Three reasons to love Troquet

1) The kitchen is open to the dining room. This in itself is hardly unique, but open kitchens are more usually found in large spaces, where diners' conversation and overhead music drown out the clatter of pans. Troquet, however, is a small, intimate space, so if you sit at the table nearest the kitchen, you get to hear "Does anyone have a small saucepan?" and "Sweet Jesus!" and other phrases that remind you there are real people cooking your fabulous food.

2) Troquet's menu is in three columns: apps on the left, entrees on the right, and selected wine pairings in the middle. And every glass is well chosen and harmonious. It's a great way to try something a little unusual without risking a poor choice.

3) And this is main reason: the butter comes in a bucket. Okay, not really a bucket; it's an attractive, rustic wooden churn-barrel thingy. The waiter brings it to your table. And serves you a scoop of lovely, fresh, imported French butter. And laughs good-naturedly when you make the same request as every other frickin' diner that he leave the bucket on the table.

Runner-up reasons to love Troquet: the rolling cheese cart; the roast suckling pig (rib, belly, shoulder, rilette); the bacon-wrapped sea bass on fresh succotash; the lemon tart ...

Best worst cakes ever!

A beeellion thanks to the lovely ScurvyAnn for alerting me to Cake Wrecks, a blog about entirely regrettable cake-decorating decisions.

It's a hilarious compilation of the very worst work of frosting-nozzle-wielders, from those who just really couldn't be bothered to draw anything:



to those who went just a leeetle bit overboard:



That's all I'm giving you. Go check out their terrifying treats yourself!

(And hey, Scurve, we need to round up Cindi and Murlindur! It's time!)

Hey Tatte, sorry about that :-)

Recently in this space, I wrote about a visit to Tatte, Brookline's tiny pastry store, where my excitement about the fabulousness of their buttery nut box (oo-er, missus!) was tempered by the superior attitude of the counter staff.

Last week I went back with co-conspirator Mike, who was intrigued by my tales of dessert and detachment.

And of course there was a different girl behind the counter.

And of course she was lovely: sweet and cheerful and enthusiastic about our choices.

So I can only assume that on my previous visit, I caught Tatte on a bad day.

Sorry, Tatte.

Also, your pistachio cookies are fabulous.

Estragon, Boston: my new tapas addiction

On Friday I discovered a new talent: I can see into the future. Not very far, admittedly, but still, I had a vision that sometime around the beginning of 2009, I will be feasting on an entire pig's head.

The cause of my pignostication? The menu at Estragon, the South End's newest tapas place, which features the porcine cranium as one of its signature dishes. Apparently it comes with all the parts attached: tongue, eyes, ears (the bartender particularly recommends the muscles at the back of the neck). Sounds like the perfect way to spend a doubtless freezing January birthday, don'tcha think?

Friday night's dinner was not quite as decadent, but still lovely. We started out at the bar. As our dining companion Tim is a regular visitor to Estragon's adjoining deli, Las Ventas (he recommends their manchego-jamón serrano sandwich), we were treated to plates of thin, delicate jamón, an incredible tortilla española flavored with lemon (genius!), and a dish of fried, paprika-dusted chickpeas that the Boston Globe's review accurately refers to as "chickpea crack"--it took serious restraint to eat a dainty handful at a time, because my instinct was to grab an enormous fistful and shove them in my face.

We also got to watch the sangria machine:



The one downside to Estragon was the noise level; between the roomful of happy diners and the cranked-up music, it was hard to have a conversation. But just as we finished fighting over the last dustings of chickpea crack, our table on the sidewalk patio opened up and we were led outside to relative peacefulness.

And then we ate more: shrimp in garlic butter; a giant scallop finished with almond cream; tender cod cheeks; another plate of jamón serrano and manchego; veal sweetbreads; and a dish of peppery housemade sausage that was so good, we ordered an encore.

And then to dessert. There were only three choices, so we got one of each: a dense, moist chickpea poundcake with grilled peaches, a lovely version of traditional flan, and a trio of ice creams--honey-thyme, salted caramel, and turrón. I'm not usually a gelato girl, but once again, it was hard to share. Give me an unlimited supply of Estragon's fried chickpeas and this dessert, and I'd follow you into battle. (As long as you didn't mind that I'd weigh 300 lbs.)

And there were all kinds of tapas we didn't get around to trying: the calamari with blood sausage, the beef tongue, the frogs' legs, the roasted eggplant with chorizo, and of course the sea urchin and foie gras sliders.

It looks as though Estragon's menu is still evolving; a steak-and-quail egg dish Tim had tried previously was no longer listed, and the menu on Estragon's website is not quite the same as the one we saw. Which means we'll probably need to make a return visit sooner than January.

Oh well.

Salts, Cambridge: good food, funny words

On Thursday nights, we have a tradition: meet up with friends at the Middlesex in Cambridge, have a couple of refreshing beverages, then go out to dinner. This has been going on for more than a decade. Originally, the evening started at the Miracle of Science, but the Middlesex makes for a much-less-crowded post-work destination.

Anyway. Long story short: this week, the four of us decided to eat around the corner at Salts, the tiny French-inspired place on Main Street. We'd been there a bunch of times before (also back when the space was Anago), and in a way, it was a marker of our gradual rise to financial stability that we now saw it as a place for a casual weekday dinner, rather than as a once-a-year celebratory treat.

The past few times we'd tried to do a Thursday dinner at Salts, we were unlucky: either there were no tables available, or it was reserved for a private party. This week, however, only three other tables were occupied, so they had no option but to let us in.

I accept that we may not have looked like high-rollers, turning up as we did in jeans and Chucks. But it was still a little annoying when the hostess said, "Now, you may find some funny words in the menu, so please ask if you have any questions about the food."

Funny words? Okay, here's a selection of dishes from the Salts spring menu (bizarre capitalization is all theirs):

• Spiced Tuna with petite garden vegetables, preserved lemon chickpea puree, and minted cucumber yogurt
• Pan roasted local Fluke with braised leeks, white grapes, almond,and Elderflower infused raisins
• Ballotine of free range Chicken with apricot white bean puree, Serrano ham chips, sage, and cocoa nib vinaigrette
• Painted Hills beef Sirloin with smoked potato cream, Morel mushrooms, and garden pea ragout
• Lavender honey glazed whole roasted boneless Duck for Two with leeks, roasted peaches, and Salts farm turnips

See anything funny in there? Neither did we.

(And yes, I admit I really just wanted to to drool over those descriptions.)

But then we managed to order without mis-pronouncing any of the words, and chose an appropriate wine, and it became clear that we didn't usually order food by yelling out a car window into a clown's mouth.

The food was as it should be. We started with shared apps of yellowfin tuna, crispy veal sweetbreads and pickled ramps, and a plate of hefty rabbit-filled tortellini, unusually accompanied by a sweet lemon curd-like confit. Good start, that.

Then came a fresh veggie couscous, tuna, trout and fluke, all of which were carefully prepared and nicely executed (though the fluke, with grapes and floral raisins, was just a little too sweet).

But most notable of the night was our waitron's word choice. She came to clear our appetizer plates and asked, "Was that enjoyed?"

So there were some funny words after all.