L'Espalier: the forgotten dish

Eight glasses of wine; of course it had to happen. I'd had the vague, uneasy feeling that we'd overlooked something important, but couldn't quite remember what it was.

Despite the fact that The Boy and I racked our brains to piece together the details of our night at L'Espalier, we both forgot the third dessert.

Well, actually, it was the first dessert. But you know what I mean.

Thankfully, the always-gracious staff emailed the tasting journey menu, and we both gave a cry of happy recognition when we read:

Warm white chocolate mousse with Cabernet Franc ice wine

Of course! How could we have possibly forgotten? The mousse was a light, delicate, creamy froth in an individual ramekin. The ice wine ... oh my goodness ... sat next to it on the plate inside a narrow plastic pipette. As our waitress explained, the idea was to use the instrument to squeeze drops of wine into the dessert.

"But," she added, "most people just like to drink from it."

Which we did; it was a fabulously playful (and creatively informal) way to bring the dish together.

Oh, and the other desserts were:

Saffron braised banana, vanilla pound cake and banana sorbet
Chocolate decadence with orange blossom ice cream

Just, you know, so you completely understand what we had to go through ...

L'Espalier. Of course.

The Boy and I have always made a point of celebrating milestones appropriately; that is to say, with really good food. Even back when our finances were limited, birthdays and anniversaries were excuses to make reservations at Icarus or Clio. The fact that such meals were rare treats made them especially memorable.

As our fortunes improved year after year, each subsequent celebration was an opportunity to try a new place slightly further up the restaurant rankings. Until finally, for The Boy's birthday two years ago, we went to L'Espalier.

The food was amazing. The wine was amazing. The service was amazing. The fact that they knew--even though I didn't mention it to anyone--that it was his birthday; well, that was more spooky than anything else.

But the experience left us with a question: where next? How could we possibly expect to find a better restaurant?

So for a while we cheated: we left town altogether and celebrated in New York or England. And then we realized the only sane, rational thing to do was return to L'Espalier. Which we did, last night, for our ninth anniversary.

How to describe what makes L'Espalier so much better than any other Boston restaurant? It's not just the food; it's the whole experience. It starts with the hostess who checks us in, hangs our coats and introduces us to the maitre d' as "The LimeyG party." The maitre d' leads us up the winding staircase of the elegant brownstone, where orchids nestle in quiet corners and every staff member we pass wishes us a good evening as though we've just returned home.

Our waitron does not tell us her name or annouce, redundantly, that she'll be serving us this evening; rather, she is intelligent and quietly witty and able to use the correct French pronunciation of all the wines she pours.

And best of all, our fellow diners understand the concept of "indoor voice." Maybe it's because the service is so hushed and graceful, or because there's little competition (no piped music, no nearby kitchen clatter, and only a handful of tables in each room), or because everyone understands and respects the sense of ceremony about the place. All I know is that at no point did I have to tune out the conversation at the next table. Love it love it love it.

Oh, and there's food, too.

L'Espalier offers three basic dining options: the three-course prix fixe, the seven-course seasonal degustation and the "here's what we have in kitchen and we're going to keep bringing it out until you've tried everything" chef's tasting journey.

Guess which one we choose?

It starts with an amuse-guele: a tiny tower of smoked salmon and buckwheat napoleon, topped with creme fraiche. Then comes an espresso cup with a tasting of black quinoa stewed with octopus and cockle--rich and smoky and complex.

Then a single, fabulously fresh oyster sitting on lemon curd (trust me, it rocked) with American caviar, served with drops of sweet champagne gelée, along with a spoonful of crab topped with more caviar for me and a similar treatment in tuna for The Boy, served with a Sancerre.

Next I get butter-poached lobster, served with leeks done three ways: fried, pureed and braised, each method bringing out different aspects of sweet flavor. The Boy gets the better deal here: grilled quail with veal tongue pastrami, both ingredients playing off the deep meatiness of each other. Both dishes go well with the glass of Riesling-like Silvaner.

