the packing post, sort of: the usual nonsense and a message from beyond

I have been looking at the long-range weather reports for London, Paris, Munich, and the closer we get to departure (tomorrow tonight), the more it looks like we'll be going to a different part of the world than the one I started following on weather apps when I began mentally organizing the suitcase.

The black lace skirt is taking along the following friends: Ralph Lauren Collection black leather blazer with pick-stitched lapels (a find from the outlet a couple of years ago), black silk double-layer cami, and black cashmere "drape" cardigan. I may wind up going barefoot if I bring the whole group, but it does give me the switch ability I was seeking. last minute change - a beaded black silk tee will be left home, too heavy to carry when every possible ounce must be spared for shoes. 

2 pairs of lightweight black silk twill pants will be travelling with their pals, the Missoni black-&-white tank & cardigan and tank. In hunting around among the folded "goes with black" tops, I found the black J.Crew "lion-rampant-in-sequins" tee, which is old but like new, and the J.Crew black silk top with the beaded bow, also about that old. These pieces have requested a few nights out and I'm considering it. See, ya buy good, it lasts.

So much for swanning around restaurants. I had thought about bringing a pair of cords to Munich, but it looks like the daytime temperatures are going to require a hat and lightweight cotton cargo pants and tanks. --last minute change, jeans & vest. And another last minute update, rain hat and sweater !
We were trying to remember when we last spent a day, or at least an afternoon, snuggled up to a keg. update: still a blur. Prosit!

And for roaming around London and Paris - some pants and skirts of different weights and some blouses. Right now, the charts aren't showing me sweater weather, although I have that nagging feeling that I should err on the "just in case" side. last minute change, long sleeve tees and a few lightweight twinsets. And a lightweight wool coat.

Now this when it gets weird. Really weird. About 5 years ago, I dreamed that my (late) grandmother was telling me to hurry up and get to the store. She didn't say what store or why, but since she was notorious for running out of ingredients in the middle of baking something, I thought she might have been thinking about cinnamon or vanilla. After I got up and had coffee I checked, I had plenty of each. Also butter. So I made me some cinnamon toast, and while I was munching, my best shopping buddy ever phoned, and it turned out that neither of us had to go near the office that day. Off to Woodbury Common, and you can figure out the rest. Clarification: Woodbury Common is not the little mall near Flintstone Manor, it's north of NYC, almost in ski country, and it's a long long ride. When we got there, we noticed little arrows leading to a parking area we'd never used before, and trucks were being unloaded. Mm-hmm. We followed the men from the trucks into, I guess it was a service building of some kind. A cash desk was set up by the door. One of the things I came home with was a camel-y taupe-y wool trench coat, Ralph Lauren Black Label, silk lined, and there was truly a building full of them. A delivery must have shipped too late and missed the season. The price tags were blank, a hand-written sign on the rack said $25. You read that right, I did not drop any zeros. The coats were very long, but -- well, BSB took 2 and I took one. I put mine away, meaning to deal with the length later, and last week in the mad search for little black tops… The coat has been hemmed to respectable midi length, it's benefited from a good cleaning, and I plan to take it along. I think that the original problem with the coats was that they're fall/winter coat style and color, but spring coat weight. However, what with global warming and all, mine will work fine.

Good for Nana, the problem with messages from beyond is that the time zones are different wherever she might be, sometimes by years. But she does think of me, my fuchsia suede Chie Mihara sandals that I thought I'd left in Hawaii last winter turned up in a secret pocket of the suitcase. I didn't know there was a secret pocket -- obviously, it was a secret -- and after all the agony of hunting for shoes I knew I'd packed, I glued it shut so it won't be able to fool me again. And the shoes have "unsquashed" after spending a day and a night stuffed with tissue.

After all of that nonsense, I feel I have exhausted the topic of packing. Next post will be from London.

Afterthought: of course I don't spend all my time running to malls, the long ride back and forth was a great time to catch up with BSB and reminisce about our grandmothers. We decided that all they would have had in common was a strong fashion sense and an almost superstitious fear of sharing recipes.

oh, no, not again… and a few words about yielding to temptation?

Himself stumbled into the kitchen, stood in front of the coffee pot yawning and gathering his resources, and finally announced that he'd never been to Oktoberfest. In Munich. Apparently he had only just figured that out, and it woke him right up. "It's just like your college reunions, hon," I said, "only larger and noisier and with fatter guys." After all these years, we realize that the Parade of the Returning Classes needs an oompah band. The Class of 1917 would just love it.

Yes, I know that this has nothing to do with Oktoberfest
beer, but the couple have all their clothes on and this
is by far the most politically correct illustration I could find.
I'm worried about what could happen to people like me
if Google achieves world domination ahead of J.Crew.

I haven't been to Munich in a very very long time. I gather they've fixed up a lot of stuff since I was last there.

Oktoberfest takes place in September, I don't know why, and tickets and reservations sell out way in advance, in fact seats in some of the beer tents sell out years in advance and when a seat-holder dies, his kids step up to the seats. So much for spontaneously falling in and lowering a few, I thought, but it seems even if you don't get into a tent, there's plenty of beer around.

On the other hand, it's not a dressy occasion unless you're a participant in some event or parade or pageant, in which case guys wear lederhosen and hats with feathers and girls wear full skirts with vests and aprons. As do, often, visitors from out of town, who, after a few pitchers of bier rush to buy "the outfits." So my mission this trip will be to say "Step away from the lederhosen. Put the suspenders back. Take that hat off." Probably often. Well, I am curious to see what Munich looks like.

one of Rouen's many sights

Naturally as long as we're getting on and off airplanes, we'll kick off with a few days in London, and we'll have a week or so in Paris.

We'll be doing old favorite restaurants in both cities, and depending upon weather, we may grab a TGV up to Rouen for old times' sake.

So, as usual, there will be at least one packing and frantically getting ready post, and some on-the-road posts. I started off thinking that at least I didn't need to do any shopping, but it turns out I've gained a few pounds over the summer and a pair of pants or two would not come amiss. Thinking about non-skinny cords for the beery part of the trip (last few days in September). And there are a few Michelin-starred restaurants in München - which to my disappointment does not rhyme with munching, so there goes that idea for a silly verse - so a skirt or dinner dress. Oh, well, could be wurst.

I will not apologize for that last.

If you've had the patience to read this far, I would like some thoughts/suggestions about the following burning question: I have regularly visited the two black lace skirts at the J.Crew Collection Store, and of course I have no intention whatsoever of buying the very expensive one, even with coupons and whatever, although it is a work of art which you should really go see if you're on a shopping diet, because it will put you off junk for at least a few weeks. It seems to be sold out on the web, but honestly, how does a $995 plus tax item sell out that fast? I think that's a ploy.

this one

Anyway, it was the other one that sopped up my rewards card and percents off. Sigh. I still have plenty of time to return it, but I haven't yet. Now that it's home for a trial period, I can't figure out what to wear with it.

This is the leather tee I had in mind. Note that it's real leather, front, back and sleeves. I must have hit a really good  great sale on a good day when I grabbed it, because when I searched for a decent shot for this post, the price had zoomed - skyrocketed! up higher than the first price I saw this past winter. Anyway, if I don't wear it with the lace skirt, the red butterfly skirt is still eligible, which is a good thing because now I view the purchase as some kind of triumph.

I'm thinking black cashmere shell and black leather blazer. But I'm not thrilled.

So - any other ideas? The lace is too intricate for any kind of pattern on top to work with it, and I am not thinking stripes or even gray cotton knit.

travelling... straight on until morning

My friend WMM, who's just back from Paris and Provence, is still decompressing.  She'll be sharing her own travel impressions later, but the thought of someone's first trip to Paris - inspiring!

So I thought it might be fun to share some of the impressions of my very first trip to France: all those years ago, and they're still with me.

As we set off, I had une liste of sights I had to see, experiences I wanted to have, foods I wanted to taste. Most of all, I wanted to know if the language I'd worked on since age 11, slavishly following the instructions of teachers who claimed to be ex-DOD language school, would in fact work: would a French person understand me? Would I understand a French person? Would, for example, the response to a request for a café au lait be a cup of coffee, a blank stare, or gales of laughter?

warm brown water

surprise no. 1: I was understood! More: I was complimented! Oh, what a relief to learn that those hours in front of a mirror checking how lips were pursed or jaw relaxed, had paid off!

surprise no. 2: French teachers can lie.  Café au lait is awful, especially if you like coffee. It's a morning drink, and to this day in many places is made by heating up the remains of last night's coffee and diluting it with hot UHT skim milk. I consider it an accessory for those who want to sit in a cafe with a morning newspaper and try to look French. I don't consider it food.

