For as long as Milady and I have been coming to Paris, we have been eating at Le Voltaire. It was our first love, and it has endured. We’ve eaten at multiply starred Guide Mich establishments, but none has ever captured our hearts in the same way. Tonight was no exception.

“Our” waiter recognized us (never mind that our last meal there was about a year ago) and greeted us as warmly as if we’d eaten there last week. We were escorted to a beautifully set table (which would have seated four in most Paris restaurants) and immediately provided with fresh sweet butter, morsels of toasted bread, menus and the carte des vins. The cellar is extraordinary, the only thing in short supply are wines one can afford without cramping one’s style. Fortunately a careful perusal of the list yielded a fine Bordeaux, the 2005 Chateau Penat (St. Emilion Grand Cru) which delighted not only our waiter, but our palates (and our purse).

Settled with a fine bottle gently breathing on the table, our attention turned to food which would go well with the wine. White asparagus are currently in season throughout Europe, and the French have a way with the stalks. We chose to split a starter order – served with a mustard or hollandaise sauce on the side (our waiter thoughtfully provided both) it was perfect. The asparagus gently steamed to a perfection highlighted by the sauces.

The carre d’agneau (rack of lamb) is available only if shared by two – and Milady graciously consented to let me have a few bites, cooked á point. French lamb is an entirely different flavor, far more delicate and lighter than either its Anzac or American counterpart. Closing my eyes, I could smell the fresh, slightly briny meadows of Normandy where the very best lamb is raised. The proffered surgically sharp knife was barely required to remove the meat from the bone. Placed in one’s mouth it melted gently leaving only a whisper of salt air and green grass. [sigh]

The dessert menu is ample, but the only proper choice is the chocolate mousse which is the specialty of the house. A rich dark chocolate, it should be (and was) accompanied by a tiny espresso and a snifter of aged calvados. The trio of flavors was heavenly – and beyond my powers to describe.

This musing will try to follow the example set by the meal – nothing unnecessary to the appreciation of a fundamental truth. 

I’ll tell you about l’Epicuriste only if you promise to keep it a secret. It’s a small restaurant, only about 50 seats, located within sight of the Eiffel Tower – but the tourists haven’t discovered it and I hope they never will. Milady has an uncanny knack for dealing with concierges, and has coaxed several of them to reveal secrets like “Where would you eat if you wanted a really good meal but didn’t want to have to give up eating for the rest of the month to pay for it?” L’Epicuriste is one of the answers. It has a prix fixed menu for 32€ without dessert or 37€ with it. Aperitifs, cocktails, wines are extra, but tax and tips are included, making it a bargain. The menu is limited and changes frequently, largely depending on what’s good at the market, but quality is consistently very high. The chalkboard brought to the table when you sit down and the carte des vins which accompanies it are evidence of a carefully disciplined approach and the results are outstanding.

Today was cold, rainy and despite it’s being May, it felt like December. At the top of the chalkboard (which is only in French, no printed English version here) was a split pea soup – the perfect answer to the weather. Fragrant, delicate, hot and the most gorgeous green, we slurped it down with gusto. (Well, actually we ordered a 2006 Chateau Plaisance (Grand Cru Bordeaux) and slurped it with that.) Restored by the soup and our first glasses of wine, Milday insisted I translate the main courses. Fortunately for me, there were only a half dozen offerings – each more challenging to my medievally learned French than the next. Ever gracious, our waiter stepped in after I mangled the first attempt, and gave a useful and credible description of each item. Milady chose the cod with vegetables and was treated to a beautiful filet which had been soaked in milk and then roasted to perfection and served on a bed of root vegetables. No fishy odor (sometimes an issue with a strongly flavored fish like cod), only the scent of the vegetables, including a stalk of freshly roasted rhubarb which provided a surprising depth and a hint of sweetness to the melange. I chose the gigot d’agneau, a longtime favorite accompaniment to a red bordeaux. The slices of lamb were perfectly pink and presented en casserole with diced eggplant, red peppers, onions, green peppers and a hint of garlic which had been sauteed and then deglazed with red wine and seasoned with parsley, rosemary and thyme. (There may have been a bit of sage as well, but my editor didn’t want to pay the royalties its inclusion would have triggered.)

