Eating our way through NYC: Part one

After Christmas we took the train down to New York for a few days, spurred on by the deeply discounted room rate at the Roosevelt that I won in a Twitter contest (and they say Twitter is pointless! Ha!).

Previous experience of Amtrak food had made us wise, so we combined the pernil that The Boy roasted for Christmas Eve and the baked ham I'd done for Christmas Day, and lunched on Cuban sandwiches while watching snowbound New England zip by.



We settled in at the hotel, rested for a short while, and then headed out to our first stop: a bar at a railroad station.

Okay, it was nicer than that. The Campbell Apartment used to be the office of a 1920s railroad tycoon, and was furnished in the style typical of rich men of the time ("Make it look as though I plundered it all from Europe!").

As we were there early on a Sunday evening, we'd expected it to be quiet. But the place was almost full, so we squeezed into a space at the bar. The solo, overwhelmed bartender was Andy Dick-level clumsy; while we sat there, he broke, spilled and knocked over more barware than we own.

Still, he muddled a lovely combination of Bourbon, fresh ginger, lime and rosemary:



And then to dinner at Benoit, an Alain Ducasse joint. Our previous encounter with the Ducasse brand had been at the then-newly opened Adour, which was incredible.

Benoit, by comparison, was not so outstanding (and a comparison of menus shows just an average $10 difference in entrée price between the two).

Not to say it was bad; just that the food seemed made with a heavier hand. The escargots (which, though ordered as an appetizer, came out slightly after the mains) were largely tasteless, and the boudin noir wasn't as bold as it could have been.

On the other hand, The Boy got a lovely selection of magical animal in his choucroute:



And dessert was baba au rhum, served in an adorable domed silver dish:



Time to roll back to the hotel and rest up before the next day's lunch.

First, a morning at MoMA, to check out the Tim Burton exhibit.

Then a brisk walk of a couple of blocks (coatless, because the line for MoMA's cloakroom was too damn long) to Le Bernardin.

As it's one of only four three-star restos in New York, and not a place for a cheap nosh, we expected the place to be hushed, refined; populated by the kind of people who respect the chef's art and the sanctity of a great meal. And, for the most part, that's who we found.

Apart from the old broad at the table behind us.

"Why is it all fish? You know I'm allergic to fish ... I can't eat anything on this menu. Oh, lobster, that I can have. Can you ask them to do me plain lobster, with butter, and just some steamed vegetables? I don't know why they have to have so much fish ... don't put your fork in my food, what are you doing? I can't believe this ... oh, I can't eat anything on the dessert menu, I'm allergic to everything ... just some vanilla ice cream, maybe two scoops."

I have no problem with people who have food allergies. I just don't understand:

a) Why someone would go to a seafood restaurant if they can't eat the central ingredient;
b) Why someone would go to a place known for exquisite, creative, thoughtful dishes if they have no interest/ability to try them;
c) Why someone can't KEEP THEIR DAMN VOICE DOWN.

I just had to get that out. Sorry. I feel better now.

Apart from that, the meal was fantastic, and I wish the photographic evidence had come out better.

I started with the freshest sea urchin I've had, served in a citrus broth:



The Boy had raw tuna, pounded thin and layered over foie gras:



then lightly breaded monkfish with a ginger-turnip purée:



and I had skate wrapped in nori, served with oysters and winter greens:



And then. Oh, and then.

Dessert.

See this?



Grapefruit, vanilla, tarragon. Soft, crisp, creamy, tart, cold.

And this?



Okay, yes, the first word is "blurry." But then: cinnamon, caramel, pear, salt, fromage blanc. The green spheres are liquid pear. Liquid. It involves some molecular gastronomy magic, and results in a sphere of poached, puréed pear encased in a delicate skin, which bursts in the mouth, releasing sweet, spicy juice. Completely amazing.

Even made me forget the loud, allergic lady.

Au Pied de Cochon: bonjour, canard en conserve!

Last weekend we took an almost-spontaneous (i.e. with only two weeks' notice) trip to Montreal. The drive up was a little rough — a six-hour trip after a full day's work — but we pushed onward, motivated by a constant drumming rhythm:

Duck-in-a-can, duck-in-a-can, duck-in-a-can ...

I wrote about our previous trip to Montreal, the highlight of which was dinner at Au Pied de Cochon, where The Boy realized his lifelong dream of eating poutine with foie gras and I discovered that my lifelong dream would be eating canard en conserve.