We arrived on an overnight Channel ferry and picked up our car at sunrise. We had to call the rental guy at home, since his little office wasn't open, but he was courteous and helpful, and wished us a happy journey. At that point Himself decided that he couldn't start the day or  drive without a glass of orange juice (not the place to discuss my relationship with citrus). We found a seaman's bar/tabac that was open, the barman thought it was très amusant but found the only orange in the place, and let's just say, it was a very expensive glass of OJ.

Maybe hotels have those peculiar shutters that keep out the air so when you get up, you can throw them open and see rooftops, fields, waterfront, flowers... in case overnight you forgot where you were. I later learned of the French horror of drafts. How long ago was this? Mont St Michel wasn't crowded.



I've already discussed my raptures on seeing the Bayeux Tapestry in real life, and I still count myself lucky to have been able to get up close and touch the texture of the stitches before the preservationists got hold of it. Pavé de chocolat for dessert that day, in the Lion d'Or. I checked, it's still on the menu. Probably still good, too.

Chugging through Brittany on roads that were still not paved, behind horse-carts, madly consulting guidebooks to see if we were anywhere near a village that might be celebrating something - anything! - so that we could observe Bretons in local costume, these are very expensive handmade outfits, sometimes hundreds of years old. Each village has its own style and they are family heirlooms. True Celtic pride.



Favorite chateau: Azay-le-Rideau. Best part: being turned loose on our own with a mimeo'd outline of the contents and purposes of the rooms, oh, vous parlez français, vous, allez-y...  We took turns reading aloud from the Michelin Green Book for Chateaux of the Loire, to let the history of the empty rooms resonate.

And on to Paris, where I encountered surprise no. 3: everyone in Paris was slimmer than I. The opposite had been true in the country. I considered reversing the course of the trip. Then - Paris happened. It's true that you get dressed up every day. This is because every day there's something to get dressed up for, even if it's just to walk down the street. This was the spring that blue jeans came to Paris, but like no jeans I'd ever seen: pressed, with crease! Stitched in strange colors! Fitted! Hemmed! Made fancy! As one who'd grown up in real jeans, I was horrified. French jeans have improved and I've gotten more broad-minded, but I still remember the shock. I may have thought everyone should wear close-fitted skirts or blue work shirts,  and carry baguettes.

After all, the buildings looked like the pictures in my textbooks...

Lovely surprise no. 4: Sainte Chapelle!

Lovely surprise no. 5: Sainte Chapelle!

Some early impressions:

They park on the sidewalk!

The whole country smokes those smelly cigarettes, not just college kids who want to look cool.

Waiters love to tell you what's in a dish and what else you might like with it.

We figured out the Métro in about a minute. We still haven't figured out the busses.

The plumbing was, um, different. The necessary vocabulary had not been covered in any of my coursework. I learned fast.

This first trip took place in April. We expected the weather to be soft, mild, spring-like. It was cold, damp, bone-chillingly windy. I invented the layered look: I wore everything I brought, all at once, topped off by a "packable" raincoat. If I could have figured out a body part to keep warm with the envelope of the packable raincoat, I would have worn that too. I later learned that the song is about April in Paris because the composer insisted on a two-syllable word at that point. The lyricist, having actually been to Paris, was pushing for June. Or at least May.


How to say "magic" in French: Paris.

Welcome home, all you tired summer travellers. Enjoy your memories.

holiday goodies, London/Paris/Lyon

I thought it might be fun to bring home some holiday goodies from our recent trip - which, by the way, is still not fully posted - but anyway, Happy Easter/Passover to all, and apologies in advance that the photos of the chocolate-covered Plagues didn't come out. As it happened, I decided not to take the risk that a creamy filling or frosting wouldn't get through airport security, so here are some shots of what a braver person might have bought

from London,

from Paris:

from Lyon:

And one from home:

