Eating My Way Through Paris

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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.

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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.

[tupac17616]

This being the only thread with the restaurant name in the the title, for those doing searches in the future I'll add my write-up from late March here as well...

Au Trou Gascon

(pictures available here)

I believe it was Ron Burgundy of Anchorman fame who said “When in Rome.” I know others might quote a slightly more elaborate version of that old adage, but I prefer the conciseness of this one. And I’m not always prone to grasp the philosophical nuances of such sayings, but I think what the wise Anchorman means is that eating Tex-Mex in Toledo or lobster rolls in Lexington is crazy. Trying to eat like a local is definitely the way to go.

Then again, so is trying to speak like one. And frankly, I did a horrible job of both at Au Trou Gascon. As the name suggests, this restaurant features the cuisine of Gascony, an area of southwest France known to geography scholars worldwide for its exceedingly high density of people… enjoying copious amounts of foie gras and Armagnac. The region also happens to be famous for cassoulet, a slow-cooked white bean stew that can include all sorts of happy things: duck or goose confit, mutton or lamb, pork sausage, pork skin, pork belly, pork shoulder, and other particularly pleasing pig parts.

So we found ourselves about, oh, 600km from Gascony on this particular night, but this restaurant and this dish were calling my name. When the waiter expressed some hesitation in substituting the cassoulet for yours truly in lieu of a pigeon course listed on the 50€ Dîner Gourmand, I wowed him with my language skills by asking: “Plus supplement?” More supplement? Please, sir, could I pay a larger supplement? I would be ever so grateful.

Yep, I am an idiot. I should have just admitted from the start that my French fluency doesn’t extend beyond the four corners of a menu page. But the guy smiled (well, laughed) and said the substitution would be no problem as long as I was hungry. Then I felt like it was my turn to laugh. The poor guy had no idea what kind of an appetite he was dealing with. But in any case, we were all set — the five-course tasting menu for me and Adam, and à la carte selections for our friend.

First they served some sticks of toast with a tasty bean purée and a small container of piment d’espelette that would stay on our table the rest of the meal. Nursing a glass of rosé champagne while we snacked on that, we asked the sommelier to recommend a bottle of white wine to go with our first few courses. He delivered in a big way with the Domaine Arretxea “Hegoxuri” (2006, I think), an AOC wine made on a biodynamic vineyard in Irouléguy. We tasted it and reacted with a slew of four-letter words that I can assure you included none of the following wine terms: body, deep, foxy, hard, legs, long, lush, oaky, rich, ripe, soft, tart, thin. I’ll leave it to you to judge which set of words is more lascivious. In any case, let’s just say the wine was really, really good. Hopefully Santa Claus will come down the chimney with a case for me next Christmas.

The first course on the tasting menu was Gambas, royale de foie gras, émulsion de châtaignes. A single shrimp found a happy home on an island of foie gras custard in a frothy chestnut emulsion. We had seen the combination of chestnut and foie gras somewhere before, and it is a tasty one. I enjoyed the naturally sweet shrimp counter-balancing the rich and buttery emulsion, while a crispy crouton brought some much-needed texture to the dish. On the other hand, the foie gras lacked much of an assertive liver flavor, and I would’ve appreciated a slightly smoother texture (like, say, the sea urchin panna cotta I know and love at Picholine in NY).

Meanwhile our friend had the Chipirons “plaqués minute”, orzotto aux piments doux et chips de gingembre (17€), baby squid cooked on a griddle and served on sweet pepper orzotto (a fancy word for orzo prepared like risotto). A few streaks of a vibrant green parsley puree sat on either side, and some “chips” of fried ginger on top brought its characteristic spice and a new texture to the dish. I didn’t get a chance to taste this myself, but her silence while eating could only mean two things — (1) it was really good and she didn’t want to share, (2) it was disappointing and she didn’t want to share. Just kidding. The truth is she’s always really generous with the samples and most of the time she ends up ordering the best things on the menu anyway, so this was probably pretty tasty.

The next course — Noix de St. Jacques, endives fondantes — was a tango between bitter and sweet. The seared scallops were seasoned only with salt and a tiny sprinkling of espelette pepper, so their natural sweetness was allowed to shine through. Meanwhile, the tender “melting” endives had a pronounced bitterness that challenged that sweetness. A few flakes of parmigiano-reggiano cheese and a buttery foam provided some extra richness. And the brush stroke of parsley sauce on the plate brought, well, mainly just a pretty color to the plate.