Desserts were listed and included “Pavlova” with fresh fruit, rice pudding, chocolate quenelle, cheese cake with fruit sauce and a cheese plate. Milady confessed to the waitress that we were unable to translate “Pavlova” and when it was explained it was a lemon meringue, asked for help deciding between it and the cheesecake. Smiling, the waitress unhesitatingly recommend the cheesecake – and she was absolutely correct. I devoured the chocolate quenelle – which was augmented by a tiny scoop of homemade vanilla glace and candied hazelnut. We walked back to our hotel and poured a bit of cognac to celebrate.

What a wonderful meal – but remember, you promised you wouldn’t tell anyone, or else. 

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.  

So, let’s assume you are in Cincinnati, on Saturday night, and you’re going to have dinner with an old friend to celebrate his birthday. Before you do anything else, climb into the Tardis and crank it back a week so that you can get a reservation at Orchids at Palm Court! When you return to the current time, you may need to check your chronostatus because the restaurant looks very Art Deco and incredibly brand new. Until some heathen takes out a cell phone and disrupts the seamless continuity of glass, gleaming brass and polished wood, the feeling of stepping back into a (much) better mannered era of elegance and anticipation could be confused with an actual timetrip. Fortunately, we didn’t need the Tardis because we had reservations made by the birthday celebrant’s thoughtful spouse. Upon arrival, we were escorted to a spacious table, set with the good silver and crystal. Not a hatchling in sight – this is clearly a very grownup place. Milady, upon later reflection, thought it was similar to dining at Peacock Alley at the Waldorf in Manhattan, but I think it’s better. While Art Deco décor predominates in both rooms, the warmth of Orchids makes it a far more comfortable venue.

Our friend and his personal preferences are clearly familiar to Charles, who seemed to be acting as maitre d’hotel, sommelier and waiter. A bottle of sparkling wine (tucked where I was I was unable to confirm it was Champagne champagne, but it was magnificently crisp and bubbly) arrived, glasses were filled, and the first toast of the evening drunk to the health of the party’s cause. A brief discussion with Charles ensued, and hearing our preference for red over white, a superb bottle of 2010 Chinon appeared shortly thereafter. I can fall in love with a restaurant with a great wine list and knowledgeable staff to present it, and sipping away at the Chinon I was on my way.

Charles recited the specials, and each sounded more intriguing than the next. As we were deciding which delicacies were most worthy of our attentions, amuses-bouches of tuna crudo were delivered and immediately brought discussions to a screeching halt while they were devoured. In a salute to our home, Milady and I shared the wonderful Hudson Valley Foie Gras served with whipped strawberry and rhubarb on tiny little johnnycakes. Just thinking about how rich it was makes me think the French are right about maintaining one’s own liver in good condition – if only to be able to enjoy such a treat over and over and over again.

Second courses arrived. Several members of the party, including Milady, ordered the morels, which arrived in a wonderful cognac-scented cream concoction with oyster and shitake mushrooms as well. The fungi were woodsy, chewy and utterly decadent. Being different (honestly now, how many green-breasted pink dragons do you know?) I chose the bleu cheese beignets. My French-English dictionary misinterpreted beignet as “doughnut”, entirely missing the essence. The morsels of warm, melted, and very piquant bleu cheese gently swaddled in wrapper halfway between phyllo dough and a brioche were exquisite.

(You may pause here for a palate cleansing sorbet and a sip of something bracing – then continue on to the main course, I would.)

The entree I chose was Lamb Milanese, and I’m glad I did. My understanding of “milanese” is a chop, pounded thin, breaded and then fried. I have nothing against it- provided the chop couldn’t get to the table without considerable culinary assistance. This version was a boneless round of lamb, tender without suffering the indignation of being beaten to death, dusted with a barely noticeable crust of what were presumably breadcrumbs (though I suspect pretzels may have been employed because bread is rarely that crisp) and cooked in some unspecified manner. The result is magnificent. Crisp and tender while retaining its essential lambiness – Shari Lewis probably wouldn’t have approved, but a dedicated omnivore like me can’t resist.

No meal is complete without dessert – but most desserts, even at great restaurants are variations on a theme. Orchids is different. The menu said “cheesecake” and I passed. Milady, on the other talon, adores cheesecake, and ordered it. Herewith, I admit to one of my exceptionally rare mistakes. But I’m not entirely to blame – the menu clearly said “cheescake” but it wasn’t – it was a cloud with cheesecake nuances; a sublime metaphorical cheesecake with an existence more in intent than actuality; a cheesecake that defies the laws of gravity. (Got the idea? It was really light and delicious.)

Cincinnati? My kind of town – with my kind of food.

We arrived in the City of Light on the TVG from Bordeaux early this evening. The trip was smooth and uneventful, allowing me to transcribe my notes from yesterday’s vineyard visitation (posted under “Wining in Bordeaux”) and grab a little nap. (The nap was delicious, but a bit hairy nonetheless.) We walked from the Gare Montparnasse to our room at the Victoria Palace hotel – despite my pleas to simply take the TARDIS from the Grand Hotel de Bordeaux and avoid any reliance on other forms of temporal transition. I hate moving luggage, and because I am the biggest and strongest member of our party, its always my job.
Paris is glorious! Our hotel room is beautiful – and Milady had the foresight to reserve a table at one of my favorite restaurants. Restaurant Josephine “Chez Dumonet” on the Rue de Cherche-Midi in the 6th arrondissement, makes the finest boeuf bourgeon in the world. Better than Murghk’s, better than anyone’s, and portion sizes that would satisfy a French-Canadian lumberjack coming off a hunger-strike. “Chez Josephine” as it is colloquially known, is a quintessential Parisian restaurant. A single store front wide, it has a little bar in the front, a room seating no more than 25 or 30, and a chef who produces bourgeois cuisine better than anyone else in Paris (and perhaps the whole world).
The restaurant staggers its reserved (yes – you really need a reservation, even on Wednesday night) seatings. We asked for 8PM and were offered 7:30, which we gratefully accepted. We arrived promptly and were seated at our favorite table, at the back of the room and against the wall. The owner/maitre d’/husband of the chef served us a glass of the house white wine moments after we were seated. The waiter brought crusty, dense bread and fresh sweet butter moments after that. Then the carte des vins and menus followed in due course. Taking our cue from Charles (at Orchids in Cincinnati) we ordered a 2011 Chinon from the modest and very carefully vetted wine list. Chez Dumonet clearly takes pride in its offerings and the wine list is focused on values rather than show labels – but quality comes at an ever increasing price, so be forewarned.
This was our fifth visit, so we’ve finally learned to share the starter, the main course and the dessert. The special was white aspargus with a tomato-scented hollandaise and was out of this world. Big, thick white asparagus stalks simmered to tenderness and served warm with the sauce on the side was a great way to begin the meal. This was followed by the world’s best bourgeon – large tender chunks of excellent beef simmered in red wine and mushrooms until the beef is so tender it can collapse off one’s fork, leaving a gravy blot on one’s clean shirt. No matter – a good laundress can make it disappear, but you will never forget the flavor; rich beefiness with a hint of salt and a satisfying density. Dessert was a perfectly prepared souffle (which you must remember to order with your main course) with a touch of Gran Marnier. The sharp orange of the liquor contrasting brilliantly with the sugar and egg whites of the crust.
We left contented – and with enough left in our purse to fund another day here, the tariff being moderate by local standards.

Where shall I begin? Le Pressoir d’Argent is a Guide Miche one star in the process of earning a second, so every one and every thing is exquisitely presented. The room is gorgeous, in a classic style with tables set elegantly far apart, a ceiling high enough to permit indoor kite-flying and a staff as skilled as the kitchen. If every resaurant followed this formula, Murghk could give up cooking – assuming he actually holds last Saturday’s winning Powerball ticket. The tariff is definitely not for the weak of heart (or faint of pocketbook), but worth every Euro the human male spent. (How often have you heard me say that?)
We were greeted and shown to a lovely table against the far wall in the first room. Quiet and unobtrusive, with a good view of the rest of the room, it boasted a wonderful serving staff. After a polite inquiry about cocktails (which we declined), the carte des vins was promptly offered to the male. As one should expect in the absolute heart of wine country, it was heavily weighted towards local vineyards, and carefully curated to prevent oenophilic anxiety; though the number of bottles not requiring a second mortgage on the nest was limited. We chose a 2005 from an unfamiliar chateau, but either the sommelier thought it appropriate or completely off the wall because he smiled as he said “Excellent” and scurried off to the cave to retrieve it. For the record, it was superb – full, rounded with tannins that became velvety as the wine opened and released dark red fruits with a hint of cedar and earth on the extraordinarily long finish.
Starters were exquisite. As we were puzzling through the menu, a lovely amuse-bouche was presented, and included macadamia nuts dusted with gold (literally!), a long, crisp and very thin breadstick stuck in an almost mustardy mayonnaise, and a lobster mousse dollop on a slightly savory macaroon. A second amuse bouche, a tantalizing taste of red mullet with vegetables in a broth was so good it gave Milady second thoughts about her main course – fortunately it was too late for her to change her mind. Milady ordered the fois gras; marinated in white wine, roasted and served with country bread. I ordered the scallop carpaccio which is served as two scallops covered with an overcast of foie gras then kissed with a flame, on crispy rounds of mango. It is finished with a drizzle of Xerez balsamic vinegar. The contrasts of soft and crisp, sweet and sharp, hot and cold are simply perfect. [Slurp]. To ready you for the main course, a delightful palate cleanser of blood orange sorbet topped with a froth of Tahitian vanilla. At this point one begins to think that the rest of the meal must necessarily be a letdown, but one presses valiantly on to the main event.
The speciality of the house is the world famous blue lobster of Brittany. It is priced in 100 gram (about 3 1/2 ounces) increments to prevent sticker shock; you choose your own lobster (lobsters are integral units, so you must order a whole one), call your broker to arrange financing, and wait while it is pre-prepared. It then arrives at the table with a saucier of broth and the presentation begins. The waiter takes everything but the tail and claw meat, adds the roe, places it in the “pressoir” and extracts the juices. She (or he) does this three times and then adds the extract to the broth, spoons in a dollop of heavy cream, a dash of salt, freshly ground black pepper, and expertly whisks the mixture into a sauce which is gently pour over two towers of artfully arranged tail and claw meat. There is simply no way to describe how incredibly delicious the dish tastes. One forgets everything but the taste – “l’addition” will be of no consequence, one’s children will simply have to forego private school for a public education, the car will last another decade – there is nothing in the world like this meal.
Dessert was almost anti-climatic; but it wasn’t. A hollow dark chocolate shell filled with litchi sorbet which surrounded a pingpong ball size scoop of Tahitian vanilla ice cream. The combination was a knockout – whatever disappointments you have ever experienced when you ordered a tartufo will be forgiven. Milady ordered a praline souffle. Laced with amaretto, blanketed with chantilly and bedded on the previously mentioned litchi sorbet, it surprised and delighted with a combination of textures and flavors that is completely unique.
On our very first trip to Paris we ate at the Jules Verne. We had dinner at Stone Barn at Blue hills last winter. At each of those fine restaurants we dined well – and spent nearly as much. The gastro-theater at Stone Barn was first rate, the view at Jules Verne was unique, the food at Le Pressoir d’Argent was better.

Flying is always stressful, and flying to France is more so only because Milady does not yet speak the language. I, on the other wing, can still, after all these centuries, order an edible repas with a respectable wine, even if I sometimes make amateur faux pas. The flapping of my wings on landing at Meringnac apparently caused the local weather to deteriorate into the low to middle 50’s with intermittent rain. While rain just runs right off my scales, the humans apparently require things called “raincoats” to avoid becoming soaked and cranky. (Why any creature would actually want a coating of raindrops is beyond my ken, but humans are strange!) Fortunately we were able to hide in a local eating spot, L’Ombragerie, which had delicious mussels and chèvre roti, and wait out the liquid sunshine…But that’s not the subject of this musing.
Tonight we dined at the brasserie in our hotel rather than brave the beastly weather. As they say locally, “Wow!” Milady began with the white asparagus. These are not your mother’s white asparagus; they are plump, flavorful and pushed through a neo-potato chip, like an arrow. The silky and crunchy textures made my mouth very happy and reminded me that menu descriptions sometimes lose something in the translation. The menu clearly hinted, at least to Milady, that the John Dory (which for unfathomable reasons the French insist on calling “St. Peter’s fish”) was likely to need filleting at the table. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Served in an herbed broth redolent with an exotic spice, baby carrots, celery, potato and other delights, this absolutely perfect filet of tender white fish was a joy. The human male, having gorged himself earlier in the room with four kinds of local cheese, freshly baked bread, dried figs and apricots, walnuts and homemade strawberry jam decided to forego an appetizer. (Me too, having sworn not to once again endanger my FAA certification through overindulgence.) He did dine on a beautiful small lamb sirloin, accompanied by artichoke hearts sautéed in butter and minced lamb with vegetables and mint served in a egg roll-like pastry shell.
The wine was a 2010 Chateau Mouton Rothschild, a local offering that provided a flavorful support to the meal. Desserts were a glace du chocolate, glace du pistache and glace du menthe-chocolate. They were delicious without needing a full recitation of their virtues – flavors that coat your palate and trickle happily down to the tummy really don’t improve with description, they demand tasting!
A delightful meal, professionally presented, and memorable for its harmonious perfection.
Tomorrow, a Michelian “star” experience to be shared.

After a while it became apparent that the hatchling couldn’t be counted on as a regular dinner companion during this vacation, his usual good nature clouded by strange surroundings and displaced by several time zones. To console ourselves, Milady (and the human male) and I decided that we needed to find a place which catered solely to grownups. We hoped that a dining establishment unencumbered by a need include keikei-friendly foods would also be a sanctuary in which we could momentarily indulge our food fantasies. The engaging concierge in whom we confided our desires suggested we take a modest stroll along the oceanside walkway and present ourselves at Nick’s (where he made the necessary reservations).
Nick’s Fishmarket is located at The Fairmont. The restaurant is on a terrace overlooking the ocean and on the night we dined there, the breeze was gentle, the sky star-filled, and the dining a memorable experience. The tables were well-occupied when we arrived at the fashionable hour of 7:45PM and we were shown to a very pleasant spot immediately. I am more than a little leery when a cheery, enthusiastic, incredibly young-looking server chirps, “Hi, my name is Ti and I’ll be taking care of you this evening.” In my experience, bubbly waiters and serious culinary endeavors are rarely found in the same establishments, but we accepted the menus and wine list anyway, as Ti offered to bring us “something from the bar.”
As many of you know, we frequently eschew harder spirits in favor of a better bottle of the vintner’s art – and that I frequently express despair at the escalating prices of indulging in oenophilic pursuits. Nick’s wine-list is extensive and expensive. A dearth of two digit bottles, an expanse of three digits offerings, and some even more expense items gave even me pause. Happily, a 2009 burgundy from Joseph Drouhin’s Cote de Nuits selection was reasonably priced. We’ve enjoyed Drouhin wines before, from both the original French vineyard and the newer Oregon one, so we had some idea of what we were requesting. Ti seemed happy with our choice, and returned with the bottle almost immediately. Opened and allowed to breathe for a few minutes, the wine was the first indication that Nick’s is a very serious restaurant. The burgundy was a serious wine – initially austere and a bit distant, but after a few minutes it metamorphosed. It became approachably complex and very satisfying with notes of licorice, cassis and earth, and a very long finish.
Milady believes that starting with a good salad is not only healthy, but gives a hint about the care the kitchen exercises in its choice of fresh ingredients. A wimpy lettuce leaf can portend a wimpy entree. The roasted beet, toasted goat cheese, arugala and frisee with a light vinaigrette really woke up the tastebuds – and noting that I had not ordered an appetizer, a second, empty plate was provided to facilitate sharing. Ti suggested Milady check out the Monchong, a firm white-fleshed local red snapper, as it was his favorite. The kid has good taste – the fish was nicely plated and Milady enjoyed every mildly flavored bite along with a surprising spaetzle side. I ordered the rack of New Zealand lamb medium rare, over a bed of local Hawaiian sweet potatoes, with a pineapple/mint preserve. The rack was sliced into individual chops (SIX!! of them) which were presented in a spiral around the sweet potatoes. It was among the very best preparations of rack of lamb I have ever enjoyed. The meat was flavorful, tender and cooked to perfection with a nice exterior crust and exactly medium rare.
Service was crisp, but achieved with an interesting twist. While Ti was our “lead” waiter, others and I don’t mean busboys or the like, were also assigned to our table. Whenever our wineglasses looked like a refill was in order, a waiter appeared and poured. When we were finished, our plates were cleared promptly and a dessert menu placed in our talons before even a moment passed. But what was most astounding, and gratifying, was that all of this happened while the table next to us, filled with hedge fund managers and their significant others, was running up a tab similar to the entire budget of a third world country, we never felt we weren’t receiving equally attentive service. Bravo Nick’s staff.
Milady and I shared a Chocolate Decandence with the paired Fonseca Port for dessert. It was everything we hoped and feared it would be. The Chocolate Decadence is an assemblage of milk chocolate mousse, toasted almonds and a ganache to die for with sponge cake that soaks up the flavors and delivers them to the tongue. SLURP! Ti and friends again recognized sharing as a legitimate method of dining, and while providing a plate for half the Decadence was appreciated, it was especially nice to receive the port in two glasses.
In all, perhaps the best meal we ate on Maui, and a fitting final dinner – despite the absence of the hatchling.