There is no question that maintaining high standards for 13 covers presents a waiter with some significant challenges. Now if 2 of the party are vegetarians, another is pregnant, three are hatchlings (under the age of 8), and all consider themselves serious foodies (well, maybe only 11 of the 13), the poor soul has his work cut out for him. Abou, our server tonight at the California Grill, nearly overcame the challenges the gods laughingly sent his way. Unfortunately the restaurant’s billing computer betrayed his good intentions and made his job more difficult than it should have been; the kitchen, on the other For those of you who have never had the pleasure of dining at the California Grill, it is one of the few real restaurants within the boundaries of DisneyWorld. It sits atop the Contemporary Hotel (that’s the one where the monorail runs through the building) on the 15th floor. It has a commanding view of the Magic Kingdom and many of its tables offer unparalled views of the fireworks shows which grace Cinderella’s Castle several times each week. It has a virtually captive audience – the number of serious dining establishments in the metro Orlando area can be counted using less than the claws on two forepaws.
The flatbreads (a tomato and mozzarella and a pork and apple) were delicious, and appeared almost as soon as they were requested. Each was sliced into 8 bite-sized pieces; they were prefect little introductions to the meal – and prevented certain hatchlings from noticing it was somewhat beyond their usual feeding times. MiLady ordered a kale and apple salad as a starter. It arrived in a lateral presentation; four small, gracefully shaped mounds of lightly steamed kale with matchsticks of apple and a balsamic vinaigrette dressing. The taste was almost good enough to make me interested in green leafy things.
The wine list comes in two distinct parts. A nice, but very limited, selection is presented in the same menu folder which houses the carte du jour. Several reds and whites presented thereon are separated by their component varietal grapes (though not by country of origin). The actual wine menu arrived when requested, and contained wines which were more interesting, but significantly more expensive – I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that, but we were undeterred. We ordered a magnum of a Carneros Pinot Noir 2009, and a bottle of a lovely 2010 California reisling. Both were applauded by the drinkers, and were completely in keeping with our expectations for their style and price.
The menu features a relatively small, but well-chosen selection of entrees. MiLady’s request for the bison steak cooked medium to medium well was refused – with a sincere apology and an explanation that the chef believes that cooking bison to that degree would result in a tough, stringy, nearly inedible filet – and he is unwilling to present such a dish to his patrons. BRAVO! The recommendation was that MlLady order the beef, grilled over an oak fire, which could be prepared to her liking. She agreed, the beef was presented cooked to her preference, and the result was a completely delicious meal. Naturally I ordered the bison, medium rare; the filet was presented carved into beautiful slices with charred edges and deeply flavorful. Others around the table ordered other entrees and seemed pleased with their meals. The chicken served the youngest hatchling pleased him – and the unconsumed portion was boxed so that he could enjoy it either as a midnight snack or as breakfast. Our vegetarian friends ordered both of the vegetarian dishes – one a lovely-looking medley of four small plates, the other an attractively plated dish of gnocchi. They seemed pleased, but I’m not a good judge of such things.
Desserts were along the expected lines – a chocolate pudding cake garnered approval, and the lemon cheesecake, made with marscapone, was a delight. The piece de resistance, however, was the live fireworks show from the Magic Kingdom – it was a treat.
The bill was significant – and contained a serious error. While we had ordered and consumed but a single bottle of the riesling, we were charged for two. The error was compounded because the included tip was 18%, and on an imaginary bottle of wine that left me unthrilled. Much to the credit of all, once pointed out the error was corrected immediately, and with no fuss. As compensation for the amount of tip “lost” by correcting the erroneous wine charge , I raised the tip to 20% of the corrected amount and we all went home happy.