on the road again

and away from reliable wi-fi, but hoping situation will improve soon

Paris: in pursuit of culture

A few days before we set off on the most recent Gluttons At Large adventure, it occurred to me that with all our reservations made ahead we'd have time between meals to do something other than worry about the next meal. Now theater in Paris is a touchy subject here at Flintstone Towers. A few years back, I had read about a brilliant production of Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme at the Comédie Française which would be on while we'd be in Paris. I'd "done" the play in school, it's a marvelous social satire, and "new money" is always a current topic. As I cross the street to catch the bus, I often observe the changing cast of oil barons, musicians, oligarchs, etc., bearing shopping bags and baccompanied by the underfed and over-garnished. Not so much anymore, of course, but when the French critics raved about how the production updated Molière's jokes while remaining true to the integrity of the drama - plus it was at the Comédie Française! in costume! I couldn't resist. Himself said "Why not?" Um, I may have overstressed the table manners scene. A little. Somehow he got the impression there'd be a food fight. (Actually as I think about it this would be a fine addition. Look what it did for Animal House.) So, ok, we got tickets. You know what updated social satire is? Jokes about minor politicians unknown outside of France, who come from towns the names of which are hysterically funny but only to Parisians, speak in patois, slang and argot as incomprehensible as Villon's, are cheated on left and right, and can't even steal successfully. And that's about all I got out of it. Himself still points out that the tickets cost almost as much as a meal, and we could have been eating.

Gertrude in Paris

Buddha

Gertrude down the street

Gertrude NY close up

Happily, on this trip,  we were able to get tickets in advance for the Gertrude Stein exhibit at the Grand Palais, which would open while we were in Paris. No, I don't have connections, but I do have a computer! More accurately, the exhibit was entitled "Cézanne Matisse  Picasso… The Steins' Adventures," and it told a story about Gertrude, her brothers who also came to Paris and moved in the same circles, and Gertrude's professional, artistic and personal life. I was interested to learn that the first Stein to arrive was in fact Gertrude's brother Leo, with whom she set up housekeeping. And Gertrude... a magnetic personality. There was a cast of the famous bronze statue of her towards the end of the exhibit, large, content, serene... I knew I'd seen it, but where? I was reminded of the Buddhas in Nepal and Myanmar, oblivious to the beauty and terror of their surroundings. As I thought of all of the Buddhas I've seen, in all of the different places, I realized that I was overlooking the obvious: this very statue lives in the courtyard of our very own New York Public Library at 5th Avenue and 42nd Street!

That night, we had a wonderful dinner at Apicius, which never lets us down. I think if I were going to have only one extravagant splurge this would have to be it. Do lunch if you think dinner is too, too. As you enter the courtyard, you wonder if you've been transported by mistake to the Chateau country. At one time, there were many private houses like this in Paris, and this one has been beautifully redone into a restaurant with a number of spacious dining rooms. The producer Luc Besson has his offices and a film school in the rest of the building. The restaurant staff is warm, welcoming, and thoroughly professional. I'd call the décor "modern eccentric:" attractive, comfortable, and just a bit whimsical. To be continued

a fall Sunday in Paris: two meals and a stroll

Very few restaurants that you'd seek out in Paris are open on Sundays, and since museums and other potential destinations tend to be tiresomely overcrowded, picking a place for a comfortable meal requires more than just a phone call or two. Forethought! Planning! Analysis!


I thought the choice would be easy, given that Au Petit Marguery's game menu is renowned and they also do some lovely things with the seasonal fungi. He thought a midday Sunday dinner  would be perfect. We were both right! As usual, we began our walk over at Place Monge, so that we could see what looked good and was in season, and thus be adequately informed for the challenge of ordering. The Place Monge - Rue Monge - Blvd de Port-Royal stroll we did last  spring is discussed in this post, and although the produce and fish, flowers, and meats (there's some farm-raised game) are seasonally different, I didn't take pictures, except of the leopard- print and polka-dot fishes , pictured here. 

Summing up, we got to the restaurant, were made welcome, and chowed down.  I ordered the vol-au-vent d'escargots, he ordered the sauté of girolles, and we shared (both dishes a touch light on garlic but otherwise excellent). He had the wild duck, I had the pheasant, after an awkward second or two we agreed that we didn't want to share. Dessert: grand marnier soufflé for me, gratin of pears in champagne sabayon for him.

We abandoned our well-intentioned plans to walk back to the hotel with a stop at the ancient Roman arenas, and took a taxi. An attack of guilt hit as we drove across the first bridge, and we decided to get out and walk after all. The cabdriver had a sense of humor. I must say also that I prefer to gaze at the Arènes at night, when they're beautifully lit up and there are no school trips. Our walk took us past what used to be the exotic pet district -- pet shops moved out to the sidewalks on Sundays, and if you needed a house gift, and wanted to make more of a statement than, say, chocolates, you could surprise your host with a perfectly matched pair of ready-to-breed black swans. There's the gift that keeps on giving... Over time we saw miniature ponies, more birds than the Garden of Eden, rabbits great and small, furry, shaggy, lop-eared, short-haired (also a gift that keeps on giving), and a lot of peculiar wildlife suitable for adorning the grounds or ponds of your château. We also observed a lot of children refusing to believe that this was a zoo and the creatures were not for sale. Today, sidewalk use (and exposure to passers-by) has been greatly restricted, but you can still coo over lots of cute things. Had we staggered to our feet earlier in the day, we would have gone to the Sunday morning bird and flower market on the Ile de la Cité, and if you're looking to fill an hour or to without making too much of an excursion, you should try this.