We quickly downed slowly savored the first bottle of wine, so we asked the sommelier to recommend something to go with our meat courses. And by that, I mean Adam asked him while I just nodded and smiled like I knew what the hell they were saying. The sommelier came back with a bottle of Domaine de la Garance 2002 Les Armières Vin de Pays de l’Hérault, a red wine made by Pierre Quinonéro in the Languedoc-Roussillon region of southwest France. I liked the fact that he again kept a regional focus to the wines, but we weren’t crazy about this one. It was highly tannic, and although it worked reasonably well with my main course, it was a bit too harsh to drink on its own in-between courses or even with the cheese that would follow.

The main course I’m talking about is of course Le cassoulet “Trou Gascon” aux haricots de maïs, confit de canard, couston de porc, côte d’agneau et saucisse de couennes. This was so big and hearty as to be entirely inappropriate for a tasting menu. Which is to say I reveled in the excess and later returned the dish completely clean. The white beans were neither grainy nor mushy but instead just tender and quite flavorful. And how can one choose favorites among duck confit, rack of lamb, pork couston (the upper part of the rack), and pork sausage enriched with pork rinds? Thankfullly I didn’t have to — they were all in attendance and all quite tasty. An added plus was that I felt like the cassoulet gave me a headstart on developing a sufficient layer of blubber to comfortably hibernate next winter. Who says I am not a good planner?

Adam stuck with the Filet de pigeonneau en croûte de noisette, la cuisse effilochée en cannelloni de chou tendre originally included in the tasting menu. And I guess he was happy with his decision since he pronounced this pigeon perhaps the best he has ever eaten. Granted, we were about two and a half sheets to the wind by this point, so I took that with a grain of salt. Until he let me try it. The breast was crusted in hazelnut and cooked to a beautiful rosy pink throughout. The leg meat was stuffed into a roll of cabbage and accompanied by some potato purée and a rich pigeon jus. I must say, Adam was right — this was absolutely delicious.

Our friend, on the other hand, was underwhelmed by the Agneau de lait des Pyrénées, pommes de terre écrasées aux cebettes (32€). This was just two huge chunks of milk-fed lamb from the Pyrénées mountains served next to a large pile of chive mashed potatoes. Nothing more, nothing less. The flavor of the meat was unremarkable, and the texture was not quite as fall-apart fork tender as one might expect from a (presumably) braised cut like this. The bigger problem, though, was the repetitiveness of eating this. She seemed to get bored with it about half-way through.

We also tried a few cheeses, the first of which was part of the tasting menu. The Faisselle pastorale, miel citronné, huile d’olive et pignons was a soft, almost Greek yogurt-like cheese served with honey, lemon juice, olive oil, and pine nuts. I hate to be so blunt about it, but this was just not good. It was like a fight between the natural tanginess of the cheese and the overwhelming acidity of the lemon, and really they both lost. At least the wine hadn’t completely washed away our mental capacities yet — we still had the good judgment to leave most of this behind.

Thankfully the other cheeses — Cabécou fermier et Brebis de la Vallee d’Ossau (9€) — saved the day. The small round of Cabécou goat cheese from the Midi-Pyrénées region of France was creamy and soft. Slightly runny beneath the rind, it was also udderly utterly delicious. Too bad it is made with raw milk and matured for less than 60 days so I won’t be seeing it stateside anytime soon. The other cheese we had, called Brebis, is a sheep’s milk cheese made in the Ossau Valley. In my opinion the sheep’s milk cheeses that come from this area are just phenomenal — Abbaye de Belloc, P’tit Basque, Ossau-Iraty, I could go on… — so it was no surprise that I enjoyed this one. This simple, unadorned cheese course was really one of the highlights for me.

At this point, we realized we were the only ones left in the room. Even the waiter was gone. Or maybe he was just hiding behind the huge display of Armagnac along the opposite wall. Mmm. Sweet, sweet Armagnac. Wait, no! We needed dessert first!

Adam and I each had the Glace chocolat noir “minute” servie devant vous, meringue vanillée, mangue confite. The English translation of the menu on the website calls this “instant dainty chocolate ice cream”, though I’m not sure what exactly that means. A frozen form of Jell-O instant pudding, perhaps? Nah, that’s an unfair comparison because this ice cream actually tasted like a product derived from the cacao bean. And it was pretty good, in fact. The texture was almost mousse-like, and flavor was pleasantly bittersweet. Formed tableside into pretty little quenelles, the ice cream was served with mango confit and a really nice layered sandwich of vanilla meringue and Chantilly cream. With this presentation I think they did a good job of dancing around the fact that this dessert was basically just a serving of chocolate ice cream.