Now we were returning to fulfill that dream.

The only available table was at 9:00, which is later than we usually eat. So we prepared accordingly: we spent the day shopping on Rue Saint-Denis and took an afternoon nap. Oh, and we had an early lunch at Bières et Compagnie, a Belgian-style brasserie with 100 beers on tap and a lovely ostrich/duck/pheasant sausage plate:



(That was The Boy's lunch. I just had a simple salad.)



(Okay, it was loaded with Toulouse sausage. But salad nonetheless!)

Anyway, back to the main event.

Au Pied de Cochon was, as always, loud and busy. People at a long table in the window taking turns standing and making exuberant toasts. A group of six hip young guys, devouring plates of meat and passing around a plate of salad. An older guy with a graying ponytail and matching beard, looking like a world-weary corsair, steadily making his way through a plate of blood pudding.

We knew, of course, what our main objective was; but what else to order? Even with the best of intentions to be restrained, the menu at PDC almost dares you to try everything.

Come on, you haven't had the duck carpaccio before! What about the boudin and foie gras tart? Or the guinea fowl liver mousse? Or the Quebecois version of chicharrón, oreilles de crisse?

But we were good, and ordered salad.

Among other things.

Most notably, the cromesquis de foie gras:



They look innocent enough, don't they? But here's the deal: They're cubes of foie gras, breaded and deep-fried. The breading becomes an impermeable shell and the inside turns to liquid.

To eat, you put the whole thing in your mouth, close your lips, and bite. And suddenly it's as though the entire inside of your head is bathed in warm, soft, rich, deep, soothing liquid.

It actually, literally, seriously brought tears to my eyes.

As another snackeroo to begin, we ordered the plate of cochonailles. In fairness, we expected a small sampling of tasty pork bites. Earlier in the week, we were at Craigie on Main's Whole Hog dinner (see review from the people sitting behind us), where the tiny, delicate cochonailles looked like this:



So naturally we were surprised to find that at Au Pied de Cochon, the cochonailles looked like this:



Head-cheese terrine, two types of pâté (one of which is hidden beneath the bread), sausage, half a deviled egg, a lovely onion jam, something dolloped with mustard that I don't even remember, and that dark brown square, which is essentially salty beef-stock Jell-O.

But it's okay, because we also had salad.



Layers of fresh beets and goat cheese I could easily have eaten for dessert, had there been room for such a thing.

And then it came.



When they say "duck in a can," they mean it: the waiter brings a can, and a can-opener, and pours the contents out onto toast topped with celeriac puree.

My photographic skills are not sufficient, so I advise you check out Claudine's Flickr photo to see it in all its glory.

The magret: perfectly cooked, moist, meaty, delicious.
The foie gras: soft and tender and all the better for sitting in balsamic meat broth.

The cabbage: well, when the description essentially translates to "embuttered," what else needs to be said?

And despite the richness of the dish, serving it on toast somehow made it seem like home-cooked comfort food; as though there was really little difference between opening a can of duck and a can of beans to throw over toast for a quick lunch.

It was a luxurious and decadent experience, and one I highly recommend.

Interestingly, though, when I asked The Boy whether he'd order the same thing next time, he said no.

Not because he didn't enjoy it, of course (he later admitted he was disappointed that he had to share the foie gras with me; thanks, honey).

But as he pointed out, there are so many other things left to try: the foie gras burger. The lamb confit. The fries made with duckfat. The foie gras-stuffed pig's foot ...

Sensing restaurant, Boston: Guy Martin didn't bring the stars

In late 2007, I came across a blog post that caused me to squeal: Guy Martin was opening a restaurant in Boston, scheduled for December of that year.

I kept watch on the news, set up Google Alerts and all but tied the anticipatory napkin around my neck.

Why the excitement? Here's the lore: Guy Martin started collecting awards in 1985, whe he got his first Michelin star. In 1991, he became chef of Le Grand Véfour, a 200-year-old Parisian resto that has served Napoleon, Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, Colette. Over the next ten years, he was named Best Chef of something-or-other on an annual basis, culminating with Le Grand Véfour's promotion to three Michelin stars in 2000.