The rest of Sunday passed peacefully, and just in case we found ourselves hungry Sunday night, we had booked dinner at Benoit. Benoit was owned by the same family since 1912, a beautiful bistro, decor kept spiffy, open atmosphere, grand table as you came in displaying all of the glorious dishes for which the house was known. On Sundays, French families at midday, more Anglophones at night. Impeccable, caring service: we once saw a waiter carefully cutting the meat for an elderly gentleman who had lost the use of his right arm. Wonderful carefully prepared dishes. A favorite: Soupe aux Etrilles (tiny crabs). Tables were assigned by means of a gadget that looked like a magnetic chessboard. It was our go-to place for a Sunday meal, and one of the few places where Parisians would start conversations with us.

All good things end, they say, and when the last owner wanted to retire in 2005, he sold the establishment to M. Ducasse. Alas, this was not a Good Thing. Those of the Ducasse restaurants that bear his name run like clockwork and offer a carefully thought-out balance of the extravagant and the traditional. The others, not so much. The menu gets dumbed down and shortened, quirky decor is dispensed with in favor of  "streamlined," younger and less experienced (cheaper) staff is brought in and a snooty maitre d' is installed. Room for more seating is created. Sic transit Aux Lyonnais, and Benoit was the next to fall. We should have known better this trip, since we'd been there right after the acquisition, when we'd been mistaken (or not?) for part of a bus tour and were seated in a hitherto unused back room with a single large group whose language neither we nor the staff spoke. They toasted one another loudly and continually, and we could not get reseated. Nor could we order since the group's meal had been pre-ordered. We knew something was very wrong when we entered and did not see the display of food, were met by silence and had to point out our names on the reservation list, but -- Sunday night, raining -- you suck it up. I got an order placed by telling a waiter that if they couldn't get us some food, I'd call Speed Rabbit Pizza for a delivery. (SRP has won multiple awards for having the fastest delivery in Paris, the cutest pizza-related t-shirt, and the absolutely most inedible and worst-smelling pizza.)

Never ones to learn from experience, we returned to Benoit a few trips later, figuring that after all Ducasse knows how to run a restaurant, and they were just having a tough transition. Huh. No Soupe aux Etrilles, a few other favorites had vanished as well. So had the flowers, along with the sense of teamwork and attention to detail. I forget what we had, but I do remember one dish was cold. And shouldn't have been.

Fast forward to Fall 2011, Himself insisting that surely by now they'd have gotten the kinks out. Same addled and grudging service, better table, still another dining room in operation, and the same reluctance to take an order, even for wine. The bread was soft and damp - insupportable! Shocked staff by requesting new bread, staff was shocked, no new bread. Starters: the marinated smoked salmon for him - Marinade added no flavor and portion was even smaller than on the last venture, and no, this was not a tasting menu. I had the escargots, which were of varied sizes (unforgiveable) and lacked garlic (menu lied). My main was the classic Filets de Sole Nantua. Tough. As in, needed to be cut with knife and chewed for a long time. Himself had a "pretty good" wild duck with gingerbread spices. We skipped dessert, although twice I was offered someone else's. I said addled, didn't I?

We won't be returning here, although if you stay tuned you'll find a rave review of a different Ducasse establishment that we visited a week or so later. Fair's fair.

beloved local institution, Paris style

Christian Constant is the owner of Le Violon d'Ingres and, it seems, of just about every other establishment in the neighborhood, as well as of some serious real estate on a TV screen near you. We'd had dinner at the Violon years ago, and had loved the food, so we thought we'd check out its current incarnation. Summary: lively spot, the decor has been lightened and simplified, and the waitstaff giggles a lot. Food: yes and no. The menu reads like the chapter headings of everyone's first French cookbook, with a nod to seasonal availability. My first course was clear consommé of game: beautifully clear, a slight whiff of gaminess, no flavor. Himself ordered the pressé of tongue and foie gras, and reported that he'd had better.