When we left home this morning it was snowing. Great swirling clouds of flakes threatened our departure and the de-icing of the commercial aircraft the humans insisted on using, caused giant orange liquid cascades outside the windows. Our departure was less than an hour behind schedule, and our arrival in the Magic Kingdom was scarcely more than 4 hours after departing the comfort and safety of the nest. The weather in Orlando was a balmy 80+ with a medium overcast and semi-tropical heaviness to the atmosphere. Traveling such a short distance, both temporally and latitudinally normally doesn’t induce the same feelings of displacement I experienced today, though perhaps they presaged my feelings about tonight’s dinner.
Wolfgang Puck is a culinary icon. His emphasis on local ingredients, without the stridency of being a contemporary locavore, and preparation, without being a martinet to tradition, always struck me as exemplary, and I was thrilled when the humans made reservations for dinner at the Dining Table in Downtown Disney. Surely the experience would be memorable and the titillations of my palate exquisite – and they were, though not exactly congruent with my expectations.
Let me start by saying that everything here is LOUD. From the crowds on the buses (and I’m not referring solely to their habilments) to the ambient noise level in a well-designed, nicely appointed (and not inexpensive) venue, it was as if someone left the volume knob slightly right of center, and then left the room in search of something a bit more refined. Or, perhaps my ears were still ringing with the roar of the jet engines which brought us here. (Murghk, let this go down as yet another reason for traveling by TARDIS whenever feasible.) The Dining Table is one flight up from the Cafe on Pleasure Island, and has a lovely view out across the bay(?). The staff is, excuse the expression, “perky”, courteous and cheerful to a fault. The menu is relatively simple and completely in keeping with my perception Puck’s iconic repetoire.
Having been in-transit for the better part of the day, we had dispensed with lunch, eating only a small container of hummus and pretzel chips and a liter of water during our travels. Naturally we required a stronger libation to consume while we perused the menu, but the establishment lacked a written carte des ecosses (a list of single malts). Our waiter did make a list of the offerings from behind the bar, and we chose our favorite 12 year old Glenfiddich (there being no 15 year old available) as a point of departure for the evening. The accompanying rosemary foccacia was mildly disappointing, being slightly cooler than the scotch, though the flavors of both deepened nicely as they warmed to room temperature…
A fine kale salad, large enough to be comfortably shared, as a starter was enjoyable. It was presented beautifully, the kale mounded into a light green haystack with nifty little dribbles of dressing delineating its edges. We particularly liked the small cubes of polenta which replaced traditional croutons, and the balsamic vinegar dressing which served to wake up the tastebuds so that they could appreciate the kale. Most satisfactory.
The wine list was modest – a thoughtful, though restrained selection with few bottles outside the chardonnay, chablis, pinot grigio, pinot noir, merlot, cabernet universe. The offerings were not inexpensive, but not grotesquely overpriced either. We chose a Simi Alexander Valley 2010 cabernet in the middle of the price range, and enjoyed it without being overcome with ecstasy. It was good and worked well with our chosen entrees.
MiLady ordered the miso-glazed salmon, and was not disappointed. A proper filet, cooked to a glorious pale pink was proffered atop a hillock of lightly sauteed green vegetables. It was pleasing to both the eye and the palate. Wolfgang Puck’s variation of classic steak au poivre was intriguing. Instead of French green peppercorns and a cognac-based brown sauce, the kitchen employs Sichuan peppercorns in a sauce which bore more resemblance to a good red wine reduction than a “cognac with a touch of cream” sauce. It was interesting, and something I would happily sample again. Sadly, the New York strip on which it resided was a disappointment. Ordered medium rare, it arrived medium rare – but with a soft outer finish indicating it was neither grilled on a hot enough iron, nor pan-sauteed over a hot enough burner – it may have been broiled, but too far from the flame to acquire a proper crust. Too bad, because the quality seemed reasonable, the sauce quite flavorful, but the ensemble fell short of iconic status. The roasted red potatoes accompanying the steak also suffered from insufficient cooking heat, they were completely cooked through, but the skins were moist and limp when they should have been a crusty contrast to their soft, creamy centers.
Desserts were a high point. The keylime pie, served as an individual tartlet, was really outstanding – and the meringue twirled on it was perfect – light and just browned at its edges. I did a major calorie splurge and ordered the bittersweet chocolate ganache. Two kindling sticks of ganache served with small chunks of nut brittle and a dollop of maple ice cream were delicious – and probably provided sufficient calories to offset a full week of serious exercise.
I’ll close by noting the food was good – but not as transcendent as I had dreamed it would be, given the level I had expected.

Just about two years ago, we attempted to dine at Keen’s before going to see Elton John’s soldout concert at Madison Square Garden. All of the wonderful anticipation, the expected joy, the fun, were devastated by our choice of restaurant and its perfectly orchestrated demonstration of how to create ill-will where previously only happy memories inhabited the venue. To briefly recap that unfortunate series of events is the best place to begin this review.
An 8PM Saturday night concert curtain at MSG complicates the integration of real dining into one’s evening plans. A suitable location within reasonable walking distance must be found, reservations procured and the maitre d’ alerted to time constraints beforehand. Keen’s, ideally situated outside the immediate perimeter of MSG but within a 10 minute stroll, seemed a propitious choice. A 5:30PM reservation was confirmed through OpenTable about 3 weeks in advance, and on the evening in question, promptly honored. That was the last professionalism we encountered during our visit.
We ordered a bottle of wine rather than hard liquor, thinking we’d enjoy a glass while awaiting dinner, another with our entrees, and a sip to settle our tummies as we settled our account. The wine, or more precisely the wrong wine, arrived after a mere 20 minute wait. Our waiter was MUCH more interested and involved with a table of 16 young white collars celebrating a major life event – and clearly expected to be able to retire on their largess. We accepted the wine, which had been opened away from our table without previous display, despite a significant difference in price (but sadly not quality) because we didn’t want to wait another 20 minutes (“Sorry. We’re very busy tonight”) for our choice “to be brought up from the cellar.” The waiter scurried off to fetch another “stoli rocks” and “tanqueray lime” for the host at the next table – and forgot to leave the dinner menus he was clutching in his left hand. Returning with their drinks, he passed around menus to the big table, and as a afterthought, shoved ours at me and said he’d be right back for our orders. It took some time as the young and restless needed more alcohol, explanations of several dishes, and then more drinks before they were ready to commit to the appetizers.
We fumed quietly, and our orders were still not taken as we began our second hour at the table. A trip to find the captain (unavailable, the large table required his full attention as they debated, loudly, whether the cabernet sauvignon would be an appropriate accompaniment to the mutton chops, or whether one or another lager, maybe a pilsner, no, something with real body, would be better) became a journey down to the maitre d’hotel to request the bill so that we could get out in time for the concert. The maitre d’ was polite, but insisted the kitchen could prepare our meal to go – it would only take a few more minutes. He then declined to present the bill – apparently only the waiter or captain could do that. I carefully calculated the cost of the wine, the NYC sales tax, and added 2 cents, “pour le pourboire” – dropped the money on the table, and we departed posthaste.
The hot dogs grabbed at the stand in MSG made us sick – and we left halfway through the concert, to make our miserable way home, vowing never to set foot in Keen’s again. We did write the management, received a courteous reply, but could never bring ourselves to return.
You can now fully appreciate what follows.
The Eagles History Tour was at Madison Square Garden last night. Milady, using her American Express Platinum Card, procured excellent seats and graciously permitted me to join her and the human male for the evening. It is, of course, unthinkable to attend a concert on an empty stomach – the rumbling would get in the way of the better vibrations emanating from the stage. So, a location needed to be determined, the reservations procured, etc., etc., etc. Using my new Open Table app on my smartphone, I procured a 5PM reservation for last evening. We arrived just before Keen’s literally opened their doors, and within moments knew that everything would be fine this time.
We were greeted and promptly seated at a quiet table at the back corner of the room directly opposite the front door. Ominously, a table of eight cheery young professional women were seated one table closer to the door – but apparently it’s another waiter’s station. Our waiter smiled and his smile broadened when we requested the wine list, countering his offer of “Something from the bar?” As he brought the list, warm rolls, butter, carrots, celery, olives and blue cheese dip were suddenly on the table. Water glasses were filled for the first time (and no matter when we reached for them, never allowed to be less than half full for the duration). Despite several other tables in our section, our waiter never seemed unaware of our presence or needs throughout the meal. Wine glasses were refilled properly, not overfilled in an attempt to reduce the workload. We chose a moderately priced California Pinot Noir (Harrington, Alexander Valley 2009) which was opened and the cork proffered for examination before pouring. It opened a bit tannic and quite tight, but by allowing the right amount of room in the glass when he poured, the waiter subtly indicated he understood what he was doing, and appreciated our choice. The menus appeared immediately, he withdrew while we made our initial perusal, and as we gently sipped at the expanding bloom in our glasses, reappeared. Questions about portion size were graciously and thoughtfully answered, and we ordered.
Our meal began with a shared order of Oysters Rockefeller. Five plump little oysters with the requisite spinach, shallot, cream and anise (Pernod?) saucing were served in their shells and my only concern was that there wouldn’t be enough of them to go around. [Slurp.] At the same time we received the house special “12 ingredients” chopped salad, an interesting and delicious melange of small pieces and harmonious flavors – it was a challenge to try to identify things like dried apricot and endive, but better just to allow them to fill all the little sensitive tastebuds with goodness. [Slurp redux.]
By now the Harrington had opened nicely and we were enjoying every sip of the essences of cassis and strawberry perfuming the wine. Our entrees were predictable choices. Milady ordered the fresh broiled dover sole. A simple but exquisite preparation, which depended on the excellence of the fish and putting a premium on the waiter’s skill filleting it tableside. It arrived beautifully moist, in four attractive pieces – boneless and carefully arranged on the plate flanked by lovely looking redskin potatoes. Milady announced it delicious, and exactly what she had imagined. I ordered the signature mutton chop. This is a significant piece of meat, about five inches thick with a substantial bone cradling two rounds of flavorful meat. As requested, it was perfectly medium rare, and a treat with the house mint jelly. [Sluurp!] We ordered the hash browns (a house specialty) and field mushrooms are shared side dishes, which proved worthy accompaniments. The potatoes were brown-crispy crusted with a salty tang, and the mushrooms were lightly sauteed, sweet, woodsy and with pleasant body. This is what the English probably think they’re trying to present, and at which they don’t usually succeed. The sweets and salts came together in a wonderful symphony of gustatory threads.
Plates completely cleaned, their whisking away was smoothly followed by dessert menus. We opted to share a dark chocolate mousse, decaf coffee and calvados to prepare us for the balance of the evening. Only the mousse wasn’t consonant with the rest of the meal. It was dark chocolate, but sadly it was timid – lacking the oomph to cut through the remaining meat flavors on our palates. The coffee was full, rich and soothing, as expected. The calvados, whose name is unfortunately lost under a grease stain on my notes, on the other hand was spectacular. I’m in love with the silky deep apple aroma, the soothing hints of caramel and vanilla in great calvados. Last night I learned about the tang of green apples and the tiniest suggestion of spearmint on the finish. Wow!
The check was brought promptly upon request. All of our concerns about our previous experience were assuaged, table of eight notwithstanding. (They were still enjoying their evening as we made our way out.) We expressed our appreciation to the waiter for his masterful service, attention to detail and comfortable attitude with a generous tip. The meal was costly, but we received full value for our money – and strolled to the concert feeling good about all that had transpired. We are already looking forward to returning simply to dine.

