Totally sweet ninja moves

Last time I was in NYC, I was robbed—robbed, I tells ya!—of the opportunity to go to Ninja. So yay that this time we booked ahead and I got to fulfill my life-long dream—life-long, I tells ya!—of visiting a secret ninja training camp.

They certainly do a good job of the “secret” aspect; the entrance looks like the door to an office building on a commercial street in TriBeCa. But the lobby is all fake-cave-boulder and darkness, and in the elevator ride down to the dining level, the lights dim until you’re in shadow. Like a ninja.

When the elevator doors slid open, a guy dressed in black greeted us with a loud ninja scream. I almost punched him. He asked whether we’d like to get to our table via the secret ninja path, which meant a short trip through a dark, narrow passageway. At the end, he leaped out and screamed again, and I almost punched him again.

The décor is secret-ninja-village-traditional: fake-stone hallways with recessed alcoves for individual tables, each one hidden behind a dark-wood screen, so you essentially get a private dining experience. How much did I love that??

While many waiters (no girls, that we saw) were Asian, we managed to get corn-fed Jason as our server for the evening—the second-least convincing ninja of the night (the first appears later).

He talked us through the menu as though we’d never encountered prix-fixe before, and then explained some of the technicalities of the a la carte. I suspect the staff is encouraged to upsell. (In fairness, we did hear him delivering the exact same spiel to the hidden tables on either side of us, so he wasn’t completely sizing us up as rubes.)

We started by ordering the two sake samplers: four shot-sized tastings from different sakeguras, which were delivered with a short, enlightening lecture on how sake is made, why there are differences in quality, and which order we should taste them in (from highest quality to lowest, though frankly they were all much more refined than any sake I’d tried before).

And then the food. Ninja has a theme of “art dishes,” plates that give 110% in terms of presentation. So the conch bombshells weren’t just served inside their original spiky shells; they were served in their shells and then set on fire.



The Batto Jutsu (scallop and salmon sashimi with citrus and edamame) wasn’t just presented in a grapefruit; it was in a grapefruit with a sword in it, the removal of which caused great clouds of dry ice to envelop the table. (I got to pull out the sword, though I balked at delivering the accompanying ninja yell.)

The eel and salmon sushi were beautifully plated (if that’s the right word) on a long, delicate, wabi-sabi branch of cedar.

The “floating sashimi” came suspended over a bowl of more dry ice. The waiters also let me play with the sword for a while. The fools.



And it’s not all about the looks. The sashimi was melty in the mouth, especially the tuna and yellowtail. The conch was tender and meaty. The rolls of tuna wrapped around foie gras were addictive, decadent mouthfuls.

While we ate, the wooden screen entrance to our table was closed; it opened only when a waiter came to deliver more food, clear empty plates, or randomly set stuff on fire (these guys carry magnesium paper like most waiters carry corkscrews). Because of the relative privacy and warren-like layout of the place, the only time we were aware of other diners was when they screamed (either because they were accosted by a ninja or because more playful arson was taking place).

At the end of our meal, ninja Jason came and asked if we wanted a visit from the magician. Oh, what the heck. Two minutes later, the world’s most unconvincing ninja showed up. Stewart was a six-foot-five blond with a waxed moustache. Perfect for a Viking restaurant; less so for the current environment.

Regardless, he was good. He started by handing The Boy an imaginary pack of cards and asking him to take them out of the box, shuffle them and fan them out so I could choose one. The Boy played along, and I picked one, looked at it (ie, thought of a card: Jack of Diamonds) and put it back in the pack face-up.

Stewart then pulled a real pack out of thin air, opened it and asked me what card I’d chosen. So I told him. He fanned out the cards, and the only one upside down was … the Jack of Diamonds. Spooky!

Then some cute sleight-of-hand business with pocketknives, and then the finale, again card-related.

He’d written a prediction, he said, on a piece of paper. He put the paper face-down on the table, and weighted it down with a shot glass. Then he asked The Boy to pick a (real) card from the pack, put it back and shuffle the deck.