A February 2000 Salon piece notes the importance of this event:

The big news is that chef Guy Martin at Paris' historic Grand Véfour has earned a third Michelin star -- with no losses among 1999's 21-strong three-star lineup. Conspiracy theorists have long believed that for a chef to get a third Michelin star -- the guide's highest rating -- someone at the top has to die or be demoted, so that the total will stay at 21.

Perhaps now you understand my excitement.

Construction wasn't even close to complete by the end of '07. But in a Feb '08 Boston Globe interview, Guy Martin further whetted my appetite:

"Sensing will be a destination for those attracted by a beautiful, fine, and subtle cuisine ... I want my customers to taste the ingredients. To give you an example, there will be dishes like oysters in a jelly made with seawater, or a horseradish blanc mange."

The week before this interview ran, we had an amazing meal at Adour, the latest New York project from Alain Ducasse, himself a three-Mich-star chef (in three different countries).

I was psyched. Sensing was going to be just as good.

Finally, after a few small business ownership-type hiccups, Sensing opened this week in the Fairmont Battery Wharf in the North End. So we went.

And. Um. Okay, one thing at a time.

Decor
In the Globe interview, Guy Martin says, "I want colorful and vibrant décor with a modern and contemporary look ... I truly want to give my customers a unique experience, visually as well as emotionally."

"Colorful and vibrant" translates to blond wood wall paneling, blond wood tables, and blond wood chairs with blue sage upholstery. If this is a "unique experience" I assume M. Martin has never been to a Marriott.

The place looked like the restaurant in a 1980s hotel chain; I could imagine that at the end of the night, the waitstaff set out individual jars of ketchup and grape jelly to go with the next morning's Western omelettes and homefries.



Service
I don't know whether this was the philosophy at Sensing or just our own waiter's approach, but what we got was a blend of half-Applebee's ("Hi-my-name-is-and-I'll-be-serving-you-this-evening") and half-steakhouse (The Boy was handed the wine list; all our choices were deemed "excellent"; I was addressed as "Miss").

Cocktails arrived halfway through the appetizers (though they were ordered before). Once our apps were cleared, we were asked if we'd like more bread, though we hadn't been given any to begin with. The dessert menu took a long time to arrive, and longer for anyone to circle back around to us. I'm hoping these are opening-week roadbumps, and will smooth out quickly.

Food
The great: Cocktails. Mine was a Cilantro Sting, a lovely, light, fresh blend of muddled cilantro, Patron Silver tequila, vodka and lime juice, garnished with a slice of serrano pepper. It's best enjoyed slowly, so that the heat from the chili disperses gradually into the drink. I will be making this at home.

The Boy had a Lemon Smash: rye whiskey, lemon juice and mint, a nice take on a julep.

Also good was my entrée: a fantastically lean and juicy loin of lamb, crusted with peanuts and served with light, fluffy sweet-potato gnocchi tossed with arugula. The peanut crust provided a nice comfort-food crunch but wasn't quite generous enough to stand up to the flavor of the meat, but otherwise it was well executed and lovely.

The not-so-great: the Snacking Platter. This six-item sampler promised an inventive taste adventure.



Clockwise from noon: Wellfleet oyster with shallot mignonette; king crab in grapefruit jelly; duck foie gras crème brulée; smoked mussel with beets; cheese maki; and, in the center, Jerusalem artichoke soup with ras-el-hanout.

The oyster was perfect. The crab item held a faint hint of citrus and nothing more (certainly no crab). The crème brulée was creamy genius. The smokiness of the mussel played nicely against the sweet beet, though the square of beet jelly underneath was a chewy cypher.

The maki was exactly what you'd expect from a mild cheese paired with white rice; a bland, soft mouthful appropriate to feed to invalids.

And the soup, though comfortingly warm and rich, didn't give much sense of either girasole or spice complexity. Ras-el-hanout is one of my favorite blends but was barely distinguishable here.

The Boy ordered chicken—an unusual choice for him—but this was stuffed with smoked trout, which is certainly a departure from the mainstream. It's so hard to keep chicken breast moist, and even here it was dry, with the trout providing necessary moisture. It was an interesting experiment, but ultimately came off as no more exciting than smoked chicken.

A couple more notes, just because they bugged me: the wines by the glass were limited—four red, four white—and were mostly domestic (or, as it read on the wine list, from "Usa"). Really? A French-helmed resto that can only scare up a single Lalande de Pomerol?

