ammunition. It was the British version of Brooklyn Hipster. After a weekend of good behaviour, I was ready for a truly London cocktail. I was at the wrong bar for that and instead I had a lovely glass of white wine. A really large glass, because it turns out that a British “glass” is 1/3 more generous than a Parisian “verre”! Behind us burned a cheery fire, with guests nestled into leather couches. They were snacking on outstanding bar food; a venison scotch egg, honey roasted nuts with rosemary, cauliflower croquettes with picallili and garlic potatoes that made me melt with hunger from tables away.

The dinner menu changes with the seasons. Now here is the sad part. I forgot to take a photo of the menu and I was somewhat tipsy from the wine so, I don’t exactly remember everything we ate. Mr French had deer, I had fish then we shared a light rhubarb desert and there was a lot of ooh-ing and aah-ing. It as all truly delicious. Mr French (who was completely sober) assures me we’ll be going back!

What sized Palais?

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Après notre petite soirée romantique à l’expo Hopper, on avait des réservations au restaurant le MiniPalais, qui est dans le Grand Palais, parce que ça crée la confusion et pour le coup on est bien content quand on y arrive.
La conversation est un peu comme ça.
– On va où pour dîner ?
– On va au MiniPalais.
– Ah, c’est en face, il faut traverser. Je ne savais pas qu’ils avaient en restau.
– Comment ? De quoi tu parle ? On ne traverse pas ! Non, mais, ça, c’est le Petit Palais.
– Et on ne va pas au Petit Palais ?
– Non, nous allons au MiniPalais.
– Mais ça, c’est le Grand Palais !
– Tais toi et fait moi confiance.

Ouf, effectivement j’étais bien content d’arriver devant l’entrée du restaurant. Ce n’est pas parce que Mr French est français qu’il connait Paris ! Le MiniPalais est un énorme hangar, ultra chic avec un décor atelier d’artiste. Le sol en parquet, des toiles de bateau sur un mur, des morceaux de sculpture grecque sur un autre et une vitre qui donne sur le nef du Grand Palais. Comme dirait mon ado, c’est très stylé.

Surtout la grande terrasse avec ses colonnes impériales, ses palmiers, sa vue sur le Petit Palais et l’accompagnement d’un bon cocktail, si bon que le restaurant attire une clientèle plus tôt jet set et très Costes. De temps en temps ça me branche d’être entourer de très belles femmes et leurs hommes parfumés. On entre dans un autre monde, le dépaysement est assuré.

Eric Frechon, le chef étoilé du Bristol est aussi chef des cuisines du MiniPalais. Il nous offre une carte qui assure cette dépaysement ; créative avec une forte influence internationale et un esprit légère où le tamarin côtoie le tandoori et du piment d’espelette.

Dans les assiettes c’est bon sans être gastronomique, il y un déséquilibre décevant entre certain plats. La soupe de champignon avec châtaigne et foie gras était riche en saveurs avec des textures qui plaisent au palet, or le crabe en rémoulade était sans intérêt. Le saumon écossais était complètement fade, mais le cabillaud nacré de tamarin agréable en bouche. Rien n’était excellent, mais rien n’était mauvais non plus.

Entre le beau monde, une carte fusion et des plats quelconque, on avait la sensation d’être dans un restaurant Costes avec un twist.

After the Hopper show, we had reservations at the Mini Palais. What with all their masculine and feminine, and the dreaded subjunctive, it seemed natural that the Mini Palais would be in the Grand Palais, just across from the Petit Palais. Mr French had a hard time with the concept, and was sure I was leading him astray.

Which is why I was glad when we finally walked up the stairs and found the right entrance. Mr French was glad because there were two drop dead gorgeous woman standing there in form fitting black dresses, waiting to seat us.

I love the space of the Mini Palais. An enormous loft, it was designed to look like an artist’s studio; a very rich, not very productive artist, who collected bits of Greek sculpture and sewed up a few sails to make his drop cloth, which he hangs on the wall. Exactly the kind of artist who would hang out with the international jet-set crowd that fills the tables at the Mini Palais.

There is no artist. The crowd comes for the cool space and the even cooler terrace that features imperial columns, a mosaic tiled floor, palm trees, a fantastic view of the Petit Palais and excellent cocktails.

Eric Frechon, the Michelin starred chef of the Bristol is the executive chef here and her has put together a fusion menu with tamarind, tandoori and piment d’espelette all in a row. The food is good, without being great. Some of the dishes are disappointing, like the somewhat boring crab in remoulade, or Mr French’s tandoori salmon. While other dishes were actually excellent, notably the rich mushroom soup with chestnuts and foie gras.

Le Mini Palais is a fun place to dine after a late night visit to the museum or when your itching to pass some time with the see and be seen crowd, but what I really love is going for the cocktails on the terrace, which gives me another reason to look forward to the spring!

 

Frenchie

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There is a very popular local restaurant called Frenchie. Google it and it comes up in both French and Anglo press. One of the English language foodie sites even has a post entitled, Five Great Frenchie Substitutes. I’d heard wonderful things about what comes out of the kitchen and I was hoping to try it one day, but reservations are incredibly hard to come by (hence the need for a list of substitutions). Since Mr French is often out of town and we work late during the week, I rarely get to try places on the other side of town, or anywhere that requires any kind of advance preparation. Reservations are reserved for things like birthdays and three star restaurants.

There are so many great restaurants in Paris, that I’ve never felt deprived, but I am a curious girl and when the opportunity to dine there came up, I didn’t want to say no.

The restaurant is cute, with brick exposed walls and only about 20 place settings. Our reservation was for 19h, a bit early for Paris and I’d had to skip lunch to ensure I’d have an appetite.

It seemed like everyone had a 19h reservation, because a flood of people arrived at once. I was seated next to the toilette and every time someone went in my chair back would take a healthy blow, shoving me into the table’s edge. The waitress spoke perfect French and English, and was very nice about serving in either, or and both. We ordered at the same time as the other tables, were served at the same time as the other tables and were required to leave before 21H30. As a local girl, I found this military precision rather odd and it left me ill at ease through out the meal. There was none of the hustle and bustle of a local bistrot, and with everyone doing approximately the same thing at about the same time, I kind of felt like I was in a school cafeteria.

But I was there to eat and I was not disappointed by what was on my plate. Without taking notes, I remember having enjoyed some excellent smoked sea scallops on sautéed mushrooms with a meyer lemon cream. For the main dish there was a perfectly prepared piece of sea beam and dessert was a blood orange sorbet with slices of fruit and bits of cake. All of this accompanied by a glass of a simply delicious white wine from Greece.

The food was remarkably good. It was light and original; with flavours in foam, lovely textures and the best basic ingredients. And the wine, well after ten years here, I appreciate the opportunity to try non-French wines, this one was well worth being adventurous. I found the portions ridiculously small and as I did a bit of research this evening I found that I am not the only one. The Figaroscope review has a similar complaint, but argues their case with considerably more force.

I love a great meal, but after last night I realized how much I also appreciate a good scene, either fun and lively, or plush and romantic, depending on the soirée. Frenchie is neither and given the rhythm of the orderly service, the tiny portions and the great lengths it takes to get a table, well, I’d probably call a handful of other restaurants first; 21, Racines, Pinxos, La Table d’Aki come to mind.

FRENCHIE

St Malo

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photo from the restaurant's webpage

Two weekends ago we went to Cancale, and I raved about our trip, and it was fantastic, but then life happened and I start writing about more timely stuff, like the Paris Photo Festival, which I really encourage you to go see, which means I got side tracked and didn’t fully finish talking about our trip, which is fine, because, well, do you really care about every little thing we saw and tasted and experienced? I hope not, for your sake! On the other hand, I do like food an awful lot and we had some great meals on this trip that I really want to remember so I can book places for our next trip, so today, I am indulging myself and making a list of my St Malo favorite foods. First, the fish that got away.

On our first trip to St Malo, Mr French gave the a list of three restaurants he’d heard were absolutely stupendous and he told me to pick one and book it. I did, and the meal is still one of the best meals we have ever shared (more on that in 30 seconds). Number 3 on the list no longer exist, but number 2 is Le Chalut, a very traditional looking fish restaurant with a chef who once worked at Ledoyen and the Ritz. Michelin, Pudlowski and Mr French’s locally based colleague all rave about this place, so this weekend Mr French was determined to go. Unfortunately he did not share this ambition with me and he is not exactly the ‘plan in advance’ kind of traveler, so we arrived for lunch 20 minutes after the kitchen had closed. which means we absolutely MUST return to St Malo.

Another reason we have to go back is the dinner we had at St Placide, a truly exceptional address well off the beaten path and outside the city’s ramparts. This is the memorable meal I mentioned above. We didn’t make it there this trip. We ate there 3 years ago and we still remember much of the menu in detail. The sea bass with Tonka beans and the lobster with vanilla and ginger are now our benchmarks for inventive cuisine without too much fuss. And the dessert was full of surprises with pop rocks causing flavorful explosions in our mouths, leaving us giggling like school girls. Seeing a 50-something, French, ex-Rugby man giggle like a school girl, well, Mastercard could use the moment in their ad campaigns.

Not every meal can be an orgy of gastronomy. En fin, not for a size 10 body that will be returning to Paris to be surrounded by size 2 friends. A bit of restraint was in order. A simple meal in Brittany means one of two things; fresh oysters by the sea, or crêpes. Cancale has the oyster beds so crêpes were in order. There may be 200 crêperies intra-murs in St Malo. How does one choose? At 15h in the afternoon, you just go to the first place with an open kitchen, so we fell into An Delenn. Having lived in Montréal for 5 years, I was terribly amused by the Québec flag bunting the owner had chosen for his decor. The menu feature maple syrup, blueberries from Lac St Jean, and I suspect they’re working on adding poutine at some point in the near future. In the meantime, the crêpes were truly artisanal and we watched in amazement as he peeled apples for new orders, beat the eggs, galette by galette and flipped some of the best crêpes we’ve ever had.

On the way home that afternoon, Mr French was driving peacefully along when the woman next to him, arms flinging, screeched insanely, “Beurre Bordier, OH MY GOD, this is where beurre Bordier is from.” I had just seen the Cheese Shop run by perhaps the most famous butter churner in all of France. And it must be love, because instead of turning on me and laying into me for my insanity, Mr French calmly found a parking spot and I got to visit butter mecca. I strolled through the place bouncing on the balls of my feet and clapping my hands with joy, even though I couldn’t buy the butter because it would never have survived the trip to Paris and I can get it at my local cheese shop 6 days a week, anyway. A butter geek. Who knew? Yes, we suspected, but nobody really knew for sure until now.

At Bordier they had a flier for L’Ecole du Goût de St Malo. The cooking school that very well be our next excuse for visiting St Malo and the inspiration for another post like this one!
Le Chalut / 8 r. de la Corne-de-Cerf  / 02 99 56 71 58

Le St Placide /6 Place du Poncel / 02 99 81 70 73

An Delenn / 4 rue de la Harpe / 02 99 40 16 53

 

 

A hot night out

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Mr French’s daughter was born in July, so we often celebrate her birthday here in Hossegor. The restaurants in town are fantastic, but a couple of years ago we were looking for something particularly special to celebrate her 30th birthday. Lucky for us, that very same year the Michelin starred chef, Coussu, from the Relais de la Poste in nearby Magesqc (that is not a typo, just a town with an oddly written name), was invited to open a restaurant in Hossegor.

It seemed like the perfect place to celebrate. The restaurant is in a beautiful, eco-friendly, contemporary building of raw wood and canvas on the dunes over looking the beach. The westerly walls are sliding glass and there is a large, protected terrasse bordered with wild grasses that add a sweet perfume to the typical restaurant aromas.

Coussu is famous for what he does with foie gras, but here it is all about seafood and vegetables. There were flowers in our food, with clovers decorating our plates. A crab entrée (“starter” for anglophones) was a play on sensations, with a bit of crab infused ice floating over the warm meat and a bit of room temperature crab coral cream. Other dishes played with textures; rough, crispy, crunchy falafel bits adding a delightful hit to a fish dish.

This is one of the few, perhaps the only, fine dining experience I’ve ever enjoyed with a show, because as we were served one stunning dish after another the sun began to set. The colors were stupendous and even blasé Parisiens were standing up with their cameras to take pictures of the sensation spectacle.

Then the desserts came out and at that very moment J’s friend, who had her back to the kitchen, started waving her hands wildly in excitement. Her arms flung back, hitting the waiter and his precious cargo. A few plates went flying, the flambéd desserts with them and in an instant our table was on fire. Everyone’s attention was on putting out the flames when I started to feel a bit warm derrière. My seat was on fire, and my skirt too…

Astonishingly, the waiter scampered off, never to been seen or heard from again. We were too drunk on the happiness of the moment to care, a flamboyant end to a truly brilliant evening.

What the chef has to say; “Born in the terroir of Les Landes, cradled between land and sea, I wanted this “place”, a unique setting to serve an incomparable cuisine to the perpetual chatter of the sea”

Setting sail

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Mr French and I head to the beach every summer. I find it rather odd and sometimes constraining to return to the same spot year after year, but this seems to be a French tradition, and to be honest, after a very difficult year, I am quite relieved to be heading to a place where I don’t have to think. No planning, no guide books, no angst over where to dine, or hoping to see it all. Been there, done that, if not this year, we’ll be back. We both feel like we’re headed into a safe harbour after a year spent in stormy seas. But we’re not there, yet, we’re still in Paris, slightly on edge as we wait for Mr French’s passport.

Last night we needed to feel like we were away already, somewhere near the sea, so we headed to La Compagnie de Bretagne, a new-ish crêperie overseen my the Michelin starred chef Olivier Roellinger. At first, I was not a big fan of these new wave, gourmet crêpes, being the traditional girl that I am. But at some point I had to have to get over myself and admit that there are enough meals in a lifetime to enjoy the most excellent, traditional crêpes from my beloved Ty Breizh AND for the scrumptus new fangled ones from LCDB.

I love the ambiance here, especially the sunbeams pouring down from the skylight and the zen of an entirely black and white decor. It feels intimidatingly luxurious, but the prices are reassuringly welcoming.

Tonight I had a galette with grilled sardines and preserved lemons on a bed of steamed spinach. Absolute perfect for my palette and my waistline. My French had some squid with a divine safran cream sauce. Miam! For dessert there was an apricot clafoutis crêpe and the much more traditional caramel au beurre salé, both worth their weight in calories. And the cidres selection is rather impressive, with a serious cellar featuring artisanal bottles for every palette.

Usually you can go into the basement and visit M Roellinger’s cellars in their elegant, glass enclosed clay vaults. there restrooms are down there and they have an area for private events, but all that was inaccessible they day we showed up… there had been an incident involving fire and the basement was closed for the evening. Its seemed we weren’t the only ones needing a holiday!

We sailed home and crawled into bed, feeling like we were already by the sea.

La Compagnie de Bretagne / 9 Rue de l’École de Médecine, 6e / 0143293900 /         (M) Odeon

For something more traditional; Ty Breizh / 52 boulevard Vaugirard, 15e /                          01 43 20 83 72‎ / (M) Montparnasse-Bienvenue

Bonne fête, Maman

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Yesterday was Mother’s Day in France. In the US it is known as a Hallmark holiday, pushed into popularity by marketing campaigns hoping to sell more cards and silly gifts. But, it turns out that Europeans have been honoring mothers since the citizens of ancient Greece would get together, celebrating Rhea, Zeus’ mom.

In the 15th century the British named it Mothering Sunday, tying it into the Lent calendar, but it was only in 1908 that the US established the holiday and it started being adopted across the globe in its modern format.In France, it is the last Sunday in May, UNLESS the last Sunday happens to be Pentacost, in which case the Minister of Health, who is responsible for this holiday, moves it to the first Sunday in June (laïc government?).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I try not to buy into all those Hallmark holidays. Mr French and I don’t even have an anniversary and my children are the ones who remind me that my birthday is coming. On the other hand, it is great to be spoiled for a day. And this year I got TWO Mother’s Days, so I was really spoiled rotten.

The first was in NYC last month when my daughters sent me their wishes and some funny emails. After living in France for most of my motherhood I was surprised by what a public holiday it is in the US. Total strangers were wishing me a HMD. The grandmother in the hotel elevator, the busboy at our local café. I felt like a character in a Dr Seuss book, “No, I am not your mother.” I know that the sentiment is kind, but I can’t help sympathizing for all those women who never wanted to be moms, or those who desperately want to be moms, but can’t.

My second Mother’s Day was back home in Paris. Mr French spent the weekend spoiling his own mother, so I had my girls to myself. E joined me for a standard café breakfast, which I hadn’t done in ages, and which I loved. Then M came home 20 minutes late. She was late because she’d been standing in line for 1/2 an hour waiting for a gorgeous strawberry/raspberry tart for her maman. She walked in the door with the cake and a sumptuous bouquet of pink roses.

At lunch M and I had some of my favorite Vietnamese food from Mai Do, just downstairs and we ran into her BFF celebrating with her Mom, so it was a party. Finally, the girls gut me a funny, comic book style card all the way from London, then they took me out to one of the very few Chinese restaurants I can eat at in the city. Most places use so much MSG that I end up with an incapacitating migraine for the next 36 hours, so Chinese has become a treat that I rarely indulge in.

Lao Tseu - chinese chic

One of the ticks I have adopted as a Mom is that I simply LOVE when someone else picks what we’ll be eating for a meal. It is such a relief! If somebody doesn’t like it, I am not responsible. As a result, I particularly loved that they chose and organized Sunday night dinner. Coming home to a clean kitchen wasn’t half bad, either!

Merci les filles !

RESTAURANT/ Lao Tseu

 

A table

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I was going to stop talking about dating Frenchmen after explaining the choreography of getting through the door on the first date. But last week, Mr French and I went out for a lovely meal and I was reminded that the dance continues while you’re at the table.

Okay, you’re sitting down, so it is not really a dance, but there is a routine. And you may, or may not want to follow this routine, that is totally up to you and your personal style, but like any skilled rancher, it is best to know the lay of the land before you start wrangling cattle (really bad analogie, but I’m having fun with it).

I realize that the year is 2012, not 1962, but if you are out for an evening with a traditional guy, you should not be surprised if he expects to place your order. Or not. At first, I thought that this was just happening because I am old and dating older guys and assumed that guys in their 20′s and 30′s do not do the same. I was informed otherwise by girls who would know. And because the French tend to love to confuse us (masculine and feminine nouns… ‘nuf said) your date may place your order one evening and expect you to order for yourself the next.

How’s a girl to know? If he asks you what you’re ordering before the waiter arrives, you can guess that he may order for you. Of course, he could just be asking out of sheer politeness and perhaps he is genuinely curious, or looking for a bit of inspiration for his own meal. You can’t be sure. Fortunately, the waiter will generally speak to Monsieur first, so your date will order for himself, and perhaps even for you and you’ll mercifully hear the order, which is your cue to order. Or not.

That bullet dodged, here comes one of those quirks of French etiquette that I have not yet learned to appreciate; a lady never pours for herself. Neither water, no wine. It is expected that she sit there and wait to be served. Love the concept. But in practice, I tend to get very thirsty, particularly at meals and I like to drink A LOT.  At dinner parties I find myself pleaing like Oliver, “Please sir, may I have some more?” Its only water I crave, yet I feel like an incorrigible lush after about the fifth or sixth request. On a date, this can be particularly bothersome. He may be gazing lovingly into your eyes, completely enraptured in the moment when you have to break the mood requesting that he serve you a drop to drink, feeling like a mother reprimanding her negligent son to clean his room. I have yet to find an romantic solution, but I was recently advised that holding up one’s empty water glass and shaking it works for women who have been married a very long time, so perhaps this would work on a date. I have me doubts….

Back to our dinner at Les Garçons. Les Garçons is a local café. Fun and easy with an impressively young crowd for our quartier. We were there for a casual Friday date and were enjoying the ambiance, food and wine immensely. Les Garçons serves traditional bistro fare with a decidedly international, modern twist. The have a burger of the day, with special sauces from across the globe and creative entrées that really follow the seasons. Like any true bistro, the menu tends to rely heavily on the meats. When it is quiet, the chef comes out of his kitchen to chat. He is very proud of his cuisine and it shows in the quality on your plate. We were having a lovely evening and Mr French was being particularly attentive. Which meant, he kept filling my glass. And filling it, and filling it… by the end of the evening I was hiccup-drunk!

If things are going well on a date, you may also let down your guard as he generously serves you glass after glass and before you know it, you’re dancing on the table tops and a complete stranger is sipping champagne from your mercifully new high heels. This is probably not a good idea in the beginning. I had to learn to sip delicately and keep careful tabs on the bar tab, oh, and I’d wear fabulous shoes, just in case things went too far and they ran out of champagne flûtes.

Les Garçons

Eating New York

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Tipsy cocktailsI’ve been feeling like Godzilla lately, but looking more like the Incredible Hulk as my clothing strains and tears from the incredible pressure that is the result of inhumanly rapid growth.

“Did you have a bagel?” sighed my New Yorker expat friend longingly.

“Did you have a slice?” asked the Chief Parisienne eagerly.

“How were the street vendor dogs?” inquired my teens.

I didn’t try any of it. Unintentionally and completely unwittingly, this trip was all about cocktails and crustaceans. Merde! My nose just grew an inch. That was a lie. The cocktail part was absolutely intentional and completely planned. I didn’t look into restaurants before our trip, I researched bars. Food optional. But the seafood part was not planned, I swear!

When I tell My New Yorker about our food choices she starts to look a bit down, accusing me of searching out my own, native California cuisine. Its true, what I miss the most in Paris are the big, bright flavours of lime juice and coriander with lots of vegetables and plenty of heat. With the East Coast fisheries near by, my taste buds spent the week doing a happy dance; soft shelled crab, lobster and every style crab cake imaginable.

Some of our highlights were;

The Spotted Pig. I didn’t need to know more than the name and I was hooked. Didn’t even mind the 90 minute wait (probably because we spent that time at a wine bar next door) and was absolutely thrilled with their vegetarian plate main dish as well as their spicy cocktails. The rest of our party was bowled over by the shoestring french fries (fried with rosemary, thyme and garlic!) and their cheeseburgers. We were too stuffed to attempt their desserts.

Le Charlot. A bunch of Frenchies going to a French meal in NYC? Pathetic! But we had an excuse… I had reserved at the Central Park Boat House; upon our arrival, on a glorious spring day, with the red geraniums shining like party balloons and the white linen table clothes dancing in the breeze, everything looked perfect for a Pah-Tay. But alas, the restaurant had been closed due to an emergency, the Maître d’ assuring us that our lives would be at risk if we were to dine there that day!!! Mulling over the mystery, (had a sous-chef lost it, stabbing his boss? Did the health department find rotting food?) We headed to Madison Ave where two helpful sales girls directed us to Le Charlot. They had crab cakes on the menu, so our entire party was thrilled and our guest of honor, the French student who was living in NYC for the year, was ecstatic to see French standards that he craved from home. These were the best crab cakes we had all week and the rest was pretty good, too, although we were (again) too stuffed for dessert.

Beauty & Essex. More spicy cocktails. And then a few more. You enter this über swanky establishment through a door at the back of a pawn shop, although the three town cars waiting out front with the blazing marquee lights were a dead give away that we’d arrived. Upstairs, the barmaids wear the shortest little dresses and are only allowed enough fabric to cover one shoulder. It was an after work crowd with a drunken woman surveying which diners had read “The Many Shades of Grey”. I kindly suggested that she stop reading about it, buy herself some sexy lingerie, find herself a lover (preferably French) and start doing it. Oh, the food. Excellent. The ribs were melt in your mouth without being stringy and I could have had seconds of the lobster tacos and spicy greens. By now you can guess what we decided for dessert…

The Lobster Place. Fresh steamed lobster in a busy food court that was once the Premium Saltine cracker factory. Full of locals on lunch break and a sect of Japanese tourists who are obsessed with photographing their food. The lobster? PERFECT.

EAT. A café on Madison Ave. Ridiculously expensive, but really, really good and they had soft shell crab that was swoon worthy. Even the bread was good, which I don’t often say in the USA. Went two days in a row, it was that good (and somewhat convenient to our hotel).

Tipsy Parson. Only had drinks here. And a bourbon soaked dessert. Did I mention that I had planned to drink my way through New York? It was good and the atmosphere charming. Would have loved to have returned for a down home southern meal.

The rooftop bar at the Manadrin OrientalVue at the Mandarin Oriental. We went to this roof top bar for the stupendous view towering above the city and we were not disappointed by that, the thai beef salad, the Asian bento box, or the cheesecake. The cocktails were good enough that we all had a second round as we sat and watched the cars go round at Columbus Circle.

Okay, enough. I am starving now and I’ve just gained another kilo writing about all those calories!!!

 

 

Bakkus

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Last night I was working, waiting for Mr French to get home from the office. The girls are on April holidays so just the adults are dining in this week. The children we live with are mine, so dinner responsibility is mine, as well, turning this week into a mini-holiday for moi. Only half the mouths to feed means only half the mouths to please.

20h30 the phone rings.
“I’m on my way home.” Mr French announces,  “What are we doing for dinner?”

It is late, I am starving and we’ve got another half an hour before Monsieur walks trough the door.

“Raviolis,” I improvise, “the truffle ones from the Maison de la Truffle that I got at Monoprix last week.”

“How about we go across the street to that wine bar they opened last week,” he proposes.

Now, I LOVE truffles. I go to great lengths every winter for my truffles, but I am faithful to my men, not my food. I start doing the happy dance… no kitchen duty for me tonight!!!

Bakkus, the new wine bar, (hey, that’s a pun… Bakkus, Bacchus, only took me three days to get it) reminds me of Semilla; exposed walls, lots of wine and a younger crown than we generally get in this part of Paris. One wall is lined with glass enclosed wine bottles, each bottle attached to some new-fangled digital contraption that serves the exact amount of wine requested by the server. Directly facing that wall is a large chalkboard listing the day’s offering, each dish divided into three; avocado/crab/green apple entrée, or cod/anchovy/green sauce main. Ordering made easy.

Keeping in sync with the über modern serving devices, the wine menu is on an iPad that has information for each wine offered. Which is not a bad idea, because Bakkus offers some heavy hitters and it is probably good to know exactly what you’re ordering before investing in a Montrachet or St Julien. There are friendlier, more reasonable wines available, and there are three different serving sizes, so you can even create your own flight.

The food arrived and it was lovely. Served on slate or white porcelain, the presentation is original without being fussy. The flavours are pure and textures play an important role. The meal was not perfect, the house-made artichoke purée had an unintentional, yet distinctly burnt taste and I think a few of the sides would do well with a bit more seasoning. My favorite dish of the evening was dessert. A thick, perfectly carmalised slice of pineapple clad in a yogurt sorbet beret and a sash of verbena syrup. Light, with a palette pleasing balance of sweet and acid. Mr French nearly applauded for his alarmingly green pear that had been poach in a mint syrup. Secretly, I am afraid that he was thrilled to have found an easy, local joint for those moments when he just can not take another night of my “cooking”.

Bakkus – 97 rue du Cherche Midi, no website, yet.

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