Dinner the night before last was sooo good the humans made reservations to return to the scene, even before the feast was fully digested. I tried to convince them to wait, carefully consider the options, and then, perhaps, next year make another reservation. After all, second acts can be disappointing (think about that guy you were crazy about after your first date with him and then remember that after the second time, you really hoped the glass of water you doused him with had caused the ink to run in his address book – or, for the younger set, shorted out his iPhone). In a thoughtful attempt on my part to prevent disappointment, I threatened to boycott the meal if the humans didn’t promise to order completely different items than the last time, thinking that if I wasn’t paying the tariff, they might not simply try to recreate a previous moment of gustatory bliss. [Stop the presses – major admission follows] I was WRONG. If anything, tonight’s dinner was more blissful than Wednesday’s.
Dinner began with the 2009 Chehalem 3 Vineyards Pinot Noir from the Williamette Valley. Smooth, a touch tart and rounded with the taste of ripe gooseberries and a medium finish, it set the right tone for the food. We began by sharing a portion of lobster spring rolls and second of grilled artichoke hearts. The lobster spring rolls were exquisite – sweet tender lobster meat wrapped in gossamer wings of incredibly crispy light egg rolls skins and served with a mango puree for the our pleasure. The grilled artichoke heart was surrounded by kalamata olives that had been kissed ever so lightly with a flame and caressed by lightly grilled shreds of Bermuda onion, sweet red peppers and a delicate dusting of parmesan cheese. The sweet lobster spring roll and the piquant artichoke heart set upour tastebuds for the salad course – and the humans cheated. They ordered the grilled fig salad again – you remember, the one with the melted cheese, balsamic honey, toasted walnuts and butter lettuce bed? I nearly had to stab the human male in the wrist to get my fair share of this treasure, despite this being a repeat.
Tonight’s fish special was a fresh, local Rainbow Runner – a species apparently related to snapper. Served with an unbelievably delicious spinach risotto and lovely rapini, it proved firm, buttery, flavorful and was set off by a local onion relish. Milady was extremely pleased with her choice and devoured it with gusto. Following my experience with that exquisite sous vide short rib the other night, I chose the Pork Trio. Comprised of a grilled skirt, a sous vide belly, and a tenderloin of wild boar – served with a fig compote, a chimichurri, asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes, it was spectacular. Each of the three preps paired perfectly (say that three times fast) with the sauces. I am at a loss to tell you which of the three was best – but I am rapidly becoming enamored with sous vide cooking. The belly was at once crispy on the outside and flowingly tender on the inside, an unbeatable combination of textures with just the right saltiness throughout. The skirt was grilled to perfection – a touch chewy under a very light char. The wild boar tenderloin was moist, pink and black and hinted at the flavor of the forest with a little chestnut for depth. {SLURP!}
Our shared dessert was a perfectly sized crepe of apples browned in cinnamon, butter and sugar, with a dollop of homemade buttermilk ice cream. It is arguably the best apple, butter and cinnamon combination since apple pfankuchen at the Old Dutch Tavern on Maiden Lane in Manhattan.
There was one disappointment – Barracuda Grill is closed for private parties on Saturday and Sund, so we will have to wait until next year to eat here again.

My unerring sense of direction suggests that locating Tom Moore’s Tavern in Hamilton Parish is right, but given how long it took last night to get into the city of Hamilton, I suspect the Parish and the City are related but not co-terminus – sort of like one can dine in New York, but actually be in Hastings-on-Hudson, no matter that some of the recent colonists look and sound like Park Slopeans. Tom Moore was an Irish poet of some reputation (see the entry for Nea Tucker in Wikipedia for additional illumination) who arrived here in 1804 as a servant of the Crown. He wrote to, and about, the calabash tree located on the property of Walsingham House which became a tavern, and as Tom Moore’s Tavern is reputed to be the oldest eating establishment on the island. Lucky for us, practice makes perfect.

We arrived after a short (and inexpensive) cab ride from our hotel ready for a casually elegant dinner even if no celebrities were expected. The house was a private residence before becoming the Tavern and is divided into several pleasantly intimate dining rooms. Neither so small as to require friendship with fellow diners, nor so large as to require outsized staffing, these rooms are just right. The staff can properly attend to each table, even when the dinner crowd is at its peak – and they do, with just the right mixture of British reserve and Bermuda warmth.

Presented with the wine list, we found one of Milady’s favorite vintners represented – the Joseph Drouhin Santenay (a Burgundy, more specifically from Beaune) was listed as a 2007, but the proffered bottle was the 2006 vintage, which was reputedly a better year. The wine was refreshing, delicate with the taste of rhubarb and a lingering finish which I believe was tobacco and anise – but Milady believes that my palate suffered damage during my fire-breathing years from which it has yet to recover, and that I am wrong (again). Milady began her repast with Tom Moore’s rendition of fish chowder in order to have a standard of comparison with last night’s offering. This was a somewhat richer flavor, with a noticeably more subdued pepper quotient, and the presence of carrots in addition to celery, onions, and perhaps a touch of smokey-sweet paprika. It was finished at tableside with dark rum and sherry vinegar, the aromas and contrasting tastes filling our nostrils with wonderful little pheromes. This version is a bit sweeter and a touch more rummy than the Barracuda Grill’s. We really need to arrange a head-to-head tasting so that we can further refine our ability to discern the relative merits. True to form, I chose the three preparations of scallops to begin my feast. The first was a panko-crusted, perfectly cooked morsel; soft meat surrounding by a shell of tasty crispness. The second expertly seared and featuring the scallops deliciousness without unnecessary elaboration. The final preparation was as a ceviche – the tequila and lime juice marinade highlighting the fresh ocean-ness of it all.
Main courses were extraordinarily fresh grilled rockfish (Milady takes advantage of every opportunity to indulge her taste for local seafood) and the beef tenderloin. The tenderloin was flavorful and presented with three perfect spears of asparagus wrapped around the middle with a girdle of toasted parmesan cheese, and a bacon crusted cheddar and potato wedge. It was reminiscent of Potatoes Anna, with mandolin-thin sliced layers of potato, spices and butter, but the crust took it to another level. {Slurp.}
One of the house specialties is a whiskey pecan tart with homemade vanilla ice cream – an irresistible temptation which I didn’t even try to sublimate into something healthy. It was, fortunately, lighter than its Georgia cousin, but clearly shared a common anscestry. Dessert for Milady was a perfectly prepared and presented vanilla souffle with strawberry sauce. The vanilla perfumed the air and the strawberry coated the palate with just the right amount of syrupy sweetness, making it a wonderful finish to a wonderful meal.

Celebrity watching is a popular pastime for many humans, including Milady, so I should not have been surprised when she decided we should dine at the Barracuda Grill. Dragons can rarely be swayed in their dining preferences by mentioning that Mike Bloomberg or Michael Douglas is a regular client – though sometimes the mention of Catherine Zeta Jones has had an effect on the weaker-minded (predominantly male) individuals of the species. Still, Milady usually bases her dining decisions on rational preferences, like the food being served. Dining anywhere in Bermuda is an enlightening experience; one increases one’s culinary horizons while simultaneously lightening one’s wallet – or as Dragosaurus once put it, “The perceived light at the end of the meal may be headedness, purse poundage, or both.” The taxi fare alone is not a recommended contemplative item for the faint of heart, and taken with a good bottle of wine, the tariff for a first rate dinner in Hamilton makes the rent for Manhattan studio seem entirely reasonable. Now that I have made it clear that dinner was pricey, were the tastes encountered in this eatventure worth it?

We began most auspiciously with a Williamette Valley Pinot Noir (Eagle Creek 2011) that presented ripe strawberries, opened into succulent Bing cherries and finished with fresh spearmint. Given that everything arriving here (and that’s any wine) is expensive to ship and heavily taxed, it was a relative bargain – but more importantly, it was delicious. Our waitress was properly impressed by our choice, and her efforts to improve our experience were successful. Milady was torn between the fish chowder (a widely offered and highly competitive Bermudian favorite) and panko-encrusted shrimp as starters. Upon hearing that I would be having the tamarind-glazed and seared scallops, she recommended the shrimp to Milady with the chowder to share. I had ordered the grilled figs with melted feta and balsamic honey over butter lettuce as a salad, and in a brilliant move, our waitress served the chowder and grilled figs simultaneously. The peppery soup with onions, celery, potato and shreds of fish contrasted stunningly with the sweet figs, funky honey and soothing lettuce. {SLURP!} We feared momentarily that the shrimp and scallop dishes had been forgotten under a heating lamp in the kitchen, but they appeared as the chowder and figs disappeared. By rearranging the order, our waitress created two perfect courses from potentially unreconcilable, however delicious, sets of flavors. The mild crunchy shrimp heightening our appreciation of the piquant tamarind glaze on the briny scallops. Milady chose grilled local rockfish as her main dish, served with beautifully prepared bok choy knobs and sweet sticky rice, it was deceptively simple in presentation but sublimely complex as a whole. I chose the Beef Duo. A small charbroiled filet and sous vide short rib presented on a plate divided by a line of parsnip puree. The filet sat on a bed of pureed potato and was topped with a “yolk” of flash-fried bernaise sauce. Tasty and inventive, the only drawback was the filet was a tad overdone. The sous vide short rib sat on spinach done to perfection. The rib itself was a marvel of crunchy exterior with the tiniest hint of juicy fat peeking through the crust, and meltingly soft meat below. The pairing was so good I had a hard time deciding which meat to finish first – I wanted each set of flavors to sit on my tongue at the end of the main course.

Milady chose, with the help of our waitress, the “cheesecake”. This version is so light and delicate it really deserves another name. It was somewhere between a mousse and a soft pudding and served in a tall squarish pot, but it packed an intense flavor. I foolishly allowed my passion for ginger ice cream to overcome my common sense – two scoops of ginger and one of chocolate were nice, but nowhere near the incredible cheesequake experience.

We made our way to taxi-stand vowing to return later this week and confirm our suspicions that Barracuda Grill may be one of the best meals we’ve ever enjoyed. Unfortunately, taxis were in shorter supply than great food – so it took a while to get back to the hotel and put eInk to ePaper, but it was worth it.

For our final dinner in Paris Milady decided to pay homage to an event currently occuring in many parts of North America – the emergence portion of the 17 year life cycle of cicadas. Our dining spot du soir was Le Cigale Recamier on the Rue Recamier near the intersection of Rue de Sevres and Boulevard Raspail. The connection? Sorry, cigale French for cicada and a word generally not encountered in high school French, though the specialties of the house, soufflés, are essential to the understanding and appreciation of La Cuisine Française.

Soufflés are the metaphors of cooking – more in intent than in existence. With no internal structure to maintain their height, they are tall and graceful one moment and completely deflated, and not very interesting, the next. Preparing one for an intimate dinner for two is a challenge – preparing dozens in different flavors and sizes for multiple diners on multiple schedules must be a logistical nightmare. The complexities of preparing and serving are vanquished at Le Cigale – Milady and I ordered nothing that overlapped, and we were served piping hot dishes at precisely the same moment by a wait staff who were friendly, polite and completely bi-lingual.

We arrived early, Milady suffers some lost dinner reservation anxiety (probably because McDonald’s never seemed to honor them, regardless of how long in advance they were made) and our habit is to strike preemptively. Upon arrival the restaurant was nearly deserted and we feared it reflected a decline in popularity since our visit last year. We were wrong – we were just ahead of the crowd, which completely filled every table by the time we finished dessert.

What does one drink, knowing the dinner, if properly prepared, will be 2/3 hot air? (And what if the soufflés fall flat and become irretrievable disasters? Can one enjoy the same wine which would have supported triumphs, or should one spill the wine, break the glasses and drink only tap water from repurposed jelly jars?) We found our answer in an impressive 2010 Chinon from the modest wine list. Light, adaptable and affordable, it opened nicely, blossomed with the starters and took hold with the main courses.

Milady and I shared the most delightful tiny raviolis, stuffed with fresh vegetables and served in a mild Roquefort cheese sauce. I do mean tiny, as most were smaller than one centime coin, but served al dente with correspondingly scaled bits of al dente vegetables swimming happily in the Roquefort sea. The contrast between the wine and the cheese sauce clearly brought out the best in each. Our main courses were soufflés – Milady chose cheese and I chose a Coquille St. Jacques. Hers was a sweet, creamy taste carried by the tiny bubbles to her palate. Mine was exquisite, the scent of briny scallops but not a morsel of substance, tickled my tongue and suggested perfectly prepared nuggets of just out of the ocean fresh crustaceans without actually delivering them. [I would insert a SLURP here, but then the soufflé would fall and the magic would be lost.]

Dessert was pistachio soufflé for Milady, and salted caramel soufflé for me. How they created the incredibly intense flavors working with only air and the merest suggestions of the source items is truly magical. We left with pleasant flavors basking our tongues, and the promise to return not in 17 years like the cicadas, but the next time we’re in Paris.

While we were in Bordeaux we realized the hotel’s minibar did not stock Glenfiddich, Laphroaig, Oban, Talisker or even Glenlivet and that if we wanted a serious pre-dinner libation, we would just have to stock our own. “Ecosse malt pur” is about as close as the French come to having the phrase “single malt Scotch” and fortunately it’s available, one just has to find a purveyor with some imagination. This is not to say the French have given up their traditional aperitfs in favor of something stronger, it’s just their way of acknowledging there are some folks whose alcoholic beverage preferences they can’t fathom. I tried to communicate my desire to purchase a modest supply to the hotel’s concierge, but without much success. I tried my pal Siri, whose ability to parse complex sentences is limited enough that her efforts are frequently a source of amusement – again without any useable results. (Though her rejoinders to my exclamations of “struck out again” and “no joy” could provide a good Jungian psychiatrist or comedian with a sense of humor with hours of interesting material.) Siri did offer the address of a shop not far away offering wines and spirits for retail purchase.

Milady and I set off in a direction which seemed counter-intuitive – away from the docks and the river – arriving at a circular “magasin” a few blocks from our hotel. I am a somewhat slow learner, but even I have come to understand that many, many different stores can peacefully co-exist in a single physical building. In American those places are designated “malls” – and no one has bothered to explain to the Académie Française between their traditional “magasin” (a shop with a single offering and single proprietor) and an American shopping mall (a whole bunch of shops, many with multiple offerings and almost all with corporate owners). The mall was fun to look around, but we were searching for scotch – and coming up dry. We became mildly disoriented (circular malls have that effect on my DPS (Dragon Positioning System) even when I haven’t been imbibing) and exited “le grand magasin” by a different door. Smelling the river (an old draconian navigation technique) we headed towards it, thinking to find our way from a known location back to the hotel. As we walked, a shop with the attention catching name of Cognac Only was suddenly directly in our path. While single malt scotch is the epitome of pre-prandial indulgence, cognac is the bookend to it. Naturally we instantaneously suspended our plans to return to the hotel in favor of an immediate and complete investigation. We entered the shop and were immediately under its influence.

