Before we go any further I need to enter several disclaimers. First, – no starving children anywhere were harmed in any way by the eating of this meal. Second, – any similarity between the names of the human male who is the consort of Milady and the name of this restaurant is strictly coincidental. Finally, – any conclusion drawn by the reader or other consumer of this review about anything mentioned in this review should be referred to a competent authority before being accepted as anything other than the independent impression of a slightly off-center dragon. (Are the lawyers satisfied?)

Lasserre is in an elite group of restaurants around world whose wine list prices read like the national budget account of a third world country. The prices on the food menu are so secret that they are actually printed only on the menu of the presumed host. This is a serious attempt to prevent one’s guests from suffering severe altitude sickness should they ever glimpse them. The waiters (no waitresses here for obviously sexist reasons) are dressed in real tuxedos, are groomed to a fare-thee-well, and are far more handsome than the guests. Finally, the roof opens and closes silently during the evening to allow the accumulated hot air to dissipate without disturbing the diners.

Our reservation was honored promptly and we were escorted by private elevator to the second floor dining room. In truth, the room was elegant and tastefully decorated with golden silk wall paper, fine Empire furniture with linens, bone china, crystal and silver to match. It was probably the most classically beautiful room I’ve ever encountered. The cartes des vins (multiple – one red, one white) magically rotate, depending on which edge is presented to the reader; one is presented with either the “better” or “inferior” (truly a relative measure, there was nothing second rate about any of the wines) selections. The rouge carte was presented with a flourish. The menus were short and to the point. This is a kitchen that knows what it does well, and refuses to even contemplate a presentation that is not extraordinary. After very careful consideration, I chose a fine Loire Valley Chinon vintage 2005 from a named, but unfamiliar vineyard. Light, with an elegantly refined edge and long follow through, I hoped I would be able to bury the cost deep in my expense account. To prevent any claims of light-headedness on the part of anyone, two amuse bouches were presented. One was a delight basket of parmesan sticks – gently warmed and just the right size to pop in one’s mouth without thinking, or having to bite. [Slurp.] The other was a lovely melange of fresh spring vegetables with a light sauce served on a slice of country bread divided into four bite-sized morsels.

Starters were listed in descending price order. Being a dragon of distinct tastes, I started at the top and ordered macaroni and cheese, for slightly more than I usually spend on dinner for two with appropriate wine. It was extraordinary. The pasta was stuffed with foie gras, covered with more black truffles than most places have in their kitchens on a very good night and augmented with a veal sauce. Under no circumstances would I ever consider serving this mac and cheese to anyone under the age of thirty, nor to anyone with a cholesterol issue; it gave new meaning to “rich” food, and was delicious. Milday chose this evening to compare last night’s preparation of white asparagus against this evening’s platinum standard. (The asparagus was weighed and the value of an equal weight of platinum was charged.) Perfection isn’t cheap. The asparagus were huge, delicately flavored, steamed in lemon and bathed in a perfect hollandaise. She was thrilled.

Main courses were equally exalted – in both price and quality. Milady had real Tournedos Rossini – complete with more black truffles and a generous slice of sauteed foie gras. I snuck a little taste (but only after I received permission) and was completely convinced that these were the best I’d ever tasted. Succulent beef with rich foie gras and accented with earthy truffle flavor. Frankly I was surprised Milday wasn’t overcome – but then again, she’s tough and a mere overload to her tastebuds is unlikely to present a serious obstacle. I chose the rack of lamb – a perfect pair of chops cooked exactly right – and lamb sweetbreads served as tiny morsels to provide a contrast. Lightly steamed spring vegetables were also served, but the highlight of side dishes were puffed potatoes as perfect as those we had in Cincinnati last month. Hot, crispy suggestions of potato ready for a fleur de sel and immediate consumption. [Slurp,slurp.]

Realizing there might be some funds left in the reserve account, the waiter suggested the house specialty for dessert. The absolutely, without a doubt, best chocolate souffle I have ever, ever, ever scarfed down – accompanied by a house-made vanilla ice cream that almost convinced me that vanilla ice cream can approach greatness on a par with chocolate. Speaking of which, coffee was served with a lovely loaf of pound cake and chocolate truffles.

