Busboy

this was the first thing that came to my mind... good call...there are so many bad onion soups out there Although, as a general rule -- like sex and pizza -- bad onion soup is better than no onion soup.

Actually, I think one of the reasons vermouth, Lillet and a number of other wine-based apertifs were developed was to keep people off the hard stuff before dinner -- not just for palate protection, but because wine was more readily available in large swaths of Europe, and because people generally associated wine with dining and drinking the hard stuff with a somewhat separate activity.

Personally, I don't think anything stirs up the appetite better than a dry martini before dinner. And if alcohol dulls the palate so much, why do they always serve the best wine last? Edited so that my spelling of "martini" didn't make it look like I'd already been drinking them

The rule in our family is that french fries are to be eaten with a fork if the tablecloth is cloth. Anything else, and fingers are OK.

I can never tell which knife to use when I'm at a formal streetfight?

PDC As the guy who originally put up the "smell a rookie" post, I thought I'd take a stab at a reply in between my real work, but I started getting a little carried away ("Types of rookies," "How to spot one" etc.) I realized, though, that the whole thing sounds more harsh than it is. Especially in the best places, a call ahead or a couple of words with server or maitre d' will generally get them on your side and get you excellent service. Waiters can tell a rookie, (let's change that to "newbie", sounds less harsh), but they don't necessarily dislike them. Not sure that a thread that doesn't overlap with the many wise posts Sandra linked to is quite worthy of the eGCI, but, if you'd like, PDC, I'm happy to shed whatever light I can on the subject or, even better coordinate the observations of people with more recent waiting experience. If Monica will teach me to cook Indian.

I believe a bistro is simpler, smaller, offers a more limited menu often a combination of Parisian standards and the fare of the owner's home province. Brasserie's are bigger, offer a more extensive menu, and are traditionally Alsatian, with the classic dish being choucroute (pork and sauerkraut). Brasseries are more elaborately appointed. Bistros are, decor-wise, in between a simple cafe and a modest restaurant. But I could be wrong. What makes a good bistro: Onion Soup Steak Frites Neighborhood feel Energy Obvious hand of Le Patronne (or La Patronne) in every aspect of the operation Old copies of le Monde and L'Equipe at the end of the bar Smoke (God help me)

I can no longer drink New Zealand sauvignon blancs, having read that their rather distinctive finish tastes like "cat piss." Ick. And strangely accurate.

Speak not against the haute cuisine Chef Trotter serves Lest Bux condemn thy palate twice, with scowl Nor criticize poussin lest thou observe ‘Tis not a fish, but faith, a sexless fowl. Of wretched excess speak you not, china Plates and crystal stems aren't meant for censure, Such cosseting of a joyful diner Oft joins the food to enhance the pleasure. Of this debate, let one more phrase be spoke: Viz: Different strokes for different folks Hey busboy, you lookin' for a job? I think we could find something for you. Are you in the greeting card industry?

But (in my experience) they're mostly drinking local, "peasant" wines by the pichet ...which, btw, I've found to be leaps and bounds ahead of virtually all low-cost American wines. You can often get a half liter of a wonderful local wine for less than you'd pay for a single glass of anything drinkable at a bar or restaurant here. On the other hand, when you order a 20-euro bottle, the stemware comes out. Personally, I drink a lot of wine out of jelly jars and try not to pull the good stuff out except when a "better" bottle is being poured.

That special seems to come and go -- we jumped on it a couple of months back, and were very pleased with the glasses. So it may come back, (especially after the holidays). If only I could decide whether the white zinfandel goes into red wine glasses or the white wine glasses.

We're ready for any crisis, any time.

I have not had the opportunity to eat there, though I very much would like to. I'm just an observer fascinated by the little religious war that has broken out between the fine diners and the populists, who finds both merit and absurdity on both sides. And who wanted to see if I could still write in iambic pentameter if an emergency arose.

Speak not against the haute cuisine Chef Trotter serves Lest Bux condemn thy palate twice, with scowl Nor criticize poussin lest thou observe ‘Tis not a fish, but faith, a sexless fowl. Of wretched excess speak you not, china Plates and crystal stems aren't meant for censure, Such cosseting of a joyful diner Oft joins the food to enhance the pleasure. Of this debate, let one more phrase be spoke: Viz: Different strokes for different folks

Yeah, ask Tony about that look of utter bliss after his experience at the French Laundry. As I recall, he was pretty blissed out by the street food in Saigon and the Mexican pit roast, as well. In fact, in the book he's clearly more viscerally engaged by those two legs of the tour, than the jaunt to Napa.

Sorry that this post is so long -- so was the dinner. And, if I'm repeating some recent threads, Michel, Mark and the team there earned every word. Thanks to all. It was with some trepidation that we approached dinner at Michel Richard’s Citronelle, what with its reputation for waiters who can crush an ego with a single Gallic sneer, the presence of the “dour assistant wine maven” and the sommelier with an affection for Area 51 wine technology. Fortunately, we had had the presence of mind to PM that same sommelier before arriving and, perhaps noting the powerful positive publicity my thoughts on his establishment could bring, he agreed to guide us through our fine dining experience – sort of a Maine Guide with a wine list and a tastevin instead of a compass and a paddle. We were barely seated when Mark appeared, bearing champagne. We thanked him for arranging seats with a view, looking over the chef’s table and into the busy kitchen. Although Mark was our de facto captain for the evening, we also met our server, a stunningly attractive woman who not only was not French, but also seemed positively affable and utterly incapable of the type of disdain sometimes attributed to Citronelle staff. After some initial confusion on our part, my wife and I put ourselves completely in Mark’s hands and sat back to await the onslaught. MRC is apparently not one of those restaurants where you have nine courses and go home hungry. The amuse was delightfully presented in an eggshell, halved, with what appeared to be Cheerio – but which tasted like a cross section of a tubular pasta -- to the “lid.” The shell opened reveal a dollop of scallions and potatoes topped with caviar, a salty jumpstart for the taste buds and the meal. While Mark and I discussed the first wine, I had a chance to catch up on a few old acquaintances from my days in the trade, in a discussion that may have redefined the term “side dish.” Wisely following Mark’s recommendation, I chose a 2002 Georges Vernay Condrieu, “Les Terrasses D’Empire,” a lovely, floral viogner that was almost more fun to smell than to drink, and which was grown in terraced vineyards that have been producing wine since the Romans rolled through Provence 2000 years ago. For all its honeysuckle character, it had a tart little backbone to it, too, and stood up well to the courses that followed. The first course was crab cromesquis, little croquettes of fried bread crumbs encircling a crab and a savory broth. They’re served on spoons and when you bite into them the warm broth erupts into your mouth (remember “Freshen Up” gum?) leaving it with a warm, lingering coating. The contrast between the crunch and the warm liquid was delightful. Mark, in explaining how the cromesquis were made, mentioned that Chef Richard had more “toys” than any chef he’d ever seen. To Mrs. Busboy, aka Stephanie, this made perfect sense, given his origins as a pastry chef. And we were to see molds and techniques more usually found in the cold part of the kitchen again, before the night was over. In fact, the next up were the best-ever escargots, two little snails embedded in what I believe was a spinach gnocchi, cooked in small, round tart molds, and served unmolded with Israeli cous-cous and a brilliant green herb sauce. Next up was a stunningly rich razor clam chowder, a wonderful brew of cream, sherry and clam complemented by a glass of 30-year –old Taylor Tawny Port that magically appeared, a perfect match for a Boston-meets-Brittany (by way of Bristol) dish. This course was one of the highlights of the evening. The second half of the elevated cholesterol phase of the meal was foie gras, which I took pains to pronounce correctly for fear of ending up a post on Mark's Thread. Stephanie found the serving a touch large for a tasting menu, and, had I not been (still) ravenous, I might have agreed. But I was ravenous, and the cinnamon-black bean chili balanced the richness so well that I scarfed it down and, for fear of offending the kitchen, nibbled a bit of hers, as well. Mark came through again, with an, off-dry riesling, whose name I didn’t get. The halibut was perfectly cooked and crusted with lentils and bacon, either delightfully understated or a bit tame, depending on the mood in which you approached it. We approached it in the company of a 2001 Mersault-Charmes produced by (according to my notes) either Domaine Buisson-Charles or Domaine Charles Buisson. Gold, nutty, viscous, but not over-oaked, it was a good middle-weight chardonnay to carry us through the home stretch. Thanks, Mark. At this point, the evening had become delightfully blurry and I developed an inexorable craving for my weekly cigarette. With a little help, I was able to cage a Marlboro from a well-dressed gentleman who, for reasons I don’t understand, spoke to me only in French, asking me to smoke only at the bar. No problem. At the bar, by the way, you can wear jeans, but you’ll fit in better if you match them with $400 shoes and lobster burger. After stumbling back down stairs, I was greeted by a virtual paella, a briny, miniature, pyramid of perfectly cooked lobster, shrimp, shellfish, with and squid minced to resemble rice. After the richness of the previous courses, the warm Iberian spicing against the clean crustacean taste almost served as a palate cleanser. Stephanie was by now in full retreat and I was again forced to protect the kitchen’s feelings, this time by finished the lobster portion of the dish for her. Finally, we reached the entrée, “minute steak” of squab breast, served with a reduction sauce, julienned sugar snaps and a reduction sauce, with an herb-crusted confit of leg on the side. The tiny leg, which looked like shake-and-bake for Barbie and Ken, struck me as more garnish than anything a quick crunch, too small for a brute like me to savor. The breast, though, was one of those extraordinary things where a great chef serves something ridiculously simple, but prepared so well it becomes sublime. The slivers of snow-pea became the perfect foil, their bright chlorophyll flavor balancing the slight gaminess of the squab and the richness of the sauce, to bring the whole dish into perfect focus. With the squab, Mark poured a glass of Bastide St. Dominique Chateauneuf-du-Pape, a warm, slightly tannic red that, like the squab, seemed to embody both country cooking and haute cuisine. At this point, my notes fail me. There may have been cheese, and I feel certain we would have had a glass sticky to finish off the night, along with the desserts akwiatek did such a good job describing desserts. And, of course, we loved lingering over those gelées, savoring them one nibble at a time, like the last echo of a great musical performance. Thanks Mark and to all the staff at Citronelle for a truly amazing experience.

