In France They Kiss on Main Street

I have never made a secret of my love affair with France. On the contrary, I'm a bit of a snob about it. I have no idea from where this affectation springs. I'm Mexican & Irish. I grew up in southern California, southern Ohio, and then southern California again. What did I know of French? As a kid, I used to daydream about being the Prince of Wales, or the newly dubbed Crown Prince of Bavaria and living in Schloss Neuschwanstein. But when it came time to sign up for a foreign language in high school, I leapt at French. My Latina mother was aghast. I could not then, nor can I now offer any credible defense.

It's has been hard getting back to posting on You Gonna Finish That?. My mind wanders. I can't seem to find a thread that will weave all the stories together. Also, I've been reading a new friend's blog, and it has soured me on my own writing. Add a crippling dash of guilt for not posting, and you have yourself a spiraling cocktail of inertia.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to indulge in public, masturbatory Francophilia. For this writer's money, France remains the capital of all things culinary. Even the most base, back-alley café takes the time preparing its dishes as befits a nation of gourmands. Many are family run enterprises with a wife or mother out front and a spouse or son (or daughter) behind the counter. Folks take an earnest pride in what comes out of their kitchens. They show a genuine appreciation for a healthy appetite and a favorable remark. One chef in particular quite literally hung inside the little window where he passed plates through to the hostess, waiting for my reaction to his creations. I was touched. No less so because the food was absolutely delicious. For the curious, the restaurant was Le Gayridon - 19 Rue de Picardie, 75003 Paris. It was recommended by a very colorful celebrant at a local gay club in the Marais district of Paris - probably the coolest neighborhood in the City. I am so glad to have made the discovery.

I was on my own this trip. It had its plusses and minuses. I spent a lot of time just wandering around, attempting to get lost, but always stumbling upon some familiar site or vista that would jar me out of my nostalgic musings. I relied on my iPod during these rambles; something I detest normally, but I was in the mood for a soundtrack all my own as I relished this most beautiful and urbane of cities. But instead of monumental architecture or heartbreakingly powerful paintings, my eye turned towards food.

I followed a few simple rules: avoid the heavily-touristed boulevards, skip any bistro with an English translation of its menu, and never ever be in a rush. I tended to gravitate to establishments where the locals were dining. I once discreetly followed a pair of stunning off-duty gendarmes on their way to lunch. It was a great success both for the meal and the subsequent scenery.

I broke my tourist rule just once, and only at the insistence of a Parisienne friend who met me for dinner one night. She took me to Le Petit Châtelet - 39, Rue de la Bûcherie, 75005 Paris, one of her favorite French restaurants. It was a beautiful summer evening, just made for dinging out of doors. We could spy the towers of Notre Dame just across the Seine. In spite of the insipid American father/daughter duo seated to my right, Le Petit Châtelet soon became a favorite of mine as well. The headwaiter had impeccable manners. He displayed feigned, pleasant shock when I ordered a Pernod instead of wine as an apéritif. I liked him immediately. Over salmon mousse and duck, we eavesdropped on smatterings of German and English overheard at adjoining tables. I pretended not to loathe my more ignorant countrymen, instead focusing on the enchanting atmosphere and relishing being white, single and male in the City of Lights.

Paris opened up to me on this visit like no other time. I dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, eschewing my flip flops for more conventional leather walking shoes. I wasn't lugging around a backpack, and the locals rather foolishly took me for someone of respectable means. At every turn, I was greeted courteously and treated with friendliness and respect. Unheard of in France, or so I'm told.

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food

Mon Petit Café

Yesterday, the Metropolitan Museum of Art re-opened part of the American Wing including the Charles Engelhard Court and all the period rooms. My loyal pal Natalie and I spent and hour or so wandering around looking at old favorites and new surprises. I spent most my time ogling in wonder at Tiffany glass tile. Perfection. No outing with Natalie would be complete without a good supper. We were supposed to go to the David Burke Townhouse, a very posh 1930s space, but I was woefully underdressed. Instead, we ended up at another favorite bistro, Mon Petit Café. I used to go there frequently when the NYFOS series were held in the Danny Kaye theater at Hunter College. Once NYFOS moved to Merkin Hall, well... let's just say the UES is not really in my tax bracket. It was nice to get back to the bistro after many months. It was even better than I remembered it. Cozy, understated, an attentive staff, and perfectly prepared meals. Natalie, of course, was charmed. She thinks I'm some sort of bistro savant, when actually all I care for is a full belly.

Believe it or not, but Mon Petit Café is owned and operated by honest-to-goodness French people! It has been in the family for 24 years, and it shows. There is real attention to every detail from the country decor to the caramelization on the apple tart. Owner Alessandra Mac Carthy takes special care that every diner, from newbies to old timers, are given the VIP treatment. Mon Petit Café has updated all the French bistro classics and put a personal spin on the staples of a nation.

Hors-d'Oeuvres are dependable and whet the appetite. Mussels, snails and onion soup are rounded out with a smooth, delicious foie gras mousse, and an indulgent Camembert fondue served in a little cast iron skillet. I can recommend both. Entrées include a perfectly tender coq au vin, a really slow-cooked boeuf Bourguignon, and one of the best mushroom ravioli dishes I've ever been served.

I was able to convince Natalie not to get moules frites, for once; although she did begin the meal with her customary Kir cocktail. She started with a Salade de Frisée aux Lardons. The bacon pieces were generous and meaty, the egg perfect cooked. I had the Terrine de Campagne, a rustic pork pâté of just the right texture. It was spotted with crushed pepper corns within and came with plenty of toasted baguette and cornichons.

The Tuesday special was Côtes d'Agneau, or lamb chops. Natalie ordered medium-rare, and the hefty chops were served a textbook pink in the center. I wanted something in the same vein and spied the Magret de Canard au Coulis de Framboise, or roasted duck breast on the menu and just knew the chef was gonna hit it out of the park. Actually, I think it is their signature dish if such a thing is possible with their expertly realized menu. I too asked for medium-rare and the photo speaks for itself. The raspberry coulis acted as marriage counselor between foul and starch. D-licious, and curiously enough, a full belly!

Mon Petit Café is located at the corner of 62nd and Lexington on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. They offer a breakfast, lunch and dinner menu. There is also a prix-fixe brunch menu on the weekend.

Thanks for taking the time, and bon appeptit! - Blog O. Food

Érinn go Bistro!

For St Patrick's Day, I was invited to a NYFOS concert program, Songs of the Irish Poets, an evening of hard-drinking, hard-living high art. And where did we dine beforehand, you ask? An Irish pub, per chance? Corned beef and cabbage at home first? No. I found myself at yet another French bistro. In my defense, I didn't pick the restaurant, but probably would have ended up there on my own, so I am clearly an accidental traitor to the Irish everywhere.

Bistro Cassis is on the bohemian Upper West Side with a clientele to match. Lots of tweeds, earth tone knits and earnest social consciousness. Libs, I guess you'd say. I wanted desperately to like this place, but a series of unfortunate events blocked the way. Standing at the bar awaiting my concert date, I had to listen to the bartender and a server slander another diner who was foolish enough to complain about the volume of the music. I'm old school enough to think that those sorts of conversations ought to be conducted beyond the earshot of patrons. It's totally unprofessional and leaves a terrible first impression. Not unlike witnessing drunk, uniformed FDNY officers throwing up in trash cans at Grand Central Terminal after the St Paddy's Day Parade. At the table, our server cluelessly interrupted our conversation to ask if we wanted tap or bottled water and then proceeded to pour - not spill - water from a pretty, but obviously cumbersome pewter jug, all over the place, and perilously close to my $400 camera. I didn't detect a lot of remorse in his demeanor afterwards and immediately began an internal blog narrative demonstrative of my displeasure.

The menus were these silly and poorly thought out paper foldouts wrapped around napkins. Clumsy and dumb. I asked our waiter if I could keep mine for later perusal. He assented, and not 15 seconds later whisked it from the table, probably out of habit, but then he wasn't really listening to me, was he.

The food was standard café fare, which is fine. One doesn't go to a bistro looking for haute cuisine. I inadvertently ordered the cheese-stuffed chicken breast for the second time in about a month, and so convinced my dining partner to swap his chicken fricassee for mine. Both dishes were competently prepared with strong sauces, but iffy vegetables. I had already made up my mind about Bistro Cassis, so it was going to take something truly extraordinary from the kitchen to wipe the slate clean. It was never realized.

Bistro Cassis is part of the Reststar Hospitality Group (turn off the volume), which explains it's middle-of-the-road competency and deficiency in luster. I guess regular theatre goers habitually put up with this sort of efficient assembly line dining, but one wonders why.

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food

Le Petit Marché

Natalie is a classy ol' broad from Brooklyn Heights who's been a dear friend for years. She claims Kentucky roots, but is actually a Park Avenue deb with hillbilly affectations. She's never set a foot in Kentucky that wasn't draped in a Prada shoe. But she's a woman of a certain age, and I defer to her in all things. We have an outing every couple of months. She's become a loyal fan of the Botanical Garden's Holiday Train Show and Kiku exhibits. We always dine at Enzo's afterwards. I make the trek down to Brooklyn on the 2 Express whenever summoned and am always guaranteed a civilized cocktail hour and a good dinner. We split our time evenly between her beautiful apartment and some of the neighborhood eateries. Last night, it was Le Petit Marché on Henry Street.

I don't know myself at all. I'm always declaring Mexican as my favorite food, but I've spent more time and money in French bistros than all the taco joints and comensales in the world. Paris is my favorite city. Not Mexico City, not Zihuatanejo, not Guadalajara. I'm an enigma, or maybe just confused. In any event, I love Le Petit Marché. I'm always insisting that we eat there. You'd think I'd be surprised that the old girl obliges me as often as she does, but I happen to know she's just as fanatical about the place as I.

Eating out with Natalie is always a fun house sort of ride, but endearing. She'll get fixated on something and, just like a dog with a bone, there'll be no reckoning with her. For some reason she always orders a kir cocktail (crème de cassis and white wine) at Le Petit Marché. I've never seen her order it anywhere else. It's as adorable as it is inexplicable.

The regular menu at Le Petit is fairly straightforward, but Chef Dyner's (isn't that the perfect name for a chef?) execution is what sets the dishes apart. His French onion soup is perfection: molten hot Gruyère and tangy, smoky, almost sugary onions in a beautifully balanced broth. Damn. Dyner also does a Mac & cheese with sharp cheddar, smoked Gouda and chorizo that just blows the competition away. But I was in the mood for something earthy, so went with the wild mushroom pizzeta - lots of tasty fungi, roasted red pepper and Gruyere cheese on a crispy flatbread dough. It's got a dash or two of white truffle oil, and you just expect your next words to come out in a heavy "old world" accent.  Natalie had the butternut squash soup, because Natalie always has the butternut squash soup. I like it very much, but it has all the spices that one associates with Thanksgiving and was therefore a little out of season for me.

When we arrived at the restaurant, Natalie caught sight of a couple tucked into moules et pommes frites (mussels and fries) and wouldn't even look at the menu after that, so that was settled. The goat cheese-stuffed chicken medallions with ratatouille in a richly reduced herbed chicken jus sounded too delicious to pass up. To understate the fact, it was not a disappointment. I couldn't get Chef to reveal what exactly was in the jus, but it was intensely good. The skin on the breast was nicely crisped and the meat not too dry. It gave my two favorites off the menu: a huge and heartbreakingly tender lamb shank and the roasted duck breast a real run for the money. I won't think twice about ordering a special in the future.

One of Natalie's charms is her effortless ability to attract people, like moths to a flame. She's the perfect blend of impeccable manners and joie de vivre, and the old girl sure can draw a crowd. Our neighbors to my right started the evening eavesdropping on her chit chat and by the end of the meal were enthusiastic contributors to the conversation. All I had to was sit back and enjoy.

Leave it to me, the original creature of habit, to write up a two-year old restaurant. I can't help it though. I know what I like and know when others are gonna like it too. Make the trip to the Heights. It'll be worth it.

Le Petit Marché 46 Henry Street (between Cranberry and Middagh) Brooklyn Heights, NY 11205 718-858-9605 Open nightly form 5:30 - 11:00, until 10:00pm on Sundays.

Thanks for taking the time - Blog O. Food

Meanwhile, in Miami's Design District...

For months folks had been telling my friend Gregg that he simply had to try this new French place just south of posh Morningside Park in Miami. He had been putting it off, but when I showed up all I had to hear was the word "bistro" and I was deaf to all other considerations. St. Francis de Sales - Patron Saint of Bloggers (well, writers and journalists, actually; there is no blogging Saint yet) - must have been interceding on my behalf as we were a party of four and I was able to convince everyone into ordering something different from the menu for reviewing purposes. This was not to be the only time our group would suffer for my "art".

Another Miami New Times "Best Of..." winner, Buena Vista Bistro opened in May of 2008 and has already built a solid reputation as an authentic French eatery with a loyal following of locals and word-of-mouth visitors. During our visit, I spied a rather shabby gentleman, glass of wine close at hand, anchored at the bar whom the owner never passed without a brief word. He was obviously a welcome regular. I could easily imagine the same scene in any village in southern France. Think Peter Mayle, and you'll get the picture.

Chef Claude Postel relies on market-fresh ingredients, so the menu changes daily. Offerings are posted on a big chalk board hung over the bar. As the night progresses, items are lined through when the kitchen runs out of an appetizer or entrée. I love that. It signals freshness to me and a serendipitous way of living. I'm not gonna read too much into that; maybe you shouldn't either!

Upon arriving, we were greeted by the sweetest little German waitress. She had only been in the States a few weeks, and immediately won our hearts. She was the picture of indulgence waiting for us to agree upon a wine. I think she surmised fairly quickly that we would be a fun group, but a handful. As she cheerfully walked away we set to a serious perusal of the menu. It wasn't much of a struggle to get everyone to order different entrées but when Gregg and Jimmy saw the escargots à la provençale appetizer, negotiations broke down quickly. Liza, our fourth, extended an olive branch by ordering the caprese salad, allowing me to try the house favorite: rillettes du mans, a sort of slow-cooked, shredded pork dish served pâté-style with cornichons, mustard and country bread.

Well, with our group, conversation and wine flowed freely. I'll admit it, I attract a crowd of "wabble wousers" who aren't particularly shy about the bottle. I espouse moderation yet despise practicing it! Besides, I hadn't seen any of these people in months, and there was some catching up to do. But we're a harmless lot and maintain a modicum of decorum when in public. Before too long, plates starting emerging from the kitchen, and what a spread. Postel, a seventh-generation chef from Paris, is well grounded in the rustic dishes of his native land. Everything is served up in a simple, no-frills, unapologetic manner, and the effect is reassuring. More impressively, the dishes shine.

Jimmy and Gregg swooned over their snails! I took a tour of the Burgundy wine region many years ago and tried escargot at the urging of my French traveling companion. I didn't know what to expect, but what I remember most from the experience now was a sense of epiphany. I didn't have to subsist on a diet of pizza and burgers. Horizons were opened up to me. After a disappointing reprise at a very expensive restaurant in San Francisco, I swore I would never order snails outside France again. I now have to eat those words. Postel serves his escargot without its shell in a herbed stock with tomato, garlic and butter. You could actually pick up the subtle earthy taste of the flesh. It wasn't masked by salt, wine or garlic. I was transported back to France and had a maddening urge to call my Franco friend. Liza's caprese had creamy mozzarella wedged between tomato slices and a pesto topping. The chef had cleverly trimmed one side of each tomato to allow the salad to stand up in its layers. My rillettes was even better than described by our little Deutche Fräulein. It was meaty & thick, and I felt as if I should be sporting a beret and espadrilles.

There is a movie included in my Food Triumvirate*: "Babette's Feast", where a destitute French chef is taken in as a housekeeper by two Danish spinsters, and in appreciation prepares a grand meal for their entire village. In one scene, the diners can be seen looking longingly between courses at the door from where the food will come. That's how we behaved after our starters. I know... right?

By our second bottle, we were speculating on the deliciousness yet to come. Jimmy, strictly a meat-n-potatoes man, chose the Bœuf bourguignon - slow-cooked for days with carrots, onions and a sinful wine reduction - served with garlic mashed potatoes. The sauce would have made a credible stand-alone soup; just add noodles or rice. The meat a tenderness only grandmothers from the Old Country know how to pull off, and the potatoes perfection; not a single lump and creamy enough to serve for dessert.

Gregg trumped me with his order: three expertly seared jumbo scallops. Sweet, tender, moist. Hyperbole has not yet invented words to justly describe Chef Postel's light hand with the sauté pan. Suffice it to say the man is a god. The gods are among us. Liza and I also opted for seafood. She wisely chose the swordfish special with an incredible raspberry sauce. More tangy than sweet, it proved the ideal partner to lead the crispy-skinned, tender piece of fish across the dance floor. My peppercorn tuna was meaty, yet moist; firm, but still flaky. It floated in a reduction so rich Buena Vista had a dental hygienist on call just in case.

What does one do after so spectacular a meal? Usually, I groan into a cup of strong black coffee and pine for my bed. But in this instance there was only one inevitability: dessert. I am not a dessert kind of guy. Even as a kid, I never had a sweet tooth. No birthday cake for me, I'll have a steak, please. Proffer me seconds and I'll push away from the table satisfied. Yet culinary probity demanded something sugary. We allowed the enthusiasm in our young German's description to sway us into having apple pie with vanilla ice cream (I wish the written word could do justice to her marvelous accent!), and profiteroles with chocolate sauce.

I swore I would never do this, but OMG! No, wait: Oh.My.God. That wasn't apple pie, it was a French apple tart with vertical rows of apples. They stood up like Napoleon's army. They were caramelized and dusted with powdered sugar. They should have come with a warning label. The noise level at our table increased as we tried to outdo each other in homage to that dish. The cream puffs were only slightly less impressing, and only because there's just something about apples & vanilla ice cream to the American palate. Yet the choux pastry was fluffy and airy. The cream filling ever so sweet. The chocolate sauce would have driven you to your knees.

I mentioned earlier the suffering of my fellow diners. How do you think I got such terrific photographs? Every time a plate came out, I forced everyone to wait while I lined up the perfect shot. Nibbling was prohibited and enforced under threat of bodily harm. And yet, uncomplaining, my pals endured my fastidiousness. In recompense, I picked up the tab. Worth every bite, do-over, and penny!

Buena Vista Bistro 4582 NE 2nd Avenue Miami, FL 33137 305-456-5909 Open 11am - midnight, Tuesday through Sunday; 1pm - midnight Mondays. Virtually every entrée is under $20, and there's an enviable French and American wine list.

Bon appétit - Blog O. Food

* "Like Water For Chocolate" and "Big Night" are the other two entries rounding out my ruling body of three.