Dozens of cognacs lined the walls. From the really big brand names with hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of hectares under cultivation, to itsy bitsy tiny producers with less than 20 hectares; from fancy presentations in Lalique crystal decanters to what might have been repurposed water bottles; and from a few Euros to uncontemplatible sums, cognacs (and their cousins, pineaus des charantes) awaited our attention. The proprietor is a young, charming gentleman named Pablo who is as enthusiastic about cognac as we are, but infinitely more knowledgeable. (You can see photos of both the exterior and part of the interior on my Facebook page in the album “France – Food and Foolishness” if you have troubling visualizing. I suppose I could also suggest www.cognaconly.com, but that would be cheating.) We understood (subject to some misinterpretation owing to a lack of fluency in my French) his family loved cognac and had harbored a longtime desire to open a shop dedicated solely to offering the best of the best, and now they have two, the one in Bordeaux and the original in La Rochelle.

We discussed our preferred characteristics including floral/herbal preferences, smoothness, sweetness/dryness, and price. Pablo offered several smaller producers including Aubrey, Gourmel, and Beaulon that would meet our criteria and be substantially less expensive for the same qualities than their better known counterparts. We selected a small (375 ml) bottle of Aubrey XO, tucked it in our net bag and forgot all about locating a bottle of single malt for a pre-dinner sip. Until you’ve tasted a truly fine cognac, there are no words adequate to convey the experience. Flowers, honey, freshly mowed grass and an unmistakable je ne sais quoi pour from a very ordinary looking bottle and into your glass creating a most extraordinary experience.

Naturally we went back the next morning. I was half expecting the shop to have vanished overnight, a la Brigadoon, leaving us desolate and yearning for just one more taste. Instead, it was just where we’d left it and the credit card slip the human male signed after Milady chose bottles to send back to the cave, provides cold hard evidence of its real existence.

Just beyond where Rue de l’Ancienne Comedie turns into Rue Mazarine, tucked in on the left side (as you walk towards the Seine) is a doorway proclaiming itself “Top Chef Alcazar”. It was the human male’s birthday, and Milady went to great lengths to secure a proper dinner reservation, but L’Atalier de Joel Robouchon was only willing to sit us on the male’s next birthday, not this one. The conceirge had made a backup reservation at Alcazar and noting the “Top Chef” designation, we strolled off to dinner down by the riverside. (It’s not actually at the riverside, but it is a whole lot closer to it than the hotel.)

Arriving far too early (by Parisian standards) at this enormous restaurant, we were seated at a nice enough table in the English language section (we could tell because menus were in English and had a little red dot on the cover to distinguish them). Milady had a pleasant view of the kitchen, and I rubbed shoulders with the waiters every time they needed a basket of bread or clean silver. Our waiter was charming, and clearly an American intent on making his bones (an unfamiliar phrase? See The Godfather by Mario Puzo for a contextual explanation) as a real restauranteur by working in Paris. He was terrific, despite the occasional accentual lapse, and really took making our dinner pleasant seriously. We ordered a 2009 Burgundy, Givery 1er Cru, “Clos Jus”, Vincent Lumpp which was one of a number of reasonably priced offerings on the wine list. The waiter returned with the 2011, explaining there was no 2009 remaining. When I gave him a look and resumed examining the list, he mumbled something about “one more place to check” and returned with the correct vintage a few minutes later. Unlike the 2011 (which we feared would be too young), this one was ready to drink – a refreshing taste of bing cherries, and a lightness attributable to a relatively low alcohol content (13%), with a hint of spearmint on the palate as it finished.

The dinner menu is interesting. (No, not in the sense of the ancient Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.”) The entrees (French, throughout Paris and perhaps the rest of the civilized world, for starters or appetizers) are pretty standard – Milady chose the “King Prawn Salad with Mango and White Asparagus”, and I went for the “Burgundy Snails (6)”. There isn’t much one can do when presenting traditionally prepared snails – the little silver tray with depressions, the small pointed fork, and the snail holder that looks like an instrument of medieval torture – but the kitchen should have the self respect to make sure the snail shells are unburned and intact. (For the uninitiated, the snails are prepared outside the shells and placed in separately purchased, reuseable shells, for soley for the purposes of making an attractive presentation of the dish. When exposed to an open flame for too long, the shells burn, and when heated in the oven before serving, they fracture at the back, exposing the snail. The sous-chef should really rescue the snail, reshell it, and then place it for serving. It didn’t happen that way this evening.) To be fair, they were delicious, tender and very tasty, if lacking the assertiveness one would normally expect in the garlic butter. The king prawns were presented head on, sitting attractively on a bed of white asparagus and dotted with small pieces of mango. The saucing was mild, but accentuated the mango and asparagus flavors.

