tupac17616

IanT 1, Andy 0 ← I suspect you got one too as it could explain the secrecy for withholding your report. I wish I had been withholding it voluntarily; it's been written for over 2 months! But stupidity is more to blame than secrecy here, I'm afraid. I couldn't get the pictures to load properly. Until now.

l'Arpège (pictures available here) I had planned this trip for weeks. Months, really. A series of e-mails urging Adam to set up our reservations ensured that we had a great week of eating ahead, if he didn’t kill me first for trying to make the schedule just right. One thing was certain, though — we would not miss l’Arpège for anything. You see, my favorite chef on the planet happens to be a disciple of Alain Passard. And from what I had read about l’Arpège and what I’d eaten at Manresa, the signs were all there: the stunning technical virtuosity without the sacrifice of soul and whimsy, the dedicated garden growing vegetables for the restaurant, even the Arpège egg. But who has the audacity to just walk in to a place that takes reservations two months ahead? Well, people who can’t wait for their reservations later in the week, I suppose. On the walk to the restaurant, Adam wondered which language he should use to beg ask for a table — French or English. But luckily a female lunch companion far more attractive and charming than either Adam or I could ever hope to be had beat us there. She had apparently worked some magic, and the huge smiles that greeted us as we walked in the door suggested that we might receive a hug or perhaps a complimentary shoe shine in addition to the table for four in the corner. We had come in at noon, so for a while the only people we shared the dining room with were the lovely maître d’, Hélène Cousin, and a few members of the waitstaff. But a handful of other parties came and went during the course of our long meal, half-filling the small restaurant. We took at look at the 8-course Pleine Terre, Pleine Mer (135€) lunch menu but we were also drawn to every single many a la carte items, so Hélène kindly offered to put together a longer custom tasting menu for us. In the mean time the sommelier suggested a bottle of wine — Domaine Laroche Chablis Premier Cru Les Vaillons Vieilles Vignes 2004 — whose flavor was bright, crystalline, and limpid. Just kidding! That’s just what these guys said about it. For better mental clarity in making such important choices, we drank some champagne while we decided which a la carte dishes to add on to the tasting menu. Thankfully this took a while, and a parade of canapés began to arrive in the mean time. There were four small tarts featuring winter vegetables in different combinations: beet, radish, turnip, celery root, cauliflower, and carrot. Then came thick slices of fresh bread cut from a huge round loaf — a nice delivery system for the stunning Beurre Bordier. Our five-hour lunch was now officially underway. I have a hard time imagining an amuse-bouche more compelling than Passard’s signature Oeuf à la coque – quatre épices. It is at once simple and complex; both satisfying and interesting. A coddled egg yolk is served in its shell, topped with crème fraîche, Xérès vinegar, maple syrup, fleur de sel, black pepper, nutmeg, clove and cinnamon. The beauty here is in the balance — between sweetness and acidity, richness and lightness, depth and clarity. My immediate reaction was simply to smile as I thought of the great meal that this one little mouthful foreshadowed. Next we had a small silver bowl of the Parfum d’hiver — crème soufflée au speck. The “perfume of winter” here was a creamy celery root velouté topped with a dollop of chantilly infused with the flavor of speck, a smoky Italian ham. Rarely does white-on-white look or taste this good. The velouté on its own was smooth and thick, and the ham-infused cream was even more delicious than it sounds. The combination of the two was like a savory version of oeufs à la neige, the classic French dessert consisting of a light meringue floating atop a rich custard. Clearly we were off to a very good start. Unfortunately, none of us particularly enjoyed the Pomme de terre fumée et chou vert — Côtes du Jura that came next. In fact it was probably the weakest point of the meal. A few wedges of smoked potato were flanked by leaves of green cabbage and topped with thin slivers of black truffle. The potatoes were so lightly smoked that the flavor was difficult to identify in the midst of the buttery, white wine-flavored foam. Worse yet, the potatoes were also a bit undercooked to my taste, providing more resistance to the bite than I would’ve liked. The truffles contributed little more than a contrasting color on the plate, as their aroma was fairly muted. Overall this was just not a dish that came together very well. Likewise, we weren’t thrilled with the Fines ravioles potagères “belle saison” — consommé végétal. Small packets of diced onion were enrobed in pasta rolled so thin that it resembled wonton wrappers. They floated in a textbook sunchoke consommé — a clear liquid with a dark amber color, tasting purely of the vegetable from which it was made. The onion in the ravioli was still slightly crunchy, which meant that the flavor was a bit more pungent and less sweet than I had expected. There was also a bit of wholegrain mustard in the ravioli filling, which was a welcome addition but not enough to overcome the texture and flavor of the onion, which kind of killed the dish for me. At the beginning of the meal, the maître d’ mentioned that there were two dishes not on the menu that featured some last-of-the-season black truffles. Maybe we’re indecisive or maybe we’re just gluttons, but we opted for both. The first of the two was the Gratin d’oignons doux à la truffe noire. To call this dish anything less than culinary alchemy would be doing it a huge disservice. Every bite is just so damn delicious that you have to keep reminding yourself — this is a dish primarily composed of onions! Of course the truffles elevated it beautifully, adding an earthy, musky aroma to complement the buttery sweetness of the onion. But once you realize that Passard has taken that luxurious ingredient and made it sing backup to the humble onion in this beautiful song, you know something special is going on in that kitchen. Still floating among the clouds from the last course, we weren’t to be brought back down to earth anytime soon. Next up was the Palet de céleri-rave à la châtaigne — truffe noire. A half-inch thick disk of celery root was tiled with almost-translucent slices of chestnut and sprinkled with coarse bits of black truffle. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen chestnuts presented like this, and I really liked how the thin slicing minimized the chalky texture they sometimes have. But the component that made this dish a knockout for me was the ultra-fine crumb layer tasting primarily of nutmeg that was spread across the top of the chestnut slices. This salty-sweet topping complemented the almost vanilla-like natural sweetness of the celery root and and contrasted the earthiness of the truffles. The texture of the celery root was just on the safe side of fork tender without being the slightest bit mushy, so it maintained its character. The aroma of this dish was truly intoxicating, and its overall flavor was no less alluring. Having made many trips to Manresa over the past couple of years to sample David Kinch’s evocatively titled “Into the vegetable garden..." dish, one thing I was highly anticipating at l’Arpège was the Arlequin potager à l’huile d’argan — radis long noir, carotte purple haze, navet atlantic, salsifis, betterave forono. I heard a few comments around the table to the effect of “Wow, I’ve never had a ____ quite like this.” You could basically pick any vegetable on the plate — radish, carrot, turnip, salsify, beet — and the statement would remain valid. Alice Waters has been quoted as saying that you she could have any kid eating chard in six weeks, but you could give Chef Passard the most stubborn carnivores on the planet and he’d have them doing cartwheels in the dining room just to get another bite of his vegetables. I think the best way I can sum this dish up is to say that everything on the plate here tasted exactly like what it was, and I definitely mean that as a compliment. A bit of couscous added some textural contrast and the argan oil brought its nutty richness. But in the end this plate was just a happy walk through the garden with a chef who knows how to get the very best from it. Then it was time for the second black truffle dish (yeah, the smoked potatoes and the fantastic celery root dish earlier didn’t count…) — Tagliatelles de céleri à la truffe noire. The celery root was cut into long, noodle-like ribbons, flanked by a buttery celery root foam, and topped with a tableside shaving of Périgord truffles. The texture of the celery root was too crisp to fool us into thinking it was actually tagliatelle, but I appreciated the whimsy of the presentation nonetheless. The flavors here were straightforward and delicious, though I think even one minute more of cooking time would have yielded slightly less al dente, and therefore more enjoyable, results. But honestly the positioning of this course at a point in the meal after both the onion gratin and the celery root/chestnut dish meant that it had some tough acts to follow, so perhaps I’m nitpicking here. The next course on the printed menu was scallops, but they had informed us earlier that we’d be having abalone instead. Oh darn. Well if you only learn two French words before dining at l’Arpège, let it be these: Ormeau grillèe. I don’t even know how my description can do justice to a dish so simple yet so full of impact for me. In a meal with several very memorable courses, this might have taken the top spot for me. It was just a single fresh grilled abalone, brushed with butter and sprinkled with fleur de sel and lime zest. I took one bite and my immediate reaction was that the grill man in the kitchen ought to be sainted. My second reaction was one of pure satisfaction — I knew that nobody on the planet was eating quite as well as we were at that particular moment. In every bite I could taste the subtle sweetness of the abalone, the fiery char of the grill, the bright citrus top note, and the salt that elevated each of these flavors. I don’t know what else to say. I feel like the only thing for me to do right now is to stop writing and just think about this dish for a minute… Whew, okay. Moving on. One item that never seems to leave the menu here is the Aiguillettes de Homard de Chausey — savagnin, so we definitely had to have it. Savagnin is a grape variety grown mainly in the Jura region of France, just east of Burgundy. It’s used to make vin jaune, the French “yellow wine” which makes up the tantalizing sauce that accompanied the lobster here. Now I’m not enough of a believer in the superiority of anyone’s tastes, much less my own, to call anything “cooked to perfection.” But I will admit that it sure was fun being tempted to do that for this course. Two gorgeous whole lobsters were presented tableside before being split lengthwise and plated. All the work of separating meat from shell was done for us, so we had easy access to the insanely tender, buttery and sweet flesh. I’m rarely patient enough to save the best for last, so I went right for the coral on the first bite. That wonderfully creamy mouthful made me so I happy I could’ve kissed someone, so I can only pat myself on the back for having had the foresight not to sit next to Adam on this particular occasion. Subsequent bites were no less delicious, and I should also give an honorable mention to the delicious mound of spinach, the lone vegetable on the plate save for a few paper-thin slices of asparagus. I think this dish was among the absolute favorites of the day for all of us. A waiter then wheeled a small cart toward the table and made a dramatic announcement: “We are the only restaurant in the world that gets this cheese.” Now we’d had great dishes one right after the other for the past few hours, so I’m pretty sure we would’ve trusted anything that came through the kitchen door. And maybe his statement wasn’t completely correct — I’d tasted this very cheese at Manresa just a few weeks before this. But damn if this little preamble to our cheese course didn’t have us excited for a little Fromage de Bernard Antony — affineur. The cheese the waiter spoke of was just some plain old Comté. From 2003. From probably the most well-regarded affineur in France and therefore on the planet. We could get fancy and call Bernard Antony a cheese optimization specialist, but I prefer to think of him as The Cheese Whisperer. His business is taking cheeses and basically turning them into edible gold. His extremely aromatic Comté that we enjoyed at l’Arpège had a very crystalline texture and an assertively nutty flavor that lingered on the tongue without any foreseeable end. The flavor was so concentrated that the aftertaste even felt a bit astringent on the tongue. We also sampled a second cheese whose name I can’t remember, and the wheel it came from was about the size of a small car tire. This one had a slightly softer texture and a more buttery flavor. The four of us were split on which cheese we preferred (my choice was the car tire), but this course’s simple presentation without any unnecessary accompaniments was very enjoyable for all of us. There were four desserts on the menu, and four of us. Quite a convenient position to be in, but two desserts in particular were just begging to be ordered. The first was the Praliné de pistache à l’ancienne au chocolat noir — soufflé. The menu description suggested a beautiful thing: the powder made from grinding up caramelized sugar-coated pistachios had been incorporated into a soufflé. How could that possibly be bad? The soufflés were whisked so quickly from the oven to our table that they still stood tall and proud in the ramekins upon arrival. Dark chocolate ganache was then drizzled into a hole made in the center. The smell was fantastic, and so was the flavor. It tasted of pure pistachio, but got extra depth and richness from the dark chocolate so the combination had just the right bitter-sweet balance. Lest we go hungry while waiting for the other dessert, they brought one the Sucrerie — 3 macarons du jardin. The waiter challenged us to guess the flavors of the three macarons, but I ate way through the other goodies beforehand. There were licorice-flavored palmiers, almond shortbread, ganache-filled dark chocolate, and crunchy salted caramel meringue layered with chocolate puff pastry. Among the four of us, we were able to solve the macaron mystery — the three flavors were Jerusalem artichoke, carrot, and beet. Maybe they weren’t the very best macarons in Paris, but all were very flavorful and just slightly sweet. Our other dessert was the Tarte aux pommes Bouquet de Roses© — création Hiver 2008. If I’ve ever seen a more beautiful apple tart, I certainly don’t remember it. This was really gorgeous. Thin slices of apples had been formed into small roses and placed like a bouquet in the buttery pastry crust. The texture of the cooked fruit was neither too soft and mushy nor too crisp and mealy. Instead it offered just the right resistance to the fork. The tart crust was flaky-tender and the fruit was juicy and sweet. Every bite with the accompanying caramel sauce was insanely delicious, so a little more caramel sauce or perhaps even a little vanilla ice cream could have put this dessert over the top. Nevertheless it was a delicious way to say goodbye. I really liked how this last “bouquet” ended the meal in the same place that we had spent the majority of it exploring — the garden. The love and care that are put into selecting of the very best ingredients at l’Arpège is deliciously obvious. When the first bite of any of Passard’s beautiful vegetables hits your tongue, you might even wonder if his kitchen garden is in some sunny corner of Eden (the website claims it’s actually located near Le Mans. I’ll believe it when I see it.) The gracefully orchestrated progression of flavors that we tasted that afternoon delivered exactly what the menu title promised at the outset — “full earth, full sea”. The absence of any meat was an insignificant afterthought. But frankly it still would have been a completely reasonable reaction to cry tears of joy when any of the non-vegetable courses appeared, because they were as impeccably prepared as everything else, and perhaps even more so. Even at the top level, it’s rare to find a place that so effortlessly combines truly great cooking technique with truly great ingredients, but that’s exactly what you get at l’Arpège. I also want to emphasize what a nice difference the staff made in our experience. The service was courteous, welcoming and refreshingly enthusiastic. They appeared and disappeared at all the right times. And they really made us feel like the guests of honor at very happy banquet for that whole afternoon. Sure we had spent a few euros to enjoy that feeling. But I defy you to taste that onion gratin, that lobster, or that abalone and tell me that that one delicious mouthful is not the only thing in the world that matters at that particular moment.

I've been reading that site for over a year now, and agree with you -- it's really fantastic.

Thanks, Judy, for sharing the photos. While I've not been to l'Europeo, I'm with Pizza Napoletana as far as who has the best of the best pizza (for me, Da Michele and Salvo in particular are in a league of their own). And secondo me, Brandi is not even close to being in the same league as those places. (You can see some photos of all these places here.) But then again, no two people's tastes are the same, as you mentioned. So if and when you try Brandi, let us all know what you think!

my cholesterol level after seeing all the pictures from your spandex week in NY To keep this on topic, it seems like the kind of disappointment paulraphael had with the 3 course prix fixe as opposed to the tasting menu is something many folks (the majority of which did not order the duck as the main course) have mentioned since the beginning of Humm's tenure.

no peanuts in your pad thai? dude... great review, as always!

Although I don't want to get into the argument above, I agree with this statement 100%

Glad to see another San Antonian here on eGullet. I've only been to two in the area, neither of which are fantastic. But then again, while SA has always been home, I've spent the past several years in NYC and Berkeley. The latter, especially, is an oasis when it comes to farmers markets. But I digress... The only farmers markets I've been to in the area are (1) Jackson-Keller near Basse and (2) the Bulverde farmers market. Both are pretty good from what I remember, but neither was amazing. I'll have to check out one of the Rainbow Gardens locations. Which location had the market you mention? I'd love to discover some great farmers markets here in SA, but I must say, it sure does help that my mother is an avid gardener. In the back yard, we've got red onions, white onions, basil, thyme, dill, marjoram, oregano, rosemary, parsley, meyer lemons, limes, oranges, figs, limes, bay, bananas, cabbage, anaheim peppers, jalapeno peppers, serrano peppers, poblano peppers, blackberries, amaranth, winged beans, tree brush eggplant, ichiban eggplant, lemongrass, cherokee purple tomatoes, yellow teardrop tomatoes, beefheart tomatoes. Granted, not all of that grows at once, but I am a happy, happy guy pretty much all year.

Here I was thinking (and hoping) Urasawa was a bit cheaper than Masa. Alas, it looks like a little financial sacrifice is in order for me. I absolutely have to try this place.

Indeed. I think I read they're traditional at Easter here in the states.

Doc, you are pretty much my favorite eGullet-er, I must say. Another beautiful, beautiful thread. Thank you for sharing your experiences with us.

roasted capon I didn't have a clue what capon was when I bought this thing, but it sure was tasty. Really tender. Also used the carcass to make a delicious tortilla soup the next day so nothing went to waste.

agreed The duck was me; truffe bel humeur was ajg. Arpege review has been written for well over a month now. It's uploading the pictures to our blog that's giving me trouble. Technically I could just post it here on eG, but that's no fun.

I've already posted this write-up in a separate thread, but I figured it belonged in this Gagnaire-dedicated thread as well... Pierre Gagnaire (pictures available here) Whatever image comes to mind when you hear the word “chef”, odds are that Pierre Gagnaire doesn’t fit it. Maybe you picture that cranky short guy with the tall white toque from Ratatouille. Or maybe a jolly, plump character like this guy. But the man making his rounds in the dining room near the end of our meal fit neither stereotype. He wore a scruffy five-day-old beard and he exuded the grim aura of a battle-hardened war veteran. If anyone in the room needed a drink, it was him. Clearly the guy wasn’t exactly sipping champagne and listening to Mozart in the kitchen. I figured he had been far too busy fighting instead. Not with his cooks, necessarily, but with the ingredients. Like a mad scientist just emerged from his lab, he had been trying to bend the wackiest food combinations to his will, never totally sure whether the reactions would create explosions or masterpieces. And that dichotomy is just part of the game with Pierre Gagnaire. A meal here is the truest definition of culinary gambling. Sometimes you win, and occasionally you even hit the jackpot. But almost as often, you lose. Like a frat boy who hemorrhages money “training” for the World Series of Poker, you wonder if you shouldn’t kick the habit and put your time and money into something a little safer. But I was feeling lucky, so I chose to let it ride this time. And I can’t say that I was either surprised or disappointed that the very same meal yielded both the best and worst dishes of my trip to Paris. Several dishes on the winter tasting menu sounded tempting, but I wasn’t sure I had 245€ worth of confidence in it. Instead we chose the more reasonable Menu du déjeuner at 105€. Looking at the verbose menu description that ran all the way down the page, I wondered whether the meal was three courses or twenty. But it all depends on who is counting, because each course at Pierre Gagnaire is a veritable armada of up to ten plates. We tweaked the menu a bit, with Adam supplementing an additional entrée of langoustines and me requesting Le Grand Dessert de Pierre Gagnaire. The sommelier suggested a bottle of white Burgundy — Domaine J. Confuron-Cotetidot 2002 Gevrey-Chambertin 1er Cru Petite Chapelle (145€) — and soon, the first plates arrived… AUTOUR DES AMUSE-BOUCHES Tartare Terre et Mer, oeufs de saumon organique et feuille de dorade royale. Infusion au vadouvan, râpée de radis et petits coquillages au naturel. Mousseline de Pompadour en persillade, chair d’aubergine à l’origan. Brochette d’escargots petits gris. Moutarde de Shiitake en aigre-doux, pain d’épices croquant et champignons de Paris. Gras de seiche César aux taggiasche ; sorbet d’olive verte de Lucques. This paragraph on the menu signaled a parade of amuse-bouches before the entrées were even a gleam in our eyes. The first to arrive was a combination of cucumber gelée, spring vegetable-stuffed hearts of palm with sprouts, and a crispy tuile topped with herb “paper” and raspberry confiture. Definitely a refreshing (and in retrospect, gentle) introduction to the meal. The flavors would only escalate from here, I figured. Next was a small piece of soy-glazed eel served with tiny gingerbread cookies. Sounds crazy, and it was. But the eel had the pleasantly chewy texture of beef jerky, and the sweet spiced gingerbread balanced out the saltiness of the soy. Really tasty. A long rectangular beet tuile topped with anchovy paste came after that. Alongside it was a roasted peanut cornet filled with peanut cream and a few whole roasted peanuts. Another strange-sounding combination that I thought worked pretty well. The salty peanut flavor was especially good. The waiter came by with several types of bread, and through a complex nonverbal conversation of bilingual hand gestures he understood that I wanted to try all of them. (It would have been rude to point, after all, and even more rude to stare him down until he left the entire tray at our table.) There was pain au lait; a walnut roll; a rustic white roll; and a thin pistachio crisp. All were very flavorful. The butter that came with it was decent, but a far cry from what we’d had the day before. Round two of the amuse-bouches started with some beef tartare topped with salmon roe, resting on a translucent slice of sea bream carpaccio. I found this surf-and-turf combination to be unbalanced, with the salty roe drowning out the subtle flavors of the fish and meat. Which is too bad, because the description actually sounded really nice to me. The lightly jellied vadouvan infusion with grated radish and small raw shellfish got us back on track, though. The clam pieces were a bit bland on their own, but the texture and flavor were both complementary to the subtly spiced infusion. The different texture that resulted from jellying the broth also helped the flavors linger on the tongue a bit longer, which I liked. The mousseline de Pompadour (no, not that kind of Pompadour) was definitely my favorite amuse-bouche. It was a parsley-flavored mousse whose recipe probably hails from the French commune of the same name between Paris and Toulouse. The texture of the mousseline was thick, but light and almost frothy at the same time. Its fabulous parsley-and-garlic-spiked flavor coated the tongue and lingered long after each bite. Every mouthful that included one of the grilled snails was even better. This hors d’oeuvre took the classic combination of snails, parsley, and garlic and elevated it to something nearly sublime. Next we had some sweet-and-sour shiitake mushrooms. On the rim of the bowl was a thin gingerbread tuile on a round slice of raw white button mushroom. The mushrooms tasted almost like they’d been lightly pickled, with the acidic flavors outshining the sweetness. But the inherent earthiness of the shiitakes still came through. And while I really liked the tuile layered with the raw mushroom on its own, I’m not sure it added much in combination with the shiitakes aside from a contrasting crispy texture. The last amuse-bouche was a few strips of cuttlefish with finely chopped taggiasche olives and Lucques olive sorbet. I happen to love the texture of cuttlefish. I also happen to dislike olives most of the time. But luckily, Lucques olives are my favorite variety. The sorbet wasn’t at all icy and it had an almost gummy texture, which was surprising but enjoyable. I also liked the cold sorbet with the room temperature cuttlefish, but the overall flavor combination left me unconvinced. Finally having worked our way up to the entrées, we all had the Voile de mortadelle, pétoncles noires au citron vert. Jeunes navets, asperges vertes de Mallemort et brunoise de pomme verte. Bouillon d’asperge. It was a “veil” of mortadella, an Italian cold cut that comes from the city of Bologna (just don’t let an Italian hear you call it baloney). There were tiny black scallops (the shell is black, not the scallops themselves) with lime; green and white asparagus; a delicious asparagus broth; young turnips, a few leaves of mizuna, and a brunoise of green apple. Reading the menu description, it sounded too busy with so many different flavors crowding the plate. But my fears were unfounded and the combination worked beautifully. It was meaty, vegetal, buttery, tart, and sweet. And most importantly, it was all harmonious. Frankly, I didn’t understand it and I’d never have come up with the flavor combination myself, but it just worked. Then came Adam’s brilliant idea for a second entrée: LES LANGOUSTINES En tartare à la mangue verte, feuille de nougatine. Grilleés, beurre fondu relevé de poudre de carcasse. Poêlée à la coriandre fraîche, Sketch up. Bouillon de santé voilé de farine de maïs. Juste écrasées à la spatule, servies sur un toast chips au lard ibérique. En consommé glacé cendré de caroube. En mousseline ; soja frais et pousses de moutarde. Langoustine tartare with green mango and a thin crisp of nougatine. The minced mango was tart and slightly bitter, so its flavor was a nice complement to the slight natural sweetness of the raw langoustine. The tenderness of the langoustines suggested that they were incredibly fresh. It almost seemed like cooking something that is already so great raw would be a crime. Skewers of grilled langoustines with melted butter and seasoned with a powder made from the carcass. Actually now I take back what I said before about it being a crime to cook langoustines this fresh. This very simple cooked preparation highlighted the freshness of the product once again, but this time in a new way. The langoustine pieces were incredibly juicy. They had been given just enough time on the heat to be kissed by the fire, but were thankfully still just shy of being cooked through on the inside so the result was very tender. Sautéed langoustine with cilantro and diced tomatoes. A lot of people seem to hate cilantro. These people, for instance. But I think it has its place. It definitely added a nice pungency here that lifted the flavors of the buttery langoustine and the sweet and slightly tart tomatoes. My only complaint was that I think the langoustine could have been more easily appreciated in combination with the tomato and cilantro if it weren’t on the skewer. But that, my friends, is called nitpicking. “Healthy broth” with a veil of cornmeal. I had no idea what this was until I Googled it later and found a nearly 200-year-old recipe in The French Cook by Louis Eustache Ude. So I guess now the next time I’ve got six pounds of beef, half of a hen, and a veal knuckle lying around in the fridge, I will know what to do. But on this afternoon I wasn’t really in the mood to analyze every single ounce of food that was set before me. Sometimes you just sip some broth, think to yourself “Hey, this tastes pretty good,” and you move on. This was one of those times. Very coarsely ground langoustine on toast topped with a slice of Spanish ham. This was beautiful. The paper-thin slice of ham on top was wonderfully fatty but somehow still crispy. Spain’s delicious answer to Italian lardo. You could sandwich anything under that salty pork and it would be pretty good. But the langoustine here (again, just ridiculously tender) was great. A jellied langoustine consommé with carob powder. This had all the richness of a highly reduced langoustine stock but it was nicely balanced out by the slight sweetness imparted from the use of the carob powder. I’ll admit that I didn’t have the slightest clue what this ingredient was at the time, but I do know it offered a nice contrast to the intense gelée. Also, I think the texture that resulted from jellying the consommé had a nice effect, giving it more character and a more lingering flavor than the simple clarified stock might have had in liquid form. Mousseline of langoustine with soy bean sprouts and baby mustard leaves. This was another highlight. The mousseline was certainly full-flavored, but light and almost frothy in texture. The sprouts and mustard leaves added a slight bitterness that complemented the rich, slightly sweet flavor of the langoustine mousseline really nicely. Adam was kind enough to share some of the different langoustine preparations with us. But he may not have been so generous if he’d had a chance to try the main course he was getting next: LE PLAT PRINCIPAL Gigot d’agneau de lait rôti au colombo, taillé en fines tranches, servi sur une poêlée de blettes aux panoufles. Caillette de légumes de printemps. Tarte sablée de gousses d’ail, pâte de pruneaux. Oh, I know. It sounds innocent enough. Just some thin slices of leg of suckling lamb roasted with colombo spice blend, served with sautéed swiss chard and pieces of lamb sirloin. But Adam took a bite of the meat and didn’t say a word, though a glance my direction said it all — he hated it. Apparently not content to cut his losses and send the dish back, he moved on to the caillette: minced spring vegetables and lamb meat wrapped in caul, the fatty membrane that surrounds the lamb intestines. Another silent reaction from Adam this time, but with a noticeable frown. Then in what I can only assume was an act of retaliation for a previous transgression of mine, he offered me a bite. Or more accurately, he basically shoved the plate my direction, and demanded asked politely that we switch dishes “just for a quick taste”. Sneaky bastard. I like to think of myself as a equal-opportunity eater, so I tried each part of the dish. The leg meat was tender and juicy but the sirloin was, well, not. I liked the fact that both were powerfully gamy unlike most of the lamb one can eat in the US. I also liked the accompanying crisp roasted garlic tart with prune paste and swiss chard that Adam seemed to have neglected. But the spicing on the meat, the stuffing of the caillette, and really the overall flavor combination just did not do it for me. I pushed the plate silently back Adam’s direction. He knew without me saying a word — I hated it. Then again I’m never particularly fond of that type of curry, even if it’s supposedly only very subtle. So after the amuse-bouches, I had taken the liberty of asking if they might substitute a different main course of the chef’s choosing for me. That was probably the best decision I ever made, since Santa Claus slid down the chimney with… LE CANARD Petit canard Pékin rôti entier à l’étouffée, aux aromatiques : Les filets sont taillés en petits pavés ; carottes multicolores ; feuille de datte sèche aux mûres. Scarole, parfait glacé de brebis et sirop de pétales de coquelicot. Betterave rouge comme un condiment. The waiter arrived tableside with a heavy black cast iron casserole. He brought it under my nose and lifted the lid to reveal a whole small Pekin duck sizzling away inside. The aroma alone had me smiling ear to ear as they swept the dish back to the kitchen for plating. Moments later, they returned with the breast meat cut into thin slabs and accompanied with multi-colored carrots. There was an almost translucent thin sheet made of dried dates and a scattering of pleasantly tart blackberries to mellow that sweetness. Large tiles of crispy rendered duck skin were strewn here and there, and all of this was generously drizzled with a bitter chocolate sauce. On a small side plate were a few pieces of escarole with frozen blue sheep’s milk cheese parfait and poppy petal syrup (yeah, I hadn’t heard of it either). On another was red beet “as a condiment”, which in this case meant a vibrant combination of beet mousse and beet sorbet. There’s no sense in me trying to explain why this was so incredible. (But for a clue, please re-read the last paragraph and try to taste it this time.) I would run the risk of spouting off a whole series of food writing clichés like “cooked to perfection” and “melt in your mouth”. See, look what you made me do! What I can say is that this was one of those dishes that are so unbelievably good you want to share a bite with everyone who’s ever smiled at you. I felt like my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Hatch definitely deserved one. Ditto for that neighbor of mine who always waves when I pass by in the mornings. Hell, even my stock broker deserved one, though I have noticed he smiles much bigger when I am handing him money. This course was, in short, a triumph. A magical dish that was the best of the trip, the best of the year so far, and frankly one of the very best things I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. As you can imagine, my head was in the clouds after that phenomenal duck, and what better way to stay there than by eating ten desserts? Yes, you read that correctly. Ten desserts is exactly what we had on the way… LE GRAND DESSERT DE PIERRE GAGNAIRE Neuf desserts Inspirés de la pâtisserie française ; élaborés à partir de fruits de saison, de confiseries peu sucrées & de chocolat. The mignardises were not counted as part of the nine desserts, but they came first. They included an “acid drop” (thin hard candy shell with dehydrated strawberry powder and citric acid); an almond meringue cookie with marzipan; dark chocolate with kirsch; a “cherry” (actually a black currant wrapped in marzipan and glazed); white chocolate with lemon curd; and a marshmallow rope. The acid drop was great, tingling as it dissolved on the tongue like pop rocks. The others were all enjoyable, too, but this was just the beginning of a long parade of sweets, which also included: Coconut and vanilla tapioca, toasted coconut, pistachio ice cream and red bell pepper. This one sounded delicious… until the waiter mentioned the bell pepper. But in a sadistic effort to satisfy my curiosity about the flavor combination, I tried it all together. Suffice it to say that it was all quite good and something I’d love to eat again… except for the bell pepper. Lemon-almond ice cream with almond gelée, red bell pepper stuffed with dried fruit. Now I’m as happy to help the Mexican economy (the world’s biggest exporter of bell peppers) as the next guy, but if I was disappointed with the presence of the bell pepper in the previous dessert, I was perplexed by its recurrence here. Sure, bell peppers have a subtle natural sweetness. We get it already. Once was more than enough. The almond and lemon flavors in this dessert were another winning combination… without the bell pepper. Vanilla ice cream in a white chocolate shell, white beer foam, strawberry purée. The foam had an almost creamy frothiness (not unlike a pint of beer poured fresh from the tap) and a subtly sweet flavor. Breaking through the white chocolate sphere gave way to the ice cream inside and the purée below. Adam thought that the beer foam was good “because it didn’t taste like beer”, but I thought the foam was actually what kept this dessert from being too sweet. With both good texture and taste, I thought this was a rare instance of foam with a purpose. Cucumber sorbet, cucumber gelée, arugula. The sorbet and gelée were cool and refreshing, and went well with the peppery arugula. A nice transition for the palate to better enjoy some the more acidic flavors that followed. Almond cake, lemon confit, caramelized sugar shell, papaya-lime purée. This had a flavor that was bright, sweet, and pleasantly acidic. The crunchy layer of caramelized sugar on top of the buttery moist cake and the lemon confit was really nice for a different texture and the sweet-tart combination of the papaya and lime was a great topping. Orange and kumquat confit, orange sorbet, orange mousse, orange toast. The wide range of temperatures and textures featured the same flavors again and again in new ways. This added a nice level of depth to a dessert that could have easily been monotonous in the hands of less skilled pastry chef. This was probably my favorite of the bunch. Lemon sorbet, lemon confit, shaved pineapple. The last in a series of really refreshing citrus-based desserts. We all mistook the veil laid on top of the bowl for dried pineapple, but it was actually a razor-thin slice of the fresh fruit. Hidden beneath it was an second equally thin slice that rested directly on the pleasantly tart sorbet and confit. This was exactly the kind of palate cleanser we needed after the first six desserts. (I dare you to re-read that last sentence and not crack a smile.) Raspberry meringue, chantilly, raspberry confiture, fresh mango tart. This was sweet, tart, crisp and creamy. And like several other desserts that preceded it, I really enjoyed the range of different textures with this one. Biting through it, each layer had a distinct feel on the tongue. The continued emphasis on such vibrant fresh fruit flavors was making it that much easier to just sit back and keep eating. Not that this has ever been much of a problem for me. But you know what I mean. Dark chocolate ganache, chocolate straw, praline tuiles. Like I’ve always said, I’m not a chocolate guy. But maybe that’s just because chocolate is usually the last dessert to be served. So there’s always a bit of sadness associated with it. Praline tuiles can help anyone through such tough times, though, especially when they’re so pleasantly salted. This kept the slight sweetness of the chocolate ganache in check. There are worse ways to say goodbye. And with that, our lunch was done. I had come in to Pierre Gagnaire expecting to be wowed, and I was — both positively and negatively. The duck will be a dish I’ll dream about for years to come. Truly exceptional in every sense of the word. The lamb, on the other hand, I’d like to forget as soon as possible. And I don’t think the presence of bell pepper in a few of the sweets has inspired me to sprinkle little bits of it into my breakfast cereal, either. Even so, I think that when you succeed, you should push yourself to succeed in a big way. And likewise when you fail. Some of Gagnaire’s creations seem to be the product of an inspired genius. Others, the product of psychoactive drug abuse. But all these combinations — the wacky and the tried-and-true — exhibit the soul of a chef who is not content to be like all the others. He wants you walk away from the restaurant having tasted his food, think “Man, that was crazy”, and then question whether or not that’s a compliment or a criticism. Often, I think, it’s both.

Pierre Gagnaire (pictures available here) Whatever image comes to mind when you hear the word “chef”, odds are that Pierre Gagnaire doesn’t fit it. Maybe you picture that cranky short guy with the tall white toque from Ratatouille. Or maybe a jolly, plump character like this guy. But the man making his rounds in the dining room near the end of our meal fit neither stereotype. He wore a scruffy five-day-old beard and he exuded the grim aura of a battle-hardened war veteran. If anyone in the room needed a drink, it was him. Clearly the guy wasn’t exactly sipping champagne and listening to Mozart in the kitchen. I figured he had been far too busy fighting instead. Not with his cooks, necessarily, but with the ingredients. Like a mad scientist just emerged from his lab, he had been trying to bend the wackiest food combinations to his will, never totally sure whether the reactions would create explosions or masterpieces. And that dichotomy is just part of the game with Pierre Gagnaire. A meal here is the truest definition of culinary gambling. Sometimes you win, and occasionally you even hit the jackpot. But almost as often, you lose. Like a frat boy who hemorrhages money “training” for the World Series of Poker, you wonder if you shouldn’t kick the habit and put your time and money into something a little safer. But I was feeling lucky, so I chose to let it ride this time. And I can’t say that I was either surprised or disappointed that the very same meal yielded both the best and worst dishes of my trip to Paris. Several dishes on the winter tasting menu sounded tempting, but I wasn’t sure I had 245€ worth of confidence in it. Instead we chose the more reasonable Menu du déjeuner at 105€. Looking at the verbose menu description that ran all the way down the page, I wondered whether the meal was three courses or twenty. But it all depends on who is counting, because each course at Pierre Gagnaire is a veritable armada of up to ten plates. We tweaked the menu a bit, with Adam supplementing an additional entrée of langoustines and me requesting Le Grand Dessert de Pierre Gagnaire. The sommelier suggested a bottle of white Burgundy — Domaine J. Confuron-Cotetidot 2002 Gevrey-Chambertin 1er Cru Petite Chapelle (145€) — and soon, the first plates arrived… AUTOUR DES AMUSE-BOUCHES Tartare Terre et Mer, oeufs de saumon organique et feuille de dorade royale. Infusion au vadouvan, râpée de radis et petits coquillages au naturel. Mousseline de Pompadour en persillade, chair d’aubergine à l’origan. Brochette d’escargots petits gris. Moutarde de Shiitake en aigre-doux, pain d’épices croquant et champignons de Paris. Gras de seiche César aux taggiasche ; sorbet d’olive verte de Lucques. This paragraph on the menu signaled a parade of amuse-bouches before the entrées were even a gleam in our eyes. The first to arrive was a combination of cucumber gelée, spring vegetable-stuffed hearts of palm with sprouts, and a crispy tuile topped with herb “paper” and raspberry confiture. Definitely a refreshing (and in retrospect, gentle) introduction to the meal. The flavors would only escalate from here, I figured. Next was a small piece of soy-glazed eel served with tiny gingerbread cookies. Sounds crazy, and it was. But the eel had the pleasantly chewy texture of beef jerky, and the sweet spiced gingerbread balanced out the saltiness of the soy. Really tasty. A long rectangular beet tuile topped with anchovy paste came after that. Alongside it was a roasted peanut cornet filled with peanut cream and a few whole roasted peanuts. Another strange-sounding combination that I thought worked pretty well. The salty peanut flavor was especially good. The waiter came by with several types of bread, and through a complex nonverbal conversation of bilingual hand gestures he understood that I wanted to try all of them. (It would have been rude to point, after all, and even more rude to stare him down until he left the entire tray at our table.) There was pain au lait; a walnut roll; a rustic white roll; and a thin pistachio crisp. All were very flavorful. The butter that came with it was decent, but a far cry from what we’d had the day before. Round two of the amuse-bouches started with some beef tartare topped with salmon roe, resting on a translucent slice of sea bream carpaccio. I found this surf-and-turf combination to be unbalanced, with the salty roe drowning out the subtle flavors of the fish and meat. Which is too bad, because the description actually sounded really nice to me. The lightly jellied vadouvan infusion with grated radish and small raw shellfish got us back on track, though. The clam pieces were a bit bland on their own, but the texture and flavor were both complementary to the subtly spiced infusion. The different texture that resulted from jellying the broth also helped the flavors linger on the tongue a bit longer, which I liked. The mousseline de Pompadour (no, not that kind of Pompadour) was definitely my favorite amuse-bouche. It was a parsley-flavored mousse whose recipe probably hails from the French commune of the same name between Paris and Toulouse. The texture of the mousseline was thick, but light and almost frothy at the same time. Its fabulous parsley-and-garlic-spiked flavor coated the tongue and lingered long after each bite. Every mouthful that included one of the grilled snails was even better. This hors d’oeuvre took the classic combination of snails, parsley, and garlic and elevated it to something nearly sublime. Next we had some sweet-and-sour shiitake mushrooms. On the rim of the bowl was a thin gingerbread tuile on a round slice of raw white button mushroom. The mushrooms tasted almost like they’d been lightly pickled, with the acidic flavors outshining the sweetness. But the inherent earthiness of the shiitakes still came through. And while I really liked the tuile layered with the raw mushroom on its own, I’m not sure it added much in combination with the shiitakes aside from a contrasting crispy texture. The last amuse-bouche was a few strips of cuttlefish with finely chopped taggiasche olives and Lucques olive sorbet. I happen to love the texture of cuttlefish. I also happen to dislike olives most of the time. But luckily, Lucques olives are my favorite variety. The sorbet wasn’t at all icy and it had an almost gummy texture, which was surprising but enjoyable. I also liked the cold sorbet with the room temperature cuttlefish, but the overall flavor combination left me unconvinced. Finally having worked our way up to the entrées, we all had the Voile de mortadelle, pétoncles noires au citron vert. Jeunes navets, asperges vertes de Mallemort et brunoise de pomme verte. Bouillon d’asperge. It was a “veil” of mortadella, an Italian cold cut that comes from the city of Bologna (just don’t let an Italian hear you call it baloney). There were tiny black scallops (the shell is black, not the scallops themselves) with lime; green and white asparagus; a delicious asparagus broth; young turnips, a few leaves of mizuna, and a brunoise of green apple. Reading the menu description, it sounded too busy with so many different flavors crowding the plate. But my fears were unfounded and the combination worked beautifully. It was meaty, vegetal, buttery, tart, and sweet. And most importantly, it was all harmonious. Frankly, I didn’t understand it and I’d never have come up with the flavor combination myself, but it just worked. Then came Adam’s brilliant idea for a second entrée: LES LANGOUSTINES En tartare à la mangue verte, feuille de nougatine. Grilleés, beurre fondu relevé de poudre de carcasse. Poêlée à la coriandre fraîche, Sketch up. Bouillon de santé voilé de farine de maïs. Juste écrasées à la spatule, servies sur un toast chips au lard ibérique. En consommé glacé cendré de caroube. En mousseline ; soja frais et pousses de moutarde. Langoustine tartare with green mango and a thin crisp of nougatine. The minced mango was tart and slightly bitter, so its flavor was a nice complement to the slight natural sweetness of the raw langoustine. The tenderness of the langoustines suggested that they were incredibly fresh. It almost seemed like cooking something that is already so great raw would be a crime. Skewers of grilled langoustines with melted butter and seasoned with a powder made from the carcass. Actually now I take back what I said before about it being a crime to cook langoustines this fresh. This very simple cooked preparation highlighted the freshness of the product once again, but this time in a new way. The langoustine pieces were incredibly juicy. They had been given just enough time on the heat to be kissed by the fire, but were thankfully still just shy of being cooked through on the inside so the result was very tender. Sautéed langoustine with cilantro and diced tomatoes. A lot of people seem to hate cilantro. These people, for instance. But I think it has its place. It definitely added a nice pungency here that lifted the flavors of the buttery langoustine and the sweet and slightly tart tomatoes. My only complaint was that I think the langoustine could have been more easily appreciated in combination with the tomato and cilantro if it weren’t on the skewer. But that, my friends, is called nitpicking. “Healthy broth” with a veil of cornmeal. I had no idea what this was until I Googled it later and found a nearly 200-year-old recipe in The French Cook by Louis Eustache Ude. So I guess now the next time I’ve got six pounds of beef, half of a hen, and a veal knuckle lying around in the fridge, I will know what to do. But on this afternoon I wasn’t really in the mood to analyze every single ounce of food that was set before me. Sometimes you just sip some broth, think to yourself “Hey, this tastes pretty good,” and you move on. This was one of those times. Very coarsely ground langoustine on toast topped with a slice of Spanish ham. This was beautiful. The paper-thin slice of ham on top was wonderfully fatty but somehow still crispy. Spain’s delicious answer to Italian lardo. You could sandwich anything under that salty pork and it would be pretty good. But the langoustine here (again, just ridiculously tender) was great. A jellied langoustine consommé with carob powder. This had all the richness of a highly reduced langoustine stock but it was nicely balanced out by the slight sweetness imparted from the use of the carob powder. I’ll admit that I didn’t have the slightest clue what this ingredient was at the time, but I do know it offered a nice contrast to the intense gelée. Also, I think the texture that resulted from jellying the consommé had a nice effect, giving it more character and a more lingering flavor than the simple clarified stock might have had in liquid form. Mousseline of langoustine with soy bean sprouts and baby mustard leaves. This was another highlight. The mousseline was certainly full-flavored, but light and almost frothy in texture. The sprouts and mustard leaves added a slight bitterness that complemented the rich, slightly sweet flavor of the langoustine mousseline really nicely. Adam was kind enough to share some of the different langoustine preparations with us. But he may not have been so generous if he’d had a chance to try the main course he was getting next: LE PLAT PRINCIPAL Gigot d’agneau de lait rôti au colombo, taillé en fines tranches, servi sur une poêlée de blettes aux panoufles. Caillette de légumes de printemps. Tarte sablée de gousses d’ail, pâte de pruneaux. Oh, I know. It sounds innocent enough. Just some thin slices of leg of suckling lamb roasted with colombo spice blend, served with sautéed swiss chard and pieces of lamb sirloin. But Adam took a bite of the meat and didn’t say a word, though a glance my direction said it all — he hated it. Apparently not content to cut his losses and send the dish back, he moved on to the caillette: minced spring vegetables and lamb meat wrapped in caul, the fatty membrane that surrounds the lamb intestines. Another silent reaction from Adam this time, but with a noticeable frown. Then in what I can only assume was an act of retaliation for a previous transgression of mine, he offered me a bite. Or more accurately, he basically shoved the plate my direction, and demanded asked politely that we switch dishes “just for a quick taste”. Sneaky bastard. I like to think of myself as a equal-opportunity eater, so I tried each part of the dish. The leg meat was tender and juicy but the sirloin was, well, not. I liked the fact that both were powerfully gamy unlike most of the lamb one can eat in the US. I also liked the accompanying crisp roasted garlic tart with prune paste and swiss chard that Adam seemed to have neglected. But the spicing on the meat, the stuffing of the caillette, and really the overall flavor combination just did not do it for me. I pushed the plate silently back Adam’s direction. He knew without me saying a word — I hated it. Then again I’m never particularly fond of that type of curry, even if it’s supposedly only very subtle. So after the amuse-bouches, I had taken the liberty of asking if they might substitute a different main course of the chef’s choosing for me. That was probably the best decision I ever made, since Santa Claus slid down the chimney with… LE CANARD Petit canard Pékin rôti entier à l’étouffée, aux aromatiques : Les filets sont taillés en petits pavés ; carottes multicolores ; feuille de datte sèche aux mûres. Scarole, parfait glacé de brebis et sirop de pétales de coquelicot. Betterave rouge comme un condiment. The waiter arrived tableside with a heavy black cast iron casserole. He brought it under my nose and lifted the lid to reveal a whole small Pekin duck sizzling away inside. The aroma alone had me smiling ear to ear as they swept the dish back to the kitchen for plating. Moments later, they returned with the breast meat cut into thin slabs and accompanied with multi-colored carrots. There was an almost translucent thin sheet made of dried dates and a scattering of pleasantly tart blackberries to mellow that sweetness. Large tiles of crispy rendered duck skin were strewn here and there, and all of this was generously drizzled with a bitter chocolate sauce. On a small side plate were a few pieces of escarole with frozen blue sheep’s milk cheese parfait and poppy petal syrup (yeah, I hadn’t heard of it either). On another was red beet “as a condiment”, which in this case meant a vibrant combination of beet mousse and beet sorbet. There’s no sense in me trying to explain why this was so incredible. (But for a clue, please re-read the last paragraph and try to taste it this time.) I would run the risk of spouting off a whole series of food writing clichés like “cooked to perfection” and “melt in your mouth”. See, look what you made me do! What I can say is that this was one of those dishes that are so unbelievably good you want to share a bite with everyone who’s ever smiled at you. I felt like my kindergarten teacher Mrs. Hatch definitely deserved one. Ditto for that neighbor of mine who always waves when I pass by in the mornings. Hell, even my stock broker deserved one, though I have noticed he smiles much bigger when I am handing him money. This course was, in short, a triumph. A magical dish that was the best of the trip, the best of the year so far, and frankly one of the very best things I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating. As you can imagine, my head was in the clouds after that phenomenal duck, and what better way to stay there than by eating ten desserts? Yes, you read that correctly. Ten desserts is exactly what we had on the way… LE GRAND DESSERT DE PIERRE GAGNAIRE Neuf desserts Inspirés de la pâtisserie française ; élaborés à partir de fruits de saison, de confiseries peu sucrées & de chocolat. The mignardises were not counted as part of the nine desserts, but they came first. They included an “acid drop” (thin hard candy shell with dehydrated strawberry powder and citric acid); an almond meringue cookie with marzipan; dark chocolate with kirsch; a “cherry” (actually a black currant wrapped in marzipan and glazed); white chocolate with lemon curd; and a marshmallow rope. The acid drop was great, tingling as it dissolved on the tongue like pop rocks. The others were all enjoyable, too, but this was just the beginning of a long parade of sweets, which also included: Coconut and vanilla tapioca, toasted coconut, pistachio ice cream and red bell pepper. This one sounded delicious… until the waiter mentioned the bell pepper. But in a sadistic effort to satisfy my curiosity about the flavor combination, I tried it all together. Suffice it to say that it was all quite good and something I’d love to eat again… except for the bell pepper. Lemon-almond ice cream with almond gelée, red bell pepper stuffed with dried fruit. Now I’m as happy to help the Mexican economy (the world’s biggest exporter of bell peppers) as the next guy, but if I was disappointed with the presence of the bell pepper in the previous dessert, I was perplexed by its recurrence here. Sure, bell peppers have a subtle natural sweetness. We get it already. Once was more than enough. The almond and lemon flavors in this dessert were another winning combination… without the bell pepper. Vanilla ice cream in a white chocolate shell, white beer foam, strawberry purée. The foam had an almost creamy frothiness (not unlike a pint of beer poured fresh from the tap) and a subtly sweet flavor. Breaking through the white chocolate sphere gave way to the ice cream inside and the purée below. Adam thought that the beer foam was good “because it didn’t taste like beer”, but I thought the foam was actually what kept this dessert from being too sweet. With both good texture and taste, I thought this was a rare instance of foam with a purpose. Cucumber sorbet, cucumber gelée, arugula. The sorbet and gelée were cool and refreshing, and went well with the peppery arugula. A nice transition for the palate to better enjoy some the more acidic flavors that followed. Almond cake, lemon confit, caramelized sugar shell, papaya-lime purée. This had a flavor that was bright, sweet, and pleasantly acidic. The crunchy layer of caramelized sugar on top of the buttery moist cake and the lemon confit was really nice for a different texture and the sweet-tart combination of the papaya and lime was a great topping. Orange and kumquat confit, orange sorbet, orange mousse, orange toast. The wide range of temperatures and textures featured the same flavors again and again in new ways. This added a nice level of depth to a dessert that could have easily been monotonous in the hands of less skilled pastry chef. This was probably my favorite of the bunch. Lemon sorbet, lemon confit, shaved pineapple. The last in a series of really refreshing citrus-based desserts. We all mistook the veil laid on top of the bowl for dried pineapple, but it was actually a razor-thin slice of the fresh fruit. Hidden beneath it was an second equally thin slice that rested directly on the pleasantly tart sorbet and confit. This was exactly the kind of palate cleanser we needed after the first six desserts. (I dare you to re-read that last sentence and not crack a smile.) Raspberry meringue, chantilly, raspberry confiture, fresh mango tart. This was sweet, tart, crisp and creamy. And like several other desserts that preceded it, I really enjoyed the range of different textures with this one. Biting through it, each layer had a distinct feel on the tongue. The continued emphasis on such vibrant fresh fruit flavors was making it that much easier to just sit back and keep eating. Not that this has ever been much of a problem for me. But you know what I mean. Dark chocolate ganache, chocolate straw, praline tuiles. Like I’ve always said, I’m not a chocolate guy. But maybe that’s just because chocolate is usually the last dessert to be served. So there’s always a bit of sadness associated with it. Praline tuiles can help anyone through such tough times, though, especially when they’re so pleasantly salted. This kept the slight sweetness of the chocolate ganache in check. There are worse ways to say goodbye. And with that, our lunch was done. I had come in to Pierre Gagnaire expecting to be wowed, and I was — both positively and negatively. The duck will be a dish I’ll dream about for years to come. Truly exceptional in every sense of the word. The lamb, on the other hand, I’d like to forget as soon as possible. And I don’t think the presence of bell pepper in a few of the sweets has inspired me to sprinkle little bits of it into my breakfast cereal, either. Even so, I think that when you succeed, you should push yourself to succeed in a big way. And likewise when you fail. Some of Gagnaire’s creations seem to be the product of an inspired genius. Others, the product of psychoactive drug abuse. But all these combinations — the wacky and the tried-and-true — exhibit the soul of a chef who is not content to be like all the others. He wants you walk away from the restaurant having tasted his food, think “Man, that was crazy”, and then question whether or not that’s a compliment or a criticism. Often, I think, it’s both.

Glad you enjoyed it, Shaya. We did have a reservation, and probably waited almost a half hour. But then again, we had only finished lunch at Gagnaire about 5 hours earlier, so we were probably more patient than usual. It could very well be. Poor soul. No worries, Andy. There are worse things than a few Krispy Kremes. Namely, this.

Alas, it looks like AJG is AWOL. So I'll go ahead and post the 1st in a series of write-ups of some meals we enjoyed during my trip to Paris during March/April. As always, pictures can be seen on our blog here. Chez l'Ami Jean At popular chain restaurants in the US, the wait for a table can be nerve-racking. The little light-up coaster the hostess has given you may vibrate wildly any minute now. Your raspberry martini is not safe. And I know this was the first time we’d had to wait for a table in France, but the only thing the hostess at Chez L’Ami Jean handed us was a wooden board full of charcuterie. It comes as no surprise which of the two aforementioned countries has lower crime rates, higher voter turnout, lower cholesterol, and a higher life expectancy. It was 9:30 or so on a Wednesday night, and Chez L’Ami Jean was a madhouse. The kind of madhouse with several pork legs hanging from the ceiling. My kind of madhouse. I munched on some saucisson sec as they told us several times that the wait would be just a few more minutes. With cured pork in my hands, I am a patient man. Of course, it was about 700° (Celsius, naturally) in the room and there was barely any space to stand, much less to sit. So after we cleaned up the charcuterie board I dashed outside to lose a few layers of clothing. I came back in to find the place no less crowded. Like first graders hovering around the kid at school whose mom packed him homemade cookies for lunch, we had all jammed ourselves into this hot, raucous restaurant just for a taste of Stéphane Jégo’s cooking. I noticed I wasn’t the only one who stared longingly at the dishes that passed by and closed my eyes to take in their aromas. We all seemed to be captivated. We finally sat down at a tiny cozy four-top along the wall. There were a few daily specials on the nearby chalkboard in addition to the 3-course fixed price menu for 32€, and some of them were too good to pass up (so I’ll list the a la carte prices below). There was also a carte blanche menu for 60€. Next time I am all over that. In any case, we ordered and then snacked on some bread and a dip of cottage cheese, chives and Espelette pepper. Actually the dip was pretty terrible, so we really just snacked on the bread. It wasn’t long before our entrées arrived, and the first they set down was the Asperges blanche vinaigrette tiede d’herbes maraîchers (17€). Steamed white asparagus came dressed with a warm herb vinaigrette, topped with crispy carrot and beet chips and a thin slice of ham for good measure. The asparagus were fork-tender but not at all mushy, and the refreshing vinaigrette was a nice reminder that this was early spring on a plate, even if the temperature outside suggested otherwise. A friend of ours ordered the Emulsion de petit pois et asperge, croûtons, ciboulettes et lards, a vibrant green pea and asparagus soup with tiny crispy croûtons, chives and bacon. They brought her not just a cup or a bowl, but the whole tureen. Enough for each of us to have a bowlful and then some. It was thick, velvety, and really tasty. So much so that we seem to have forgotten to snap a photo. Oops. Certainly the winner among the first courses was the Confit de pomme grenaille au beurre, crème d’ail et escargot de Bourgogne. Ridiculously buttery potatoes with a beautiful bright green parsley and garlic cream, tender snails and spicy chorizo. Oh, and a crispy slice of ham. (Basically everything here is garnished with pork.) Offering my personal analysis with all the wisdom of a five-year-old, I declared this “the best potato-parsley combo ever.” That basically sums it up, I think. Really delicious. They had unfortunately just run out of the morel-stuffed chicken breast we had seen at a several other tables, so instead our friend got the Fricassé de poulet de ferme “cuisse” crèmé servi en cocotte de tradition. Stewed chicken leg served in a cream sauce and topped with carrots, onions and snap peas. And if that wasn’t enough, on a second plate they served her another huge piece of roasted chicken au jus, garnished with (you guessed it) two strips of crispy ham. The chicken in both cases was cooked well and it was very moist. She seemed to prefer the cream sauce-and-vegetable presentation to the one served with the pan juices. But I think we were all lamenting the unavailability of the morel-stuffed chicken. I say “we” because I definitely would’ve asked for half a small bite of it. It looked wonderful. We got our morels anyway with the Assiette de morilles cuisinées à la crème tout simplement (32€). These mushrooms are one of my favorite signs of spring, and this ultra simple preparation — basically cooked with loads of cream and butter — was delicious. Mixed in with the morels were some lovely fat English peas, onions and a few stray bits of bacon. In addition to the plated portion, a second helping came in a separate crock so that it stayed warm while you ate, which I thought was a nice touch. It was much easier to enjoy this very tasty dish once I chose not to remind myself of its equivalent price in US dollars. The weakest of the main courses, and really the lone disappointment of the evening, was the Joue de porcelet cuisiné mijoté en vinaigré de lentille de Puy. It tasted as simple and straightforward as the menu description: braised pork cheeks (garnished with crispy pork, obviously). It was very tender, pulling apart easily without the use of a knife. But ultimately the flavor was bland, even dull. The carrot and onion did little to hide the fact that this was basically just a big chunk of meat that had been cooked for a really long time. Nothing wrong with it, necessarily, but I was hoping for more depth of flavor considering some of the great stuff we’d eaten already. Far from disappointing were the Ris de veau “pomme” rôti, puis braisé à la vanille, jus tranché (42€). Two fist-sized pieces of sweetbreads (poetically translated as “the calf’s laugh” in French) were first roasted and then braised with vanilla bean. Some very thin and crispy carrot chips were on top. The sweetbreads were cooked very well — really creamy on the inside — and extremely tasty. And the whole dish smelled absolutely fantastic. The portion was so big that I needed some help to finish it off. (And by that I really mean it was so good I was able to use it as a bargaining chip to taste everyone else’s food!) Oh, and I definitely should not forget to mention the smooth, extremely buttery potato purée that came as a side with both the sweetbreads and the pork cheeks. It was Robuchon-esque — which is to say it was a cardiologist’s nightmare and an eater’s dream. If the myriad of recommendations I had read for this restaurant were to be trusted, Riz au lait grand-mère en service, confiture de lait was the way to go for dessert. And they were right. This rice pudding was thick enough to stand a spoon in and very creamy. It had a very pronounced vanilla flavor; milk jam drizzled everywhere made it even richer. There was enough in the self-serve bowl to feed a small country, but we quickly polished it off (out of politeness, of course). I thought for a second about asking for another round for the table, but we’d already ordered a second dessert to share — the Sablé breton maison, tombé de fraise et framboise, glacé vanille. A thick round of buttery shortcake was served with macerated raspberries and strawberries, and topped off with vanilla ice cream and crispy nougatine. The cake was sweet and tasty, if a bit dry. But this problem was easily solved if one got enough ice cream in every mouthful. Overall this dessert definitely paled in comparison to the rice pudding, but then again that was a tough act to follow. Fortunately some extra consolation came in the form of a small dish of warm madeleines they brought out as well. That was a nice little surprise. By the time we wrapped up, it was approaching 1am. Between this dinner and lunch at Pierre Gagnaire it had been a wonderful day, and I was a very happy man. Now I know the exchange rate is killing the US dollar right now (which probably explains why all the folks we stood elbow-to-elbow with before this meal were speaking French). But as far as I’m concerned, Chez L’Ami Jean’s 32€ prix fixe is an incredibly fair neighborhood restaurant price for Michelin star-quality cuisine. This is the kind of bistro I had dreamt about before coming to Paris, but only in the the way a little kid dreams about the tooth fairy. You don’t know if it actually exists, but you sure hope it does. And in the mean time you’ll enjoy whatever gifts it brings your way.

Holly, I just looked through all your photo sets from your time in Paris. You are my hero.

The only pork we had at Arpege was a dollop of speck chantilly served on top of a celery root velouté. And it was even better than it sounds. I certainly understand the prices are astronomical (my pre-meal excitement was laced with a healthy bit of fear, I'll admit). But I would imagine if you look at the menu on the day of your visit and think the image du potager ce matin won't be enough to satisfy you, you could ask them to sub a meat/fish course for little or no supplement. They're pretty damn nice. ETA: "Ecailles ou plumes..." == Scales or feathers

It turned out really great. The recipe from the SF Chronicle yields a sandwich so close to the real thing it's scary. All it needed was just a bit more heat in the dressing for the slaw. Ah, and some Acme Bakery bread. No Acme Bakery in Texas. speechless

Have you gone on a diet, ajgnet? We miss your reports, my friend.

homage to Betty...

IanT 1, Andy 0

Da Silvio was the one recommendation I was able to dig up before a day trip to Bellagio last year. Kind of disappointing, though, aside from the view. So I guess this is not a rec, but rather an un-rec.