Upon request, the bill was presented – and the maitre d’hotel stood discreetly by with smelling salts should they prove necessary. There seemed to be very little concern that we would have any excess fund balance in our purse. We outfoxed them though – we had enough left to return to the hotel by cab after an extraordinary experience.

Milady has finally begun to adjust to la vie francaise – we dined last night at 20:30 instead of our usual routine with dinner at 6PM. There’s nothing wrong with dinner at six, except in Europe most of the restaurants, if they are even open that early, are still serving lunch. At half past eight last night, the bistro was coming alive with Bordelaises chattering away, waiters scurrying to and fro, and the music of the kitchen at full volume. The atmosphere was wonderfully alive and the people-watching superb. But first, we enjoyed a day worthy of comment.

Our day was spent visiting with a recently discovered cousin and touring the monolithic church at Aubeterre sur Dronne. We took our midday meal at L’Hotel De France in Aubeterre, dining on the menu du jour while seated outside on the village square and being astounded. The astonishment was caused by both the meal and the church. The former was a 3 course repast which began with freshly prepared shreds of duck breast wrapped in a wonton skin and flash-fried to crispy perfection. Placed on fresh watercress and graced with a side of Chinese-style duck sauce, it was just so good I would have ordered several more and been deeply satisfied. The main course was a delicious bavette (the iconic small French beefsteak) – mine was delightfully saingnant, Milday’s was too rare for her comfort, but nice glasses of the vin ordinaire made everything all right. Dessert was a light, airy lemon mousse – the acidic citron freshening the palate in preparation for the afternoon’s explorations.

The second astonishment was the monolithic church. For those unfamiliar with monolithic churches, they are churches carved from a single block of stone. There are fine examples all over the area – St. Emelion boasts one too. Actually, the one in Aubeterre is not carved from a single block, but rather into the hillside. Entered through along a wooden bridge crossing the crypt, the nave soars more than 50 feet high and is supported by huge pillars carved by hand. There is a neat little reliquary and chapel with an audio presentation of the history of the church. But the astonishment comes from climbing the interior stairway, walking the gallery, and staring down at the sanctuary. Echoes of the past gently tickled my earbones as we walked along the slightly slippery limestone – and the touch of claustrophobia along my spine didn’t stop until we emerged into the afternoon sun. The ride back to Bordeaux was enhanced by both the operatic soloes and the samba music emanating (at appropriate intervals) from the sound system. Our driver returned us safely in the late afternoon – giving us ample opportunity to stroll back to Cognac Only for souvenirs. (Just in case you were wondering, cognac turns a dragon’s fiery breath a handsome shade of blue and adds a pleasant overtone to the normally sulphuric scent.)

We conferred with the concierge to find the evening’s dining spot – Les Noailles just a scant block from our rooms was his suggestion. Milady wanted to nap and “freshen up” after our extended visit to the countryside, hence the choice of a later, but much more lively hour. The bistro is quintessentially, well, bistro. The enclosed “sidewalk” dining area with the traditionally tiny round tables and too small, slightly embarrassing chairs, gives way to a warm, wood-toned room dominated by a marble and brass bar to the right and a maze of dining tables and banquettes to the left. Tiled floors, overhead fans (turned off at the moment), brass railings and huge potted palms with overhanging fronds complete the setting. Our waiter, red apron around his waist, salt and pepper short hair, mustache and harried expression was exactly as expected.

Smiling indulgently at the human male’s attempt to speak his sacred language (it amazes me that the Mass wasn’t sung in French long before Vatican II) he brought a fine St. Estephe (Beau Site 2007), two glasses, a glass of kir royale for Milday, a bottle of sparkling water, two more glasses and bad news all at once. The kitchen was out of the requested scallops with wild mushrooms, another choice would be necessary. An ongulet (flank steak for the American audience) with sauteed leeks was suggested, as well as pommes frites. The waiter didn’t bat an eye when we decided to share a salad of chevre roti as a first course. The toasted goat cheese on a slice of baguette was smooth and creamy, the accompanying greens varied and clearly very fresh, with a very light vinagrette dressing. Off to an excellent start, the main courses did not disappoint. Milady chose a grilled sole – realizing only as the cutlery was changed that it would arrive unfileted. Normally, de-boning fish is something Milady prefers to leave either to the kitchen, or failing that, a sympathetic headwaiter; left to her own devices, she proved remarkably adept at the task. The fact the sole was grilled to perfection with a simple butter sauce probably didn’t hurt. She pronounced it delicious and looked much happier with her main course than she had been at lunch. I found my ongulet deliciously crisped on the outside, quite saignant on the inside and a marvel of chewy, beefy flavor, even without the sauteed leeks, but better for their presence. The pommes frites were everything one could hope for – crispy, incredibly hot, and ready for salt. Meanwhile, our waiter was briskly serving several tables of three, including one teenage birthday girl who was thoroughly mortified when a large slice of birthday cake, complete with dimming of the lights and a roman candle sparkler, arrived to the strains of “Bonne Anniversaire”.

The platter of desserts arrived and we chose a bistro classic – pommes tartin. Not an American style applepie, apples surrounded by a thick pastry crust, but the French version of thin butter crust underlying thin slices of Granny Smith apples dusted with just enough sugar to crystalize under the broiler. It was idyllic. Our only concern was the length of time it took to receive “l’addition” after it was requested. A table of seven ladies, the youngest of whom was easily into her seventh decade, arrived and were seated adjacent to our table. Our waiter (who was also their waiter) scrambled around trying to meet their expectations – answering questions about the preparation of the dishes, the availablity of substitutions, suggesting a single appropriate wine for seven different dishes and generally doing his job. We waited patiently and enjoyed the show – complete with French soundtrack. It was a lovely evening of Gallic drama and gastronomy played out as only the French can.

The perfect ending to a perfect day. Ostensibly the oldest brasserie in all of Bordeaux, Brasserie l’Orleans is located about a wine bottle’s throw from our hotel – but only coarse, ill-bred, barbarians (Americans) would even consider throwing a wine bottle (after all, the French theory goes, there might still be some drinkable wine in it).

We spent a very pleasant day visiting some of the chateaux on the left bank and assisting them in reducing their excess inventory so that they could bottle the 2012 contents of their aging vats when the bottling truck arrives. (Ah-ha! Mise en boutille au chateau doesn’t mean what you thought it did – don’t feel bad, I was taken aback too. More about the great Medoc wine spree in another piece later.)

Apertifs, Kir Royale for Milady and Whisky Superieur for me, were just what we needed after a strenuous day of wine-tasting at some of Bordeaux most demanding vineyards. Complex wines with nuances above my comprehension demand serious appreciation, which was duly rendered but such appreciation can be physically demanding, challenging the stamina of even the most oenologically fit. A little whisky or a kir soothes away all those stresses and leaves only the hard-won feeling of accomplishment just prior to dinner.

The appetizers were a rosy red beef carpaccio with a “rocket” salad and shaved parmesan and a trickle of balsamic vinaigrette and an asiette de jambon with grilled toast and fresh mustard.

The meats were so thinly sliced I could imagine the sun shining through them (if it hadn’t been drizzling on and off all day). The “rocket” salad was actually the anticipated arugala (someone, somewhere, somewhen translated it from Italian into English exactly that way and it stuck) salad, delicious and the generously shaved parmesan had just the right bite. The thinly sliced ham was silky with just the right amount of fat – I think great ham is the Euro-equivalent of great bacon, ubiquitous and deeply satisfying.

We chose the noisettes of lamb for our main course, and were stunned by how good they were. Three perfectly sized, perfectly cooked (again, ordered saignant and served exactly that way) tournedos of French lamb bedded on thin sliced rounds of roasted potato. Nothing interfered with our appreciation of the meat. French lamb has a distinctive, meadowy flavor. You can almost smell the grass which sustained the creature. It is virtually fat-free and tender. Oh, to be able to get such a marvel at home.

We finished with a suite of hazelnut, crème caramel and chocolate ice creams – about which the less said, the better. They were so good that if I think about them I’ll drool all over the keyboard and short it out. Milady indulged in the local pastry delicacy, caneles, and was overjoy with joy.

A place we can recommend very highly – and would, if anyone asked.  

Dinner in France is special. From the process of procuring a recommendation, to obtaining a reservation, to the greeting extended by the maitre d’hotel on arrival, through the perusal of the menu and the service, up until the moment of parting – the French do it better and more naturally than anyone else. Tonight was no exception. Baffled by internal clocks six hours out of phase and a sleepless trans-Atlantic crossing, we really had no clue what we wanted to do about dinner, let alone where we should be doing it.

After the obligatory recommendation of the hotel’s own restaurant (which, by the way, is excellent), the concierge recommended we try Dubern, a short stroll from the Grand Hotel de Bordeaux where we are ensconced at the present time. He offered to make our reservation, and we accepted with a sense of relief. (The human male’s facility, or lack thereof, with the virtually sacred language of Rousseau, Napolean, and Jerry Lewis returns to its somewhat suspect baseline only after the first week – and we were barely off the plane.) The afternoon drizzle had given way to a wonderful soft evening as we set out, umbrella at the ready but not immediately deployed. As advertised, the restaurant was easy to find and looked positively pleasant with comfortable tables in a room whose simplicity belied its elegance.

The host greeted us as welcome guests (contrasting nicely with our earlier TSA experience) and despite the unfashionably early hour didn’t allow his demeanor to show even the remotest inkling of horror. He actually smiled at the notion that our bio-clocks thought it was a late lunch in the offing, and reminded us that traditionally the big meal of the day was eaten at midday. He took Milady’s jacket, my umbrella and handed us a menu and carte du van, promising to return and translate as necessary.

Dubern is actually two restaurants in one. There is a Michelin one-star “gastronmique”, but there is also a lovely bistro out front. As far as I could tell, the menu we were handed and the accompanying wine list contain the same offerings – they share the same cellar, kitchen and apparently the same wait staff. We ordered a lovely 2006 St. Estephe cru bourgeouise which arrived even as we were discussing the rest of the meal. The wine was smooth, not really tannic, what we have learned the French call “feminine”. It was complex, a nice balance of fruit and acid, with a bit of cedar on the nose. Very easy to drink, and exactly the right poultice to apply to our wounded psyches. (For a complete account, see my Facebook post on the indignities Milady suffered at the hands of the TSA in New York.)

My meal commenced with nine (count ’em, 9) fresh large local oysters. They were remarkably deep-shelled and wonderfully sweet and perfectly briny with a salt tang. Milady indulged her passion for white asparagus, puff pastry, and snails with gusto. Unexpectedly, the puff pastry was a crispy rolled tube containing several stalks. The tube, deliciously wrapped in bacon, was bedded on watercress. The snails were walking in a line across the greens, almost like little ducklings following their mother across the park. The entire assemblage was gently draped with a sauce Maltaise.

I chose the filet de boeuf Islay, and was delighted. A lovely bavette had been marinated in Islay malt whisky and grilled. Ordered “saignant” it arrived as ordered – medium rare, with an accompanyment of exquisitely grilled vegetables. The vegetables were fresh and presumably local; a carrot, a stalk of fennel, two leeks, and triangular lengths of cucumber and squash. It was heavenly. Milady had one of her favorite finny fish – John Dory. The fish was gently grilled and bedded on more white asparagus, then topped with a perfect Mornay. I could see the tension of travel melt from Milady’s visage as she took her first bite.

Best of all, dinner concluded with a shared “tarte de citron” and mojito sorbet. The coolness of the mint a perfect contrast to the sweet sharpness of the lemon. We strolled back to the Grande Hotel more complete, physically, psychically and spiritually than when we had left our abode more than two hours earlier.