And now he'd tell us which card it was, because he’d written the answer on the piece of paper. With a flourish, he turned the paper over. It said:

THE NAME
OF
THE CARD IS

Oh yeah, he explained, he’d run out of room before he was able to write the answer. Funny. Oh, and what was your card, sir? "Ten of hearts," sez The Boy.

And then the magician laid more touchpaper over the writing and set it on fire—and half the letters disappeared, revealing:



And no, he wouldn’t tell us how he did it.

A day in the museum

I totally packed wrong for this New York trip. Somehow I thought it was going to be a) still winter and b) a sedentary experience—as was my visit to NYC two weeks previously. So duh, did I ever feel like an idiot in my high-heeled knee-length boots and long-sleeved shirt, yomping along Eighth Avenue in the Sunday-morning 80-degree heat. And as much as I would have loved to soak up some sun, I wanted to be somewhere cooler. So we grabbed a cab and headed for the Museum of Natural History.

Of course, the first thing we did when we arrived was check out the tropical butterfly exhibit, a walk-through experience that mimics the insects’ natural habitat—80 degrees and humid.

It was easy to forget about the climate, though, because we were surrounded by lepidoptera—gorgeous sapphire morphas and green-winged somethings and little orange wossnames and big furry golden moths.



There was no place where butterflies were not; resting in the orchids and ferns, fluttering against the heat lamps, feeding from fruit slices.



Being in there felt like having ADD—start watching one brightly colored bug floating just above your head, and then another, even more dazzling, dances by and grabs your attention, and then another flutters past flirtatiously and distracts you again. It was hard to know where to look.



Outside the butterfly enclosure, the museum’s marble walls cooled us down and we wandered the halls, finding tyrannosaurs and brontosaurs and various flavors of stuffed African deer that were now just as likely to be extinct.

The wild-animal dioramas were beautifully rendered, with the taxidermied specimens posed as if in mid-action against backdrops of distant mountains with an incredible sense of longview perspective; it was hard to tell, without looking closely, where the three-dimensional fake grassland ended and the painted mural began.

After much wandering, we stopped for a snackie of tea and pecan tart (a little dry, but a good jolt of sugar and carbs), and then watched a half-hour of Japanese Taiko (two guys pounding on either side of a double-headed drum, one keeping time while the other did improvised fills, followed by a much more delicate and refined female version) and then finally took the subway back to the hotel.

Oh, and I lost count of the number of parents exasperatedly explaining to kids that yes, this was like the museum in the Ben Stiller movie, but no, it wasn’t exactly the same, and no, the exhibits probably don’t come to life at night ...

... or do they??

What’s better than breakfast? Two breakfasts!

Any day that features two breakfasts is a good day. Breakfast one was really not much more than the literal origin of the word: a paper cup of bitter coffee, plus toast and yogurt, from the “continental” “breakfast” “buffet” in the hotel. Enough to prevent me from punching someone, but not really sufficient to hold me over until lunch.

So, it being Sunday, brunch was in order. We skimmed OpenTable and chose Jarnac in the Meatpacking District.

A subway ride and a short walk through sunny streets later, we arrived, the first customers of the day. We got a seat next to the open window, where we could feel the sun on our arms and watch the locals walking dogs and toddlers.

I always like an honest waiter. So when I asked ours whether the orange juice was fresh, and he paused and said, “Well, not really,” I knew it was going to be okay.

“Is it like Tropicana?” I asked.

“It is exactly Tropicana,” he replied with a grin.

“Well, fruit juice is important,” I said, “so I’ll have a mimosa.” The Boy, feeling a need for vegetables, ordered a Bloody Mary, which came with a citrus garnish and a generous, potent dash of horseradish.

The menu featured the usual selection of brunchy items—a don’t-feel-guilty-it’s-Sunday steak dish, an elaborate omelette, some kind of lavish French toast.

We ordered the two items we hadn’t seen on a brunch menu before: pork tamales with mole sauce, and mushrooms on brioche toast with a duck egg.