And then we're at the fish course: escolar (obviously the "in" fish nowadays) over pommes purees with a squid-ink sauce, and a Chardonnay.

Next, seared Hudson Valley foie gras with roasted quince and chestnut-caramel puree, perfectly paired with a sweet Greek Samos Vin Doux.

And then ... umm ...

You may have noticed that each course is paired with a glass of wine--not a full serving, thankfully, but enough to welcome the food to the table, give it a dance partner and send it on its way. If you're counting, we're now at four, and that's not including the glass of bubbly (Westport Rivers Cuvée L'Espalier for me; Beauont des Crayeres Brut Rosé for The Boy) with which we started. So forgive me if there are lapses of memory as we continue.

Up next: roasted veal sweetbread with cipollini onions and a sauce that was like heaven's own butterscotch (I tossed table manners aside and scooped up the residue with my fingers), and a light but nicely balanced Pinot Noir.

Then beef tenderloin atop something (see?), alongside a teeny cast-iron pot of venison over white-bean cassoulet with a single, perfectly turned, sweet carrot. This one came with a California Cab, a good match for the rich meaty goodness.

And now we're at the cheese course: a morbier (one of my faves), an aged, caramelly gouda, an herb-encrusted pave sauvage ... and, um, something sheepy and a mild blue.

I do remember that the cheeses came with dishes of golden raisins, honeyed pine nuts and quince paste, plus a sweet, fragrant date-nut bread. Sister restaurant Sel de la Terre provides all the breads, some of which are also sold at HoFoo, so I'll have to check for this one. The cheeses came with a 10-year-old tawny port.

Oh, look, dessert. There was some deeply rich chocolatey-fudgey thing, plus a saffron-glazed banana, plus some kind of ice-cream. Seven glasses of wine, so sue me. Actually, eight, because dessert came with something sparkling and Italian.

And then, finally, espresso and ... lordy ... petits fours. We end as we began, with tiny squares of explosive flavor (guava, chocolate, thyme. Thyme? Yes, in a buttery madeleine).

Three-plus hours after we walked in, we staggered out, full and happy and clutching a complimentary rum cannellé (you know, just in case we were still peckish).

So ... where are we eating next year?

Alloy and the General

The rapid approach of the Oscars reminds me (to my chagrin) that I've seen exactly one nominated film (Little Miss Sunshine). No different to any other year, really, and given that I only saw a half-dozen movies in a theater last year, I'm surprised that any of them got the nod from the little golden guy.

We could have rectified the situation this weekend by going to see The Departed, or The Queen, or Pan's Labyrinth, all of which are still playing in the area. But instead we went to the ICA to see an 80-year-old silent film with a live soundtrack of springs, horseshoes and musical saw.

The film was The General, Buster Keaton's 1927 masterpiece about a train engineer who steams through enemy lines during the Civil War to rescue his beloved engine (oh, and also the girl he loves). It's one of the best films I've ever seen: a tight, carefully constructed story with action, humor and breathtaking stunts that impress not only for their creativity and ingenuity, but also because they were executed way before wirework, stunt doubles or CGI.

In my favorite sequence, which really showcases Keaton's skills, his character, in pursuit of the enemy spies who have stolen his train, has to deal with an unwieldy cannon, a re-appearing boxcar and obstacles on the track--all while the train is moving. Here's a version of the scene, though the print quality isn't great and one of the gags has been edited out. Darn YouTube.

A great silent film needs a great soundtrack, and at the ICA this came courtesy of the Alloy Orchestra. Alloy is percussion-based; two-thirds of the group play drums, cymbals and "junk" (sheets of metal, springs, plus the aforementioned saw) as well as clarinet and accordion, while Mission of Burma vocalist Roger Miller's synth fills in with strings, brass, and everything in between.

I'd never seen a silent film with live music, and it brought a new, vibrant dimension to the experience. Maybe it was the insistent rhythm of the snare providing the clickety-clack voice of the speeding trains and the martial tattoo of the engaging armies, or the floor toms standing in for booming cannons, or the sheet of paper artfully crumpled to bring striking realism to an arson scene.

Or maybe it was watching these musicians as they played, eyes on the screen, moving effortlessly from one instrument to another, occasionally exchanging glances, dramatically flourishing drumsticks, rocking out old-school during exciting sequences.

When the film was over, and the audience had applauded both film and performers, the lights came up and the blackout screens over the floor-to-ceiling windows rose slowly, revealing the harbor and the skyline, and it was one of those moments to forget that Boston wasn't New York, that it was a world-class city with fabulous music and gorgeous architecture and the occasional sense to put the two things together with one of the best films ever made.

Nuthin' but good times

Friday night we were invited to Frank and Johnathan's bachelor party at Good Times. At first I was dubious about this idea: celebrating a gay wedding at a place that has 40+ screens of sporting events and waitresses with big hair and bejeweled navels seemed about as smart as adorning oneself with salmon and strolling through Kodiak bear country.

And when I arrived and discovered our reserved section of pink-ballooned tables adjacent to a Teamster's retirement party, I quickly tried to calculate which of our co-celebrants I'd be able to outrun (see, it's just like escaping from bears: you don't have to be the fastest in the group; you just have to not be the slowest).

I decided to make sure I was in front of Peter at all times.

Of course, my knee-jerk assumption that we were surrounded by unenlightened Neanderthals turned out to be unfounded (or at least unproven). This may have been because Good Times is such an aircraft-hanger of a place that there's plenty of room for everyone--the video-game nerd kids; the middle-aged guys in baseball caps nursing beers and watching basketball; the Hispanic guys crowded around the batting cages; the quiet group of lesbians playing pool.

Or it could have been that the consensus was not to hassle the couple dozen boisterous people, festooned with shiny Mardi Gras beads, who were engaged in a manliness competition.

Would you want to mix it up with these people?



The baubles were part of the entertainment: everyone started off with five strings of beads, which could be confiscated or increased depending on the judges' perceived manliness of one's actions. Doing shots of tequila? Manly. Sharing a slice of pizza with someone? Unmanly. Getting a high score on laser-tag? Manly. Making a musical theater reference? Unmanly.

The manliest thing of all, it turned out, was bribing the judges with alcohol. Isn't it always?

So yes, laser-tag was a manly thing to do. The manliness factor was lessened only slightly by the fact that we were grouped together with a gang of 15-year-old boys who'd spent more time running around in the dark with fake guns than we had. Recognizing this, I volunteered to be on their side to balance out the numbers. This meant not only that I was guaranteed to be on the winning team, but also that I could legitimately shoot The Boy; he seemed strangely gleeful about being able to do the same to me.

After Red Team declared pounding victory over Green Team (yaay!), we staggered out, breathless and sweaty, and refueled with Sam Adams' rich, chocolately Winter Ale before heading over to the go-karts. Because speed is manly.



As it's been a long time since I was behind the wheel of anything more dangerous than a WholeFoods shopping cart, I had to forfeit beads for the decidedly unmanly action of pulling over to allow other, faster drivers to pass me. Tim actually lapped me at one point. Peter said I looked like a Winnebago. I didn't care.

And who won the manliness contest? Well, after a number of pitchers of Sam, plus tequila shots, I think we all stopped counting. Good times indeed.

Cold weather, spicy food

Sunday was bright but cold--not a typical New England February day, but certainly in keeping with what we've had so far this year. Either way, it seemed like a good day to make something warm and spicy and exotic.

And so, given the preponderance of garlic in the house, there was sopa de ajo, made with this recipe randomly plucked from the Internets.

It was beautiful: warm and spicy, with a richness that made me think of oxtail soup. And while we didn't go all out and poach an egg on top, the bread and cheese were quite hearty enough, thank you.



The Boy also brought out his Christmas basketball again, this time to make Tagine Bil Bouawid, aka lamb with carmelized baby onions and pears. The recipe comes from Claudia Roden's cookbook Arabesque: a Taste of Morocco, Turkey, & Lebanon and involves cubed lamb shoulder; ginger, cinnamon and saffron; baby onions (we used shallots); and pears that are first carmelized in butter.



I'm a sucker for any dish that pairs meat and fruit, so I may not be the most objective judge, but this was fabulous--the meat was fall-apart tender, the spices came through just enough to be interesting but not overwhelming, and the pears and shallots were sweet and (as the recipe notes), "as they say in Morocco, 'you can crush them with your tongue.'"

As much as winter drives me crazy, I can find a sliver of forgiveness when it leads to the creation of such delicious warmth ...

Two-year-old NYC food thoughts

Today, noodling around in my documents folder, I discovered a file called "What we did on our seventh annimoversary weekend." What we did was go to New York. I'd completely forgotten that I'd written a report, but apparently I did, on the Amtrak trip back home.

Reading it, I realized that I'd written almost exclusively about where and what we ate (no surprise there, I guess). Here are the highlights:

We’d made reservations for Les Halles for 9pm, but when we arrived it was clear we’d have to wait; there'd been some problem in the kitchen, and everyone was backed up. I think we were overlooked, because we ended up not being seated until almost 10:30, by which time we were so tired and hungry that the food was almost not quite excellent.

Still, having spent an hour and a half inhaling the aroma of garlic butter, there was no chance we were going to bail for the McDonald’s across the street. We started with the escargots, then I moved on to the boudin noir with pureed potato and grilled apples (again), and The Boy—discovering February was choucroute month—had the duck choucroute, which was quite fabulous and included a foie gras sausage, duck confit and the most melty-in-the-mouth gizzards.

The restaurant was pretty loud—not helped by the yahoo couple sitting next to us, the guy of which kept insisting they were at “Daniel Bolod’s” restaurant. But when we left, there outside was Daniel Bol—I mean Anthony Bourdain, looking as lanky and leather-jacket-former-junkie-cool as he does on the tee-vee. Yep, I'm a rube.

* * * * * *

Mansfield Hotel, Sunday. Didn’t sleep too well, woke up bleary and dehydrated. Stumbled down to breakfast late (after 9), so we weren’t able to get a seat in the bar (where breakfast is served). We grabbed some pastries and juice and coffee and headed across the lobby to the club room, which had a roaring fire and original 1930s club furniture (the cherry arms of the sofa were scarred from generations of gentlemen dropping their brandy snifters and/or monocles in surprise as they heard about some world-changing event or other). Roaming the bar was their contemporary cousin, a short, moustachioed gent who kept declaiming the outrageousness of there being no bananas. I was hoping he'd sing about it, but no.

* * * * * *

Relaxed for a while before heading down to the East Village to meet the Christies. Found them at a restaurant on E5th called Lavagna—a small, cozy Italian place. Richard was on antibiotics for a chest cold, so (!!) wasn’t drinking (!!)—he just had a couple of glasses of wine.

But the food. Oh my goodness. First, there were fabulous olives in a rich olive oil, with excellent bread. Then grilled asparagus, roasted artichoke hearts and proscuitto appetizers. Then, as Heather and I were both torn between two entrees, we got one each and shared.

The papardelle with rabbit, thyme and olives was, I think, the best pasta dish I have ever had. Ever. The other dish—salmon with black lentils braised in red wine—was pretty great, though it didn’t quite compare. The Boy had pork chops with a citrus glaze and creamy polenta, which were really good, and Richard had fabulous ricotta/spinach ravioli in a gorgonzola cream sauce. So rich that even he couldn’t finish them all.

Snow was starting to fall outside, and we ordered dessert—a citrus cheesecake, a gianduia cake and the bestest, most custardy panna cotta ever.

* * * * * *

Union Square Café. This one was a Christie recommendation, so we had a good feeling. We were seated upstairs in an out-of-the-way corner overlooking the tables below. The framed print above our table was of a can-can dancer bending over and showing her butt—The Boy was happy.

Appetizer: we shared a dish of fettucine with prosciutto and truffles with truffle butter. Creamy, rich and good (though still didn't compare to last night’s rabbit …). With it, a half-bottle of 2001 Montepulciano (a little too heavy for the pasta, but still very good).

Entrée: I had grouper topped with a reggiano gratin, with black-olive mashed potatoes. Which made me wonder why I’d never thought to do that before. The Boy had scallops in a citrus sauce with acorn squash that had a Caribbean spice note to it—very yummy. We drank a half-bottle of Albert Boxler 1999 Riesling Grand Cru ($38) and would do so again, if asked.

For dessert, we shared a pineapple-rosemary upside-down cake with rosemary ice-cream and butterscotch sauce, which was an unusual, delicious flavor combination. And The Boy had a glass of 1996 Sauternes, which smelled (to me) like nitrous but had a nice apricot flavor. Oh, and the women’s restroom had a vase of fresh lilacs on the sink

* * * * * *

February 21 is our ninth annimoversary. We're going to L'Espalier. I am so frickin' happy.

Dinner with the chef

This week, I was graciously invited to dinner at the home of a co-worker, whose brother had recently moved to town from California. And had just got a job. In the kitchen at No. 9 Park.

The boys were sharing a tiny apartment in the basement of a brownstone just a couple of minutes from work. I stopped at HoFoo to pick up flowers (what to get for guys? I ended up with a bunch of dark-red-and-cream carnations and an assortment of lush tropical greenery), and by the time I arrived, the brothers were in the galley kitchen with another office-mate, hanging out and drinking green tea.

Or at least two of them were. The chef was busy, chopping, stirring, frying, whisking. It was fascinating to watch him work; moving quickly, efficiently, not a gesture wasted, almost like a dancer: step left, salt water, step right, chop lemon, bend to cupboard, drop trimmings in trash-and-two-and-three-and-check the fish.

I like to think of myself as a pretty smooth operator in the kitchen, but watching this guy made me realize the difference between a professional chef and someone who just likes to cook. His every move seemed instinctual--I guess that's what happens when you've had years of training and practice.

Especially impressive was that he was working in a very limited space, using just a small chopping board and the stove.

"Not a problem," he said, slicing butter into a saucepan, "I've worked in smaller kitchens than this."

In less than an hour, dinner was ready: neat squares of pan-roasted haddock sitting on a bed of cabbage braised with oranges, tiny potatoes (which I think he turned himself), and a dab of lemon beurre blanc, beautifully presented.

Over dinner, we talked about food, restaurants, chefs. He mentioned "the Laundry."

"Oh," I asked innocently, "have you ever eaten there?"

"No," he said. "I tried three times to get resevations, but no luck."

Pause.

"I worked there for six months, though ..."

Jacob's ladder of savings

Last weekend, in a collision of cabin fever and materialism, we ended up at the CambridgeSide Galleria. I'm not a mall-rat, I swear, but the day was freezing and windy and I was seeking comfort in a new pair of pants.

On the second level is a store called Jacob. I've passed it many times before but always felt unworthy: it's one of those sleek open-plan places, all birchwood floor and white walls, with just a handful of steel racks of tight black clothes breaking up the cool minimalism.

Wait a minute. Tight black clothes? Um, that's my wardrobe! Except that my wardrobe isn't advertising 50% off!

So in we go, The Boy and I, and our jaws drop. Is this sweater really only $20? And this tailored black shirt? And these skinny-leg pants??

Fevered selection ensued, The Boy gallantly acting as pack-horse as I pulled hangers from racks and handed them to him. And then into the (rather cramped) changing room to start pulling things on and off and starting critically at my butt in the mirror.

The final result consisted of just three items: a soft, thin, stretchy turtleneck sweater; a fitted cotton shirt; and the aforementioned pants. All black, naturellement. Total cost: $50.

But as always, I had a moment of Verkaufenbedauern. A pleated mini-skirt, tennis-skirt style, in soft grey wool. Lined, even. Sadly, the smallest size they had was a 5-6 and that was too large (no, mom, I'm not anorexic; it's just that sizes here vary wildly from one label to the next. I tried on a pair of size 6 pants a couple weeks ago that made me look like the "after" photo in an ad for weight-loss).

So I figured, okay, no problem. I can scope out another branch of the store and see if they have anything smaller. And then I checked the website (which, by the way, does not show up in Google because it's all frickin' Flash) and discovered that Jacob, like Tristan and Club Monaco, is a Canadian company. And they have exactly one outpost in the US. In Cambridge.

So either I look for something else, or it's time for another Montreal trip. Okay, scratch that idea. It's even colder up there, and I don't need another skirt that badly.

Jarret de veau braisee a la cuiller

Oh, was it good. Most of the sweetness was enthusiastically embraced by the onions, while hints of the wine, along with fabulous little nuggets of salt, made tiny guest appearances throughout the meat. Yum.

Sweet veal in the oven!

This week I added a new blog to my list of faves: Chocolate & Zucchini, the work of Clotilde Dusoulier, an adorable 27-year-old Frenchwoman who managed to go from on-the-side blogger to full-time food writer (I'm not jealous, I swear!).

The first entry of hers I read was a recipe for veal shank braised in sweet white wine, "so mellow and succulent," she writes, "it can be served and eaten with a spoon."

"We have to do this," I told The Boy. He read the description.

"Oh, yeah," he said.

So this morning we went to HoFoods and picked up the meat. Couldn't find a single veal shank, but we did find two lovely thick individual pieces, each weighing just over a pound.

And this afternoon we went to the Wine and Chee and found a 2004 Muscat de Rivesaltes; "sweet but not cloying," as Clotilde cautions.

It's in the oven now. My spoon is ready.

Citizen me!

This week, I got my US robot passport (bechipped and dripping with patriotic quotes and images) and my voter registration confirmation.

So all I need now is for someone to call me for jury duty ... ironically, I've been invited to fulfill my civic responsibility three times in the last 13 years. Each time, I had to write back and decline because I wasn't yet a citizen. You'd think they'd have made a note of that somewhere.

Oh, and the INS is planning to increase citizenship application fees by more than 60%. While that's likely to make the process even more prohibitive for low-income immigrants (who often can't afford a lawyer and have to try and untangle the bureaucratic vines themselves), it at least suggests the possibility that it could lead to increased staffing levels, better informed officers and improved communication (though note how many conditionals I use there ...).

Shopping, sweetie dahling?

I was going to write about our room at the Charles Hotel (we stayed there during the time of massage and headcheese), and particularly about the fabulous piece of art that dominated one wall. But then I did a little Googling and found this NYT article. That guy is in our room! And that's the art!

The rest of the article is worth reading; it's about the fact that upscale hotels have figured out they can make some cash on the side by making their furniture and accessories available for guests to buy. One the one hand, it's a great way to end up with a little extra on the tab--and it strengthens customer loyalty (the guy who loves your mattress enough to drop 2K on it is more likely to want to sleep in your hotel again).

On the other hand, though, I have to wonder whether it changes the way designers (or their clients) are thinking about the way they furnish boutique hotels. Now it's not "what looks cool and funky and fits with the tone of the brand?" but "will this appeal to enough people that they'll want to buy it? Can we sell enough to make it worthwhile?"

Oh, and note that the article says Doug negotiated and bought the picture. Yet it was hanging in our room last week. So either he didn't collect it yet, or there's a crate full of them in the basement. ("Well, Doug, I dunno ... it's a one-of-a-kind piece ... I guess we could let you have it for ... $1250?")

Anyway, like I know anything about design. Unlike Di Overton of Designer's Block, whose blog I stumbled upon the other day. I want to go shopping with her ... "Sweetie, dahling!!"