The menus were listed on printer paper haphazardly glued onto card stock in a way that suggested cutting costs was more important than presentation. The drinks menu categories were "Cocktails," "Elegance," "Sublimation" and "Pure"—yes, very cool and hip, but can you just tell me where the wine is?

I didn't want to like Sensing. I wanted to fall in love with it, to be able to add it to the list along with L'Espalier and Raduis, with Rialto and Craigie. Given Guy Martin's résumé, Sensing should be the best restaurant in Boston; instead, it's on par with Rendezvous or Central Kitchen, except it costs twice as much.

I assume Martin did some research before coming here. I'm sure he didn't intend to half-ass Sensing on the premise that Boston isn't New York and the rubes wouldn't know any different. But that sad thing is that what he has created isn't on a par with Boston's best.

Sensing is not a bad restaurant. It isn't Mercer Kitchen bad. But neither does it come across as scion-of-Michelin-star-genius good. At best, it's a reasonable hotel-chain restaurant.

Hungry Mother

New to Cambridge: Hungry Mother, a restaurant that sounds like a '70s prog rock band but serves up lovely southern comfort food, courtesy of a Virginia-raised, French-trained chef.

It's on the site of the former Kendall Cafe, but any signs of that live-music venue are long gone, and the look is urban-rustic-moderne: dark wooden floors, white wood, muted colors.

Sounds like a million other bistros, it's true. At Hungry Mother, the differences are in the details, specifically:

• Water is served in Mason jars, giving a laid-back, down-home touch to an otherwise sophisticated setting.

• The restrooms are papered with cookbook pages: Julia Child's classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking in one, The Virginia Housewife in the other. Not only does this suggest someone at Hungry Mother has a fundamental passion for homestyle cooking (and a sense of humor), it also turns a trip to the loo into a chance to learn how to pickle walnuts.

(That could be a new euphemism: "'Scuse me a minute--I have to go learn how to pickle walnuts.")

• The whole place smells. Like. Ham. Not something you'd necessarily want in a Glade candle in your living room--you'd be gnawing on the sofa in no time--but when you're in a hammy zone, perusing a hammy menu, and the whole place is perfumed with sweet, smoky hamminess, it's heavenly.

The menu at Hungry Mother is small, which makes things easier (especially for those of us unable to make decisions). From the section of the menu titled "To tide you over ..." we chose beef tongue canapés, thinly sliced marinated meat with Gruyère and a dab of Dijon mustard, the tongue tender and intensely flavored.

Then The Boy went for the green salad, which featured both red and golden beets, roasted, as well as slices of blood orange. It looked like a plate of jewels, and the mild sweetness of the beets matched well with the sharp citrus and the vinaigrette dressing.

No salad for me, though: I took the pork sausage, which came in its own individual skillet (awww! Bless!) on a bed of black-eyed beans, and was topped with sweet chow-chow, a bright, tangy-fresh complement to the grilled sausage and smoky beans.

My entree was catfish; cornmeal-breaded and served with collards, it's a dish we often make ourselves. Except, of course, that Hungry Mother takes it up a notch, matching it with cauliflower and capers, and dressing the greens with a mustard vinaigrette. Fabulous.



The Boy went all-ham-out, opting for pork shoulder braised in bourbon, sweet and tender, on a bed of creamy grits. Amazingly--I could hardly believe it--he thought the pork rib that came with it was "almost too much meat" (what???); the dish would have been just fine with half the portion. (I'm not sure who he is or what he has done with my husband ...) Of course, he ate it anyway (okay, maybe it really is him).

No room for dessert, which was a shame, because I was intrigued by both the cardamom chocolate pot de crème and the sorghum ice-cream that accompanied the pecan sticky bun.

Next time, Hungry Mother. Next time.

What is ethnic food?

The first time we ate at A Salt and Battery, Manhattan's nostalgia-inducing (if unrealistically expensive) approximation of a good old Northern chippy, a woman at the next table looked at her companion over a basket of battered fish and exclaimed delightedly, "I just love ethnic food!"

I was shocked. Ethnic food? This wasn't ethnic; it was chips and pork pies and sausages and Irn-Bru. It was the food of my childhood, as familiar and simple as a bowl of cornflakes. But to this woman, it was downright exotic.

Lately I've been thinking about this wake-up moment, especially in light of a couple of discussions currently taