Milady and I walked from our comfy hotel on the left bank through a Parisian maze of streets without a map or an iPhone and promptly got lost. Not call the gendarmes lost (because we actually asked two for help and neither knew any more about where to find Auguste than we did) but the kind of lost that happens when you think you know exactly where you are going but the streets aren’t in the right places, or the ones in the right places have the wrong names. Happily, Auguste’s one Michelin star was all that was required to guide us safely to the door. (Never underestimate a dragon’s olfactory senses at dinnertime – the Maker provided us with the ability to find a decent meal anywhere at anytime.)

Auguste is a dream. Despite our belated arrival, we were greeted warmly and ushered to a secluded table in this small but elegant restaurant. It was 8:15PM and we were the only guests in the place – apparently those in the know do not dine before 8:45 at the earliest. Still, the emptiness worked in our favor as the maitre d’ and waiter were quick to provide menus, water and the carte des vins. From the latter we chose a 2009 Chinon (Clos de Gillaumette) which was moderately priced. The amuse bouche proffered was a cheese puff, fresh and hot from the oven. Delicious.

Milady began her meal with the white asparagus offering. An artistically shaped glass serving dish contained the albino vegetables in a light tomato broth with caviar and fresh mint accents. It was an unexpected combination – but the flavors and textures played off against one another to create a very special gustatory experience. I requested the snails – expecting a competent preparation with wonderful French sweet butter and garlic bathing the little mollusks (they are mollusks, aren’t they?). Instead, the artistic glass bowl contained a bottom stratum of tender snails in a parsley and butter puree with a hint of garlic, covered with an exceptionally light potato puree baked just to the point of crusting. I’ve never had anything quite like it – and can’t wait til I can have it again. [Slurp]

The turbot chosen by Milady was a perfect square filet topping a bed of julienned onions and leaks. It was crowned with a fried quail egg – the perfect circle of yolk bright yellow/orange on the white, and accented by see-through thin browned rice paper. Milady was so overcome by the dish that she either cannot or will not describe it beyond smiling and annoucing it was wonderful – then smirking slightly because I didn’t order it and she did. I chose a simple cote de veau – two generously thick slices of the tenderest veal I can ever remember eating, roasted to pink perfection and accompanied by pearl onions in fresh green pea puree and fresh green peas.

We enjoyed a cheese course – a lovely semi-soft cow’s milk reminiscent of a very mild edam and with a distinctly nut-like finish. Speaking of finishing, Milady had a magnificent pistachio souffle. The scent of the nuts wafted across the table and was a harmonious accompaniment to my velvety chocolate souffle.

It was a wonderful meal, and we were able to walk back to the hotel in half the time. It seems that in copying the directions, Milady inadvertantly left out a step because the street names in successive steps shared an initial consonant, several vowels, and a final consonant. Next time we’ll remember to bring the map.