Milady loves fish, and Alcazar featured a dish described as “wild cod.” The cod was firm, precisely cooked and delicately flavored. The saucing was decidedly timid, a milk emulsion with no distinguishing characteristics other than its completely successful desire to be inoffensive. The stalks of bitter green vegetable material topping the presentation were probably there just for color. I ordered the filet de boeuf with peppercorn sauce, medium rare. The beef was flavorful and tender – unfortunately the kitchen apparently lacks a hot enough flame to crust the exterior of the filet, and the sauce au poivre (which had a nice balance to it) somehow congealed almost immediately after the plate was set in front of me. Plopped in the middle of the plate like a failed floating island, surrounded by “skinned” sauce, the dish failed to achieve its potential. French fries, served on the side, could have provided a platform, improving the visual qualities of the most expensive item on the menu. A “Top Chef” presentation this was not.

Desserts also fell short of expectations, if not also short of their potential. The vacherine of strawberry and liquorise was beautiful to behold – bright strawberry sorbet and a very mild anise sorbet separated by layers of wonderful meringue, topped with chantilly (real whipped cream) left me feeling the flavors had been “dumbed down” so as not to offend the diner with their assertiveness. The “Bourbon Vanilla Millefeuille” had only two major shortcomings. The millefeuille pastry had been left in the oven too long, developing a distinctly burnt flavor (though it looked only very slightly darker than expected, it was actually the only assertive flavor of the evening) and a complete absence of bourbon vanilla flavor in what might have passed for a second-rate cannoli cream, lacking both richness and texture. It wasn’t bad, just not what one expected given the “Top Chef” design.

Certainly edible, but just as certainly, a disappointment. (The wine, however, was wonderful.)

C’est Mon Plaisir, Paris, France – 5/26/2013

France views itself as the cradle of civilization, and Paris views itself as the cradle of France. At least that’s the line from all of the locals, and I’m not prepared to argue with them except when it comes to dining out on Sunday (or Monday – but we’ll get to that tomorrow) evening. After a hard day of demonstrating against gay marriage and adoption, the hundred and fifty thousand or so demonstrators were all tired and hungry and in our neighborhood – only to find that most of the bistros, bars tabac and restaurants were observing the sabbath. This vexed the marchers, leaving them with unresolved conflicts and low blood sugar, so they slouched around Montparnasse and blocked the sidewalks and the few open places. Such behavior is NOT civilized, as was attested to by the wailing sirens of the gendarmes and the Croix Rouge. If they had made dinner reservations instead of expressing reservations about the new laws, we would have had a much more peaceful Sunday.

As the demonstrations were breaking up, we strolled along the Boulevard Montparnasse to a lovely little place called C’est Mon Plaisir which had received high recommendations from the staff at the hotel, and which we’d eaten at two years ago. We remembered enjoying it, but Milady hadn’t yet exercised the warranty on her old knees and had them replaced with new ones, so the stroll was a struggle and dinner lost on her in a haze of oxycodone and on me in concern about how to get her back to the hotel. This time we enjoyed the stroll and could focus on the food, which was very good. As with most of the places we’ve frequented this trip, CMP is small – but it feels much bigger with huge glass front windows and skylights – seating between 30 and 40 dinner patrons. We were seated beside the front door at a delightful table with a fine view of the gendarmes vans hauling unruly protesters off to processing – they were likely to miss dinner and be sent to bed hungry as punishment for their rowdiness.

The menu is limited – but each item is a treasure. The wine list is limited, and nowhere near as pricey as we’ve become accustomed to navigating. We chose a 2011 pinot noir without a distinguished lineage but with nice body and good fruit. It proved just the right choice for Milady’s mussels with crumbles of duck in a cream curry sauce. Silky duck, fat little mussels and a curry flavor bringing it all together to make one’s mouth water. I had ravioli filled fois gras – the little pockets of pasta stuffed with stuffed goose liver were unbelievably tender and tasted rich and gooey.

As a main course Milady chose the maigret of duck. For those of you who are unfamiliar with it, a maigret is a boneless breast of duck where the cooking has completely rendered the fat, leaving the meat succulent and fork-tender. This was. I chose the prawns and was pleasantly surprised by the presentation. Six large (but scarcely jumbo) shrimp placed on a bed of cooked fresh spinach cleverly seasoned with a very light dusting of “Indian” spices – not like a hot curry, but a cool tumeric and coriander blend which made the spinach almost a florescent green.

Dessert was something I usually avoid, but because of the vagaries of menu translations (we were given an English language menu, a nice idea but sometimes the translations and the food don’t quite match up) I order what I thought was a gateau de chocolate. What I received was a “molten chocolate lava” cake with a dollop of really excellent vanilla ice cream. No harm, no foul. Milady’s blueberry cheese cake was so-so; a respectable cheesecake topped by a confiture des bluets, but not special enough to warrant the caloric cost.

We strolled home from dinner pleasantly sated, but scarcely blown away. This is a lovely place to enjoy a pleasant meal and we did.