However, I loved my main course, which was a Parmentier of lobster. Lobster - well, we get such wonderful lobster on the East Coast that I rarely order it while travelling. So, ok, OK, I was inspired, and this was inventive: delicate potato slices interleaved with slices of lobster tail, on a bed of mashed potatoes with chunks of lobster, topped with chives and salmon caviar. The potato was popularised in 18th century France by Dr. Parmentier, an early student of what was not yet known as Nutrition ("Filling! Not poisonous! Can be cut up and fried! Will not cause leprosy!"). Dr. Parmentier finally  convinced  the Paris Faculty of Medicine to declare potatoes edible in 1772. Potato dishes are named after him to this day. Well, that lobster owes Dr. P. a lot. Great dish. Want more.



Himself ordered the cassoulet, after a discussion with the captain to make sure that everything he wanted had gone into the preparation (he insists lamb is key, besides the goose, duck confit, pork belly, etc. No argument here.) We've had a number of cassoulets in the southwest, of varying negative degrees of appeal, I think this dish is something that's offered because the regional restauranteurs feel obliged and tourists will try it because they're in the region. Obviously while it's not regional to Paris, M. Constant's cassoulet got an A+ (19/20).  Moving on, dessert - mine: the house millefeuille, his: cheese, Vacherin de Mont d'Or. 


Interesting note: unusually for a French restaurant of this caliber, the tables turned over twice and there were quite a few walk-ins.

dinner at Passage 53, Paris

Some of the passages in Paris are lovely jewel boxes of exquisite merchandise, some are a mixed bag of the trendy and the tacky, and the portion of the Passage des Panoramas in which Passage 53 is found holds a few quirky little shops and a collection of tiny restaurants, of which the 53 is the star. Like all stars, this one makes its own rules.

The restaurant is tiny, white and cream, reverent in feeling without being gothic. If it's 16 feet wide, that's a lot. To my thinking, the prohibition on indoor smoking is what makes it possible for places like this to survive. No merry closing dinners, no bus tours, no shouting drinkers comparing exchange rates! thank you, juddering Euro.

We sat back and smiled while staff explained that there's one menu, many courses, tiny to small portions. OK, I'm in. After a glass of champagne, some tiny drinky nibbles, and a small cup of creamy pumpkin velouté that actually tasted like pumpkin but also tasted good (the expresso foam on top helped, I'm sure), things got serious: a single perfect oyster on very light smoked haddock mousseline, airy almond foam topped with caviar. Would I have thought of this? No. Did I love it? Mmm-hmm.

Up next: a seared sea scallop, a flavorful beurre blanc, slices of deep-fried baby artichoke, and me suddenly realizing that all these courses, all this food, were prepared upstairs and carried down a charming elderly iron circular staircase on trays that looked wider across than the diameter of the staircase. Dirty dishes disappear into the back of the restaurant where they are dealt with - you see nothing going upstairs. We learned later that the staircase dates back to 1798, and is classified as a historical monument!

Then what everyone calls "the white course:" tiny seared calamari on a bed of almond and cauliflower cream with seared baby calamari and shaved flakes of raw cauliflower. It's subtle, in fact, I've heard that some people haven't been able to taste anything of this dish, but we loved it. These may have been the best calamari of a lifetime, including those served by friends of ours in New Jersey. Another fish course: a small filet of baby cod in a frothy broth with radishes.

OK, here's where my notes start to get blurry and the order of things gets a little scrambled - did I forget to say there was a lot of lovely wine on the table as well? again, the foie gras of a lifetime, cold but not too cold, served with a touch of quince coulis, like eating silk; two meat courses: a seriously excellent breast of pigeon, cooked sous vide and now I think this is how pigeon should be cooked forever, because it was done to a ("rosée") turn but still tender. Then noisettes of venison - look, I'm running out of adjectives, how many times can I say "perfect" and "excellent?" Right, I could say "sublime", and I will. Remember, late October is game season in France, one of the reasons we chose this time to go.

Desserts - yes, that's a plural. I was immobilized. My best love was a "deconstructed" Mont Blanc, airy chestnut mousse with a touch of - cinnamon? ginger? too subtle, plus chunks of meringue, served in a verrine (double old-fashioned glass).


I'm sure that wasn't me making slurpy noises, the place is not so small that you hear what's being said at other tables but we all know how the sound of slurps travels. I'm sure I've left out some of the small stuff like palate cleansers, refreshers and pre- and post desserts.