Though their reputation has grown immensly and spread far betond the land of the Souther Cross, one can only hope that Mr. Cleese will find some excuse to work in the classic Australian Table Wines Sketch

Don't forget four vinegars, three oils and five kinds of salt. Oh, yeah: olives, too.

True. But I've had very good pho from non-specialized Vietnamese restaurants, as well. Probably worth checking out the Eden Center place next time I'm out there, though.

Are you sure you're not talking about going to a Dead show?

Ended up going to Dalat and was a little diappointed. The pho was flat, lacking the depth and richness and of a really good soup -- that moment when the bowl is put down and the aroma of beef, anise and cilantro envelops the table never arrived. The chiao gia (sp?) were unmemorable. On the other hand, the crispy whole flounder with ginger was excellent, crisply cooked and strong enough of a fish to stand up to a generous amount of ground fresh ginger.

Like H.L. Mencken, Adam seems to delight throwing "a dead cat into the temple" every now and again, just to see what happens. If the temple has remained unscathed, the reaction of the congregants has been revealing; those most dedicated to defending CT's hallowed status doing the most to harm it, by confirming almost every snotty stereotype Adam draws. A little perspective would go a long way.

Don't Bogart that Burgundy, my friend.

Phish.

Warning: An extensive knowledge of Rolling Stones lyrics may be an indication that you are old enough to intimidate younger diners at upscale restaurants.