Both were exactly what brunch dishes should be: hearty, filling, a little rich, a little excessive. Interesting enough to revive tastebuds still dulled from Saturday night, but not so exotic as to shock them into sudden, terrified consciousness.

The proportion of dough to filling in tamales (or pasteles) is of utmost importance; too much masa and you get a thick mouthful of corn with little meat payoff. These were nicely balanced, filled with tender shredded pork and drizzled with a dark, sweet-spicy mole. On the side were two poached eggs, and I learned that tamale dipped in warm egg yolk is a wonderful thing.



The Boy’s mushrooms were, well, mushrooms—I’m not yet completely over my fungus aversion, so I can’t wax lyrical about them—but the toast, and the egg, and oh yes, the truffled cheese that covered the whole dish—were rich and buttery and delicious.

We probably could have stayed in the window seat all day, watching passers-by and enjoying the sun, but it was time for more walkies.

When we left, there was only one other couple in the restaurant. Two blocks further down the street, wannabe brunchers crowded the sidewalk, waiting for tables at another French brasserie, this once packed and bustling.

And I wanted to say to them, “Why are you standing here? There are duck eggs and truffled cheese three minutes’ away!”

Une nuit à Marseilles

Dining out in New York City is so difficult.

I know, don’t I sound like a spoiled princess?

But what I really mean is that there are so many options—way too many, especially when you’re just in town for a couple of days. OpenTable alone lists 737 restaurants, and of course there are many more that aren’t part of that system.

So do you try something new each time, or go back to a place you’ve been before because you want to try everything on the menu?

We’ve pretty much fallen into the former category. There was a time when every NYC trip had to include a visit to Les Halles, but then Bourdain became too big and they couldn’t keep up with demand (on our last visit, they kept us waiting until 10pm for an 8 o'clock reservation). And we figured, hey, there are plenty more French restos in town.

So last night we went to Marseilles (the restaurant, not the city). Given its location so close to Africa (the city, not the restaurant), the local cuisine is a blend of classic French, Mediterranean and Moroccan influences. And the menu at the place on 44th and 9th was a creative take on this cultural mix.

The interior is typical French bistro: weathered mirrors, oversized-globe Deco lighting, an artfully lit and inviting bar. In the center of the room, red leather booths form a circle around an impressive pillar and break up the large space, making it feel smaller and more intimate.

When we arrived it was pretty quiet—surprising for 8pm on a suddenly warm Saturday—but the tables filled up quickly. We were between two parties of four, which would have driven me nuts, but the room was loud enough to drown out most conversation (though I did have the pleasure of listening to the guy at the next table tell his friend, in detail, where both veal and foie gras come from).

We started with cocktails: a Marseilles Martini for The Boy and a Pamplemousse for me. I don’t normally go for drinks with salted rims, but the salt brought out the sweet-tartness of the grapefruit juice in a way I didn’t expect.

For the app, we shared marinated sardines, grilled and chilled and served with a Meyer lemon curd, raisins, walnut panko and thin curls of raw leek, each ingredient serving as a pleasant foil, in taste and texture, to the next.

And then The Boy went for the short ribs, which came as a single chunk of meat—seemingly formidable, but actually fall-apart fork-tender—on a bed of root vegetables with a thick slice of cheesy Roman gnocchi. And I ordered Saturday’s plat du jour, the duck couscous.

I was expecting a plate of meat and veggies and couscous piled up together, where the only way to pick up all the flavor is by wading through the grains. What I got was a deep bowl of duck stew, with generous chunks of tender meat, baby onions, asparagus and cashews in a rich, dark broth, all topped with fresh cilantro, which brought a bright, lively touch to the complex flavor. The couscous came on the side, so I could add it as I went along, soaking up as much broth as I wanted without it all disappearing into the starch.

We weren’t going to have dessert, but then we saw that the poached pear came with olive oil ice-cream. How often do you get the chance? So we went for it. The olive flavor came through convincingly, and worked pretty well, but the texture was a little heavy, with slightly too much emulsion and slick oiliness. As The Boy said, you wouldn’t want to eat a bowlful, but as a sidekick to the pear (poached in white wine and finished with a red wine sauce) it was just enough.

Would we go back there? The Boy says yeah, it was really good. I liked it a lot, but there are more than 700 other restaurants to try. And we can only do one a night.

Thoughts at 125 mph

Bad things about taking Amtrak to NYC
Having to listen to the conversations of your fellow passengers as they make plans to meet up with friends that night. I really don’t care which bar you’re going to, darling. Shut up.

Good things about taking Amtrak to NYC
The train crew says things like “Anyone wearing a Yankees cap pays a ten dollar surcharge” and “If you’re going to Boston, you’re on the wrong train” and “We’re now leaving beautiful downtown Mystic.”

And “A reminder that there’s no smoking in the restrooms.” Then darkly, menacingly, “you know who you are.”

Things you can see from the train

• Go-kart tracks


• Car graveyards


• Backyard trampolines


• Backyard swimming pools


• The ocean


• Cows


• Horses


• People graveyards


• A Bridgeport Bluefish minor-league game


• Pickup basketball


• Warehouses, warehouses, warehouses


• Swans in marshes


• Canoeists in rivers


• Many dilapidated barns


• Boats in shrinkwrap


• Klaff’s Decorative Hardware


• Things that pass by just quickly enough to be seen but too quickly to be photographed.

Lunch: hotdogs and a nice half-bottle of Cab

Somewhere in northern Connecticut, a Scottish couple gets on the train. They’re both dressed upscale-casual, so the conductor asks, “You lookin’ for business class?”

The man answers in a long, befuddled, very Glaswegian sentence; I can understand him, but the guard is obviously struggling. “What? First? You want first class? What are you looking for?”

Somehow they manage to sort out the situation, just as I’m about to stand up and interject with “Oh stewardess, I speak jive” …

I heartily endorse this product and/or service

Show me someone who has never Googled themself and I'll show you someone with ... umm ... a full, busy, satisfying life.

And then there's me.

So there I was, checking out my online popularity (for purely business reasons, y'unnerstand). And down on page three was a link to Search Engine Strategies Latino 2007.

(Insert Scooby-Doo noise of confusion here.)

Why on earth would that result come up for my name? I mean, I did go to last year's inaugural conference (it was excellent). But my involvement was limited to sitting on uncomfortable hotel chairs, taking notes until my hand cramped up.

And then, down toward the bottom of the page, I found myself. And according to The Boy, who knows these things, I even got the Spanish right.

Trans fats bad, nachos good!

This just in: the owners of La Groceria and Asgard are spearheading a campaign to ban trans-fats in Cambridge restaurants.

Let me rephrase that.

La Groceria, the carb-heavy, butter-lovin' Italian place whose tagline is "Love on a plate ... a very large plate," and Asgard, whose menu includes something called "Emerald Isle nachos," are working with a committee to "encourage a healthy diet and lifestyle for the residents of Cambridge."

Is this like George Bush leading a peace rally?

Rosa Mexicano: oh my golly!

After spending Tuesday in chilly conference rooms (even the most packed and popular sessions were freezing), I needed something to warm me up. Luckily, I had a dinner date with a former co-worker at Rosa Mexicano.

I have to admit to feeling spoiled forever by Tu y Yo; every other Mexican restaurant has to reach--or at least stretch for--that gold standard, or else I'm not impressed. And as a quick glance at Rosa's menu online had revealed enchiladas and taquitos, I was prepared for an upscale version of Tex-Mex.

I arrived a little early, so had time to check out the decor. Dancing wooden figurines lined the windows, and the ceiling was thickly hung with bright, vivid paper banners, giving the place a sense of colorful claustrophobia. Both bar area and dining room were busy and buzzing; this was certainly a popular place.

I wasn't sure whether the guacamole cart was a point in my favor or not; there was a basket piled high with avocados and big bowls of tomatoes and onions, which were freshly scooped up and mixed together in a stone mortar and pestle to created tableside guac. Yes, fresh, and patently not from a packet, but authentic?

As it turned out, the food was great. My friend ordered her usual, which was the chicken-and-cheese enchiladas (without chicken). I went for the mixiote de cordero, in which a lamb shank is painted with chiles, wrapped in parchment paper and steamed.

At the table, the waiter unfastened the parchment from around the shank bone and peeled it back with a fork, tucking it neatly under to form a useful catch-basin for the deep, rich, spicy juices that surround the meat. The lamb came with rice and beans--pretty good, but not at Tu y Yo's black (bean) belt level--and a basket of warm corn tortillas.

The time flew as we caught up and talked business, and soon it was time for dessert. It turned out we both have a weakness for tres leches cake, which came wrapped in soft meringue with a mango salsa--a bright, sharp contrast against the creamy, rich cake.

Okay, so not Tu y Yo. But if I was forced to nominate a second choice, I may have a candidate.

Table for one at The Modern

I consider dining in a restaurant a social event, something to do with other people. From that perspective, the concept of eating out alone goes against my natural beliefs. But sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do.

As was the case last night.

I knew I was going to have a free night in NYC before the conference began. And well, obviously I’d have to eat somewhere. And MOMA is less than a block from my hotel. So I booked a table for one at The Modern, the bar/restaurant connected to the museum.

This brought my total of solo restaurant meals to … three. One at 29 Newbury back in a previous life. One at a Cuban place in Miami at last year’s SES Latino. And now this.

My limited experience has given me the idea that dining solo (sola, I guess) involves being stuck at a table in a dark corner, probably behind a potted palm, trying to look nonchalant while waitstaff act condescendingly and expect a lousy tip. At The Modern, not only was I pleasantly surprised, I also ended up having a most convivial evening.

My table was for 9pm, but as the diners were moving at a leisurely pace, I sat waiting at the bar for about 20 minutes. That was fine, because it gave me plenty of time to get a feel for the place.

The room is, as one would expect from a space connected to the Museum of Modern Art, very, um, modern. Clean, white, sleek, open, reflective. Lots of steel and black leather. Oversized vases holding four-foot-long twigs of yellow and dark red dried flowers. No direct lighting apart from in the clinically illuminated kitchen (framed through one open square at the end of the room).

The bar was all mirrors and backlighting, with a generously wide white marble counter. Ambient house music played all night, the kind where you tune in every now and again and wonder whether you're listening to a new track or the same beat that was playing a half-hour ago.

I sat at the bar for a while, watching the crowd (mixed but moneyed; a few older guys with well-preserved dates and some hip youngsters) and flirting with the bartender, and then my table was ready. No being stuffed in a corner for me--I got a nice spot just left of center, between a funky-cute lesbian couple and a mixed-background straight couple (as it turned out, he was German and she was Texan).

The bar menu at The Modern is almost unnerving in its selection. It's not enormous, but certainly diverse enough that decisions are difficult.

It's divided into small plates and half-entree sizes, so everything is designed for sampling and sharing (tough when one is alone). But still, do I go for the foie gras torchon with muscat gelée, or the warm veal and goat cheese terrine, or the slow-poached farm egg “in a jar” with Maine lobster, roasted Jerusalem artichokes and sea urchin froth, or the roasted Long Island duck breast with peppercorn-crusted apples and toasted pistachio-truffle dipping sauce?

I asked the girls to my right (your left) for advice; they were enjoying the duck, but also suggested the octopus (charred and served with chickpea-radish salad, salsa verde and crispy capers), so I went for the latter, and also the homemade Alsatian country sausage with turnip choucroute.

(The night's discovery: if you do whatever one does to make capers crispy, they're no longer tiny salt bombs. Instead, they become tiny pepper explosions. Amazing. Try it sometime.)

I'd ordered a glass of the Marcel Deiss "Engelgarten" Riesling Blend with the food, and while it was good, it didn't blow me away as much as the minerally glass of Deiss's Benniwirh Riesling I had while sitting at the bar.

So here's an interesting thing. You know how I feel about people talking near my food. It bugs me like crazy when I'm trying to have a quiet, sociable meal, and I can overhear other peoples' conversations.

In this situation, I had no companion to chat with and nothing else to do but eavesdrop. But the hum of the room was so loud that I couldn't even hear what the people on either side of me were saying. So I just sat and people-watched, which was entertaining in itself.

And then my octopus arrived, and the woman to my left leaned over and asked, "Now what is that you're eating?"

So I told her ... and thus started a long, engaging and entertaining conversation about food, and city living, and raising bilingual kids, and the differences between the US and Europe ... we talked until they finished their meal, and we shared food (his pork belly was melt-in-the-mouth delicious, and her duck was moist and peppery) and I forgot that I was alone ... because suddenly I wasn't.

Food tends to do that to people, I think.

I am not a Ninja Warrior

While checking YouTube for the video for Ninja New York, I found the complete performance of Makoto Nagano on the Ninja Warrior course.

Who the what now?

Ninja Warrior (aka Sasuke) is one in a long tradition of Japanese shows in which contestants' physical strength is put to extreme tests. Think Endurance, Viking, or Takeshi's Castle without the comedy.

Basically, it goes like this:

There are four stages, each one an obstacle course of fiendish, sadistic design. To finish a stage requires endurance, balance, coordination, and the upper and lower body strength of an Olympic gymnast.

Around 95% of contestants fail to finish stage one. Only two, including Nagano, have made it to the end.

Okay. Now that you have some background, watch this. I dare you to be unimpressed.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I must complete my own exercise workout. I have a pile of chocolate digestives to dunk in tea.

Variations on a theme restautant

Next week I'm in New York for a conference with a couple of colleagues, one of whom sent me email suggesting we go eat somewhere one night. Oh, okay, twist my arm. I know she's a bit of a foodie (she did some cheffing in a previous life) and she's also up for fun, so I suggested Ninja.

She wrote back a little later. "I checked around," she said, "and it doesn't look as though the food is very good there."

"Yeah," I protested, "but it has ... ninjas ..."

And there it is: my guilty secret. I'm a sucker for theme restaurants.

Let me define, though. It's not "nail up a few chunks of movie memorabilia, name your burgers after actors and say you have a Hollywood-themed restaurant." It's not even "make your Italian food seem more authentic by covering the walls with Italian movie posters and playing that blind guy's CD over and over" (Papa Razzi, I'm looking in your direction).

And it's certainly not "yeah, the food's not great, but our customer base is more interested in the, um, decor" (Hooters, obviously, but also the Hawaiian Tropic Zone and --terrifyingly--the upcoming "Girls Gone Wild" franchise. I weep for the future.)

A real theme restaurant goes the extra mile. Considers every detail. Braids food and design and attitude to create a seamless experience.

Oh. Hmm. This is interesting.

I was going to talk about the way Ninja fulfills my requirements: inventive and unusual dishes, Disneyfied "ninja village" decor, black-clad waitstaff that occasionally drop from the ceiling and effortlessly slice diners clean in two. (okay, maybe not the last. But just watch this, willya?)

Or my experience of Mars 2112, some seven years ago, when it was new and funky and the fantasy was flawless, from the rocketship ride to the TVs showing Martian news to the "Solylent Greens" salad. (Sadly, it's apparently now shabby and tacky and they charge a $2 cover to ride the spaceship.)

But now I'm thinking: what restaurant isn't themed? El Bulli has a theme: molecular gastronomy served to the lucky few who are granted a table. Craigie Street Bistrot has a theme: modern French bistro dishes made with local, seasonal produce. Meritage's theme is pairing food with wine (rather than the other way around). Reverential, professional service and stylish, tasteful decor come standard.

Is it fair to use the "theme" label here? Sure, these places don't entertain diners with animatronic buffalo or waitstaff who break into '50s pop songs. But their branding is no less focused.

And they make sure nothing weakens the brand--that is, interferes with a diner's belief in the theme.

Because getting frozen strawberries in your dessert at CSB would be like seeing a headless Mickey Mouse backstage at Disneyland.

We'll always have Pigalle (and so will everyone else)

Last night we ate at Pigalle on Charles Street South, because a) we hadn't eaten there in a while (not since, wow, last May, according to OpenTable, though we did stop in for a cocktail over the summer) and b) chef Marc Orfaly is nominated for a 2007 "best chefs in America" James Beard award, which means chances of a future table may be slim.

As it was, the only available time was 5:30, so we had an early lunch and then took the T into town. By the time we'd wandered down Charles Street (oo, new artisanal chocolate store!), through the Public Gardens, up Boylston for a spot of robo-shopping in Marshalls (The Boy's term: it's where I zip rapidly through the racks, making split-second decisions about each item--no-no-no-yuck-no-maybe-no-orange-no-yes-no-no ...) and back down to the Park Plaza, it was time to eat.

The last couple of times we were at Pigalle, I'd ordered their Garden Party cocktail; Hendrick's gin, lemon juice, muddled cucumber and lavender simple syrup. It was so good, it inspired me to harvest lavender from our front yard, and we spent the summer making our own syrup and experimenting with variations on the theme.

When I went to order it this time--gasp! Not on the menu! That made sense, as it's really a summer drink (crisp and sweet and tart and fragrant all at once), but our waitress offered to check whether the bartender could fix me one anyway. And yay, yes she could. So I had that, while The Boy chose the British Invasion: gin, lemon and Earl Grey tea, with a citrus-sugar rim. Something else we can try at home.

For appetizers, I went with the tuna Martini--melty-fresh sushi in a cocktail glass with tobiko roe, seaweed salad and a creme fraiche that ended on a just-enough wasabi note. The Boy ordered the duck liver terrine, a light and creamy wedge served with toasted brioche, cornichons and harvest berry jam--each ingredient contributing a different note (soft/crunchy/sweet/acidic) that matched the others nicely.

For the entree, I ordered the cassoulet, and it was among the best I've had: fabulous homemade pork sausage, falling-apart braised lamb shank and a confit duck leg nestled together in a fresh, deep, herb-tomato stew with white beans. Usually, servings of cassoulet are ridiculously large and overloaded with beans (cheap and filling!), but everything in this cast-iron serving dish was perfectly proportioned.

The Boy went for the special: halibut en croute with Asian greens, asparagus and coconut rice. And, as it transpired when the dish arrived, a generous garnish of lobster. Uh-oh.

The waitress was very apologetic when The Boy explained his seafood allergy, and promised a non-crustacean version would appear shortly. In the meantime, she brought him a small plate of Greek salad to snack on (or, more importantly, to stop him stealing all my beans).

While we waited for fish 2.0 (and I ate slowly), we remembered that this wasn't the first time The Boy had been ambushed by lobster. Doesn't it seem strange that a menu would neglect to mention it? Wouldn't you think a restaurant could charge a little more by noting the inclusion of the L-word?

When the fish came out (it was also sans croute--perhaps the lobster was a last-minute alternative), accompanied by more apologies from waiters, busboys and anyone else who happened to be passing, it was delicious; firm, flaky meat on a bed of pleasantly bitter greens and sweet rice. The Boy had chosen a Riesling that blended perfectly with the latter, and was more than happy with the outcome.

And then some cheeses (sheep! Goat! Water buffalo!) and 10-year-old tawny port, and then espresso, and then we rolled out, full an' happy.

The place was pretty crowded when we left at around 7:30; these were not pre-theater diners, but rather people who had discovered (like us) that the area's food choices are not limited to Bennigan's, Rustic Kitchen and mammoth fish-steak-pasta places. If Orfaly gets the James Beard nod, it's gonna be even tougher to get a spot.