I said earlier that our friend inevitably finds the treasures on restaurant menus, and I meant it. Her dessert here even caused a case of Plate Envy on my part. She got the Tourtière chaude et croustillante, glace caramel salé (pate très fine étirée à la main avec quelques lamelles de pommes cuites) (9€). Almost like a strudel, this pastry is also sometimes called Pastis Gascon or Croustade, and it is a regional treat. The filling is comprised of Armagnac-soaked apples, and for good measure this one had a few Armagnac-soaked prunes on the side. The tourtière was flaky and buttery and friggin’ tasty, if I do say so myself. And I haven’t even mentioned the salted caramel ice cream that kept this thing company. It was great also.

Not everything we had that night was perfect. But at pretty reasonable prices for food of that general quality, it didn’t need to be. Between the combination of the food, wine, and great company, I’d say this was one of the most enjoyable restaurant experiences I’ve had in a long time. We were able to take a short trip to Gascony — on a weeknight, no less — without ever leaving the big city. Now I’m not recommending that you stumble from restaurant to restaurant in a slightly inebriated state mumbling “cassoulet, plus supplement” over and over again. Far from it. You might get some funny looks. Instead, just head to Au Trou Gascon. It shines exactly the way a Michelin star should.

Edited August 8, 2008 by tupac17616 (log)

[tupac17616]

L'Astrance

(pictures available here)

I know this may come as a shock, but beneath my intimidatingly macho 6′2″, 160lb exterior I’m a sensitive guy. There I was in Paris — a city others inexplicably call the City of Lights though I’ve always known it as the City of Macarons — and something was bothering me. I thought about what I consider to be the peripheral issues of traveling — things like monuments, museums, and parks — and how in the previous week I had completely ignored them. But my worries were squashed when Adam wisely pointed out that l’Astrance is just across the river from the Eiffel Tower. Surely there could be no better place for a walk while we all engaged in the sort of post-game commentary that inevitably follows this kind of meal. And besides, I always manage to see plenty of sites on the way to and from restaurants without even planning to.

We were having lunch with a certain Parisian friend of ours, so there was even more cause for excitement. Julien is a gentleman and a scholar of many disciplines, and over the course of the meal we were glad to hear his insight on topics as wide-ranging as macarons, poissonneries, and the best cookbook store in the city. We had plenty of time to chat about such things since we chose the longest degustation menu offered at l’Astrance — eight courses. Taking the time to experience other cultures first-hand has always been a priority of mine.

Not that the menu we received when we sat down looked like anything more than Chef Pascal Barbot’s grocery list from that morning. But I knew the correct answer to the maître d’ Cristophe Rohat’s question of how many courses we wanted — trois, cinq, ou huit? — was definitely ©. Considering the previous night’s drunkenness libational excesses, Adam almost passed on the wine pairing. Luckily our female lunch companion saw the error in this reckless moderation and asked for the full pairing. We happily followed suit. Supporting my friends has always been a priority of mine.

A quick word about the wines, by the way. I’ll just list them below in the order they were poured. I’ve never been a fan of note-taking during a meal, so much of this information was gleaned from the sommelier after the fact. As as such, some of it is incomplete. But with that digression out of the way…

We started with glass of champagne and a couple of hors d’oeuvre. The first was Brioche tiède au beurre de thym, a thick slice of toasted brioche spread with butter and fresh thyme. Neither the bread nor the butter was bad, but neither was extraordinary either. Maybe Jean-Yves Bordier was slowly turning me into a butter snob, but I was surprised to see Barbot coming out of the blocks with something unexceptional.

On the other hand, the Cuiller de parmesan crémeux that came alongside the brioche made for quite a nice beginning to the meal. This spoon held a small orb of spherified parmesan that had the depth and richness of the cheese, but an ultra-smooth, semi-liquid texture. This was soon followed by thick slices of delicious crusty bread made by Jean-Luc Poujauran.

Dr. Loosen 2006 (Wehlener Sonnenuhr??) Riesling Kabinett

Then we took shots. And by that I mean we had a shot glass full of Purée d’asperge verte, yaourt au sésame, lait au champignon. This layered concoction of asparagus purée, sesame yogurt, and mushroom-infused milk foam sounded almost like a health drink, and regrettably it sort of tasted like one, too. The nearly-raw asparagus was wonderfully fresh, but to my taste the purée was at worst bland and at best undersalted. The yogurt added a tangy undertone, while the foamy mushroom-infused milk brought a light creaminess and subtle earthiness (not to mention a boost of calcium and protein. Take that, Jamba Juice.) I wasn’t particularly fond of this dish on its own, but the Riesling we drank with it made me change my tune. The pairing was phenomenal, a symbiotic relationship between food and drink.

The next dish didn’t need any help from the wine, although some champagne would’ve been appropriate to celebrate what a masterpiece it was. I’m talking about Chef Barbot’s famous Galette de champignons de Paris et foie gras mariné au verjus, huile de noisette, citron confit. Any raw food dieters out there take note — this layered “cake” was not cooked. Instead, the chef layered thin slices of raw button mushrooms with verjuice-marinated foie gras. These layers sandwiched citrus zest between them that brightened up both the flavors and the colors of this beige creation. The base was a thin, crispy layer of brik dough. Sprinkled on top was some intensely earthy porcini powder. And served alongside all this was some tart lemon confit and a dab of hazelnut oil that added a nice depth to the dish. I think what made this dish so special was the staying power of its flavors. The first taste sensation was the subtlety of the raw sliced mushrooms. Then a bright punch of acidity from the citrus. And finally a lingering richness on the tongue from the foie gras and the hazelnut oil. It was really a dynamic experience for the palate, and it was a dish I won’t soon forget. The next time you’ve got a spare lobe of foie gras laying around the kitchen, you should definitely give it a try.

Loimer 2006 Grüner-Veltliner “Kamptal”

We took a short trip to Thailand with the Langoustines juste poelées, soupe thailandais, legumes et fleurs de printemps. A few langoustines were halved and quickly pan-fried to get some browning on the flesh side. The seasoning was incredibly subtle, a sure sign of Chef Barbot’s confidence in his fresh products. The langoustines had been heated just to the point of limbo between raw and cooked. Their texture ranged from slightly firm on the outside to tender within. On the side of the langoustines was a frothy soup with some classic Thai ingredients: coconut milk, lemongrass and ginger. Spring vegetables and edible flowers added bright colors to these bright flavors. This was really a fantastic soup, and in combination with the langoustines, a very enjoyable course.

Clément Klur 2004 Riesling Wineck Schlossberg (Alsace Grand Cru)

Then we had some more asparagus, and thankfully it was cooked a little more this time — Asperges vertes et blanches au cumin, purée de cédrat, sauge cassis, amandes caramélisées. Fat stalks of green and white asparagus were seasoned with cumin and Andean silverleaf sage. The former brought a smoky aroma while the latter smelled of blackcurrant (hence the name in French). What I mistakenly took for a quenelle of potato purée on the side was actually citron, which brought vibrant acidity to the dish along with the candied citron zests scattered around the plate. A few caramelized almonds provided a contrasting texture and a nutty sweet flavor.

Domaine de la Louvetrie 1993 Muscadet Sèvre-et-Maine Fief du Breil (Jo Landron)

We had a couple of fish courses, the first of which was the Sériole sautée, coquillages cuisinées légèrement, purée des légumes verts, confit d’agrumes. A piece of sautéed yellowtail came flanked by a small abalone and a plump mussel. The shellfish were slightly firm outside but soft within, while the yellowtail was fork-tender and flaky. Each had been seasoned only with salt (if even that), allowing their clean natural flavors to come through. A green purée that we couldn’t identify brought a vegetal component to a dish that would have been totally out to sea otherwise. Yet another appearance of citrus confit created a nice flavor balance between salty, bitter, sour and sweet.

Pierre Gonon (2006??) Saint-Joseph Les Oliviers (Blanc)

Next came the Saint-Pierre cuisiné lentement, chou-fleur, piment doux, câpres, puntarelles. This filet of slow-cooked John Dory was served with cauliflower dressed with a sweet-and-sour (and salty) combination of capers and sweet red peppers. There were also a few pieces of puntarelle, a slightly bitter Italian green vegetable in the chicory family that none of us had tried before. Those are the spiky things in the picture that look like the lovechild of an asparagus tip and a shrimp head. They were crisp and delicious. But the fish here was unfortunately overcooked. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it tough, but we all agreed it was a bit on the firm side. Whether that firmness can be attributed to the cooking method (I’m not convinced by slow-cooked fish) or just plain human error, I don’t know. But that misstep dragged down an otherwise quite flavorful course.

Bodegas Toro Albalá 1922 Viejisimo Solera Amontillado ??

Then we had a simple but great dish of Poitrine de porc, haricots blancs, émulsion de chorizo. This thick slice of pork belly with equal layers of fat and meat was meltingly tender. It rested on a little bed of small white beans in a delicious chorizo emulsion rich with chili and paprika. This was exactly the kind of dish I would have expected from a disciple of Alain Passard — a straightforward and to-the-point composition of flavors combined with great ingredients and great technique. We all really enjoyed this dish, Julien so much so that he snuck downstairs to ask for a second round. This request was kindly obliged, much to my delight. There’s a special place in heaven for people like Julien.

Causse-Marines 1996 “Mysterre” Vin de Table (Patrice Lescarret; Dix ans de voile)

There’s also a special place in heaven for whoever cooked the Poularde de Bresse aux morilles, fondue de parmesan, sauce au vin jaune. I assumed this fattened young Bresse hen had been roasted but Julien pointed out that it was cooked on the stove. Whatever the cooking method, the results were firm yet juicy flesh and delectably crispy skin. This was a million miles away from that boneless, skinless, lifeless bird that often passes for chicken where I’m from. We all agreed the poularde was undersalted, but the staff were quick to help us remedy that. Underneath the meat was a creamy parmesan fondue, sautéed morels, and a sauce enriched with vin jaune, all of which made for a delicious backdrop for the bird. Really a stunning dish, and certainly one of the best of the meal.

Dessert time finally rolled around, starting with the Sorbet piment-citronnelle, or lemongrass and hot pepper sorbet. This is the kind of thing Thomas Keller might ironically call “IcyHot” on his menu (though I can’t say I’d recommend this for a topical analgesic…). Cold and hot danced on the tongue at once, making this a great palate cleanser as we segued to the sweeter end of the meal.

Joh. Jos. Prüm 2003 Graacher Himmelreich Riesling Auslese

Adam later asked us which dish had been our favorite of the meal, and my knee-jerk reaction was the Sabayon à l’orange amère, nougatine (though I later allowed that it was clearly the foie gras). This light and frothy bitter orange sabayon was spiced in a way I found just intoxicating. There were pieces of nougatine at the bottom of the dish, providing a sweet crunch that really complemented the silky sabayon. Yet another composition that was relatively simple and focused yet utterly delicious.

I also very much enjoyed the Tartelette pistache-abricot, mousse de rhubarbe. The tart dough contained little bits of pistachio and dried apricot, and the rhubarb mousse it held was airy but thick like shaving cream. I would even recommend that Barbot bottle and sell it as such, although I’m pretty sure it would leave people licking their own faces incessantly. The mousse was sweet but the natural tartness of rhubarb was still allowed to shine through. Really nice.

The sweets kept coming, and next was the Mousse au safran et citron vert, sablé breton. A small cylinder of saffron mousse dotted with tiny bits of lime zest sat on top of a buttery, crumbly little cookie. Our friend noted that the mousse tasted sort of like Trix cereal, which was funny but true. Silly rabbit. I found the mousse to be quite flavorful, and by now I was certainly impressed by Barbot’s effective use of citrus in both his savory and sweet creations. I’m not surprised that he was once quoted as saying he simply could not cook without it.

The Lait de poule au jasmin also elicited memories of home, or in this case a home cleaning product. Adam asked me what I thought this Jasmine-infused eggnog smelled like, and my response was ♪♪ Mr. Clean, Mr. Clean ♪♪. The odd thing is, as much as I didn’t care for the smell, I actually liked the pleasantly sweet taste of the eggnog and the creamy feel on the tongue. Not too bad at all.

They brought out a little basket of Madeleines au miel de châtaignier, or chestnut honey madeleines. These little cakes were good, but I couldn’t help think about what a big difference it makes when they arrive warm. In any case, finally winding things down we had a plate of fruits frais, including grapes, orange, mango and medjool dates. All the fruits were very fresh and of great quality, with the dates being so exceptionally good that we got a second round of them.

We had come in around 12:30, but by the time all was said and done it must’ve been around 5:00. It was a dark and rainy day outside, so it didn’t look like that little walk by the Eiffel Tower was going to happen after all. But what did I care, really? Sightseeing is not the reason I travel. I came to Paris to eat, drink, rinse and repeat. And so far that was going quite well.

I’ve read assessments of l’Astrance ranging from "weak" to "excellent" and everything in between. And maybe just one visit doesn’t allow me to rest firmly in any of those camps. But I will say the place made an awfully good first impression. Barbot’s cuisine is calculated and graceful, deftly combining a few great ingredients with studied technique and a dash of whimsy to create something singular in every sense of the word. The wine pairing arranged by sommelier Alexandre Jean was so skillfully done that I was nearly in disbelief. To be quite honest, a few of the dishes didn’t thrill me on their own; nor did some of the wines. But the combinations of the two that Jean and Barbot dreamed up that afternoon were truly alchemical, completing and challenging and enhancing one another at every turn. My first reaction to the service from M. Rohat was that it was a bit cold, but as we interacted more I realized he simply exudes the same sort of confidence that shined through on our plates and in our glasses. This small team in the kitchen and the floor creates a restaurant that is comfortable in its own skin. Crisp and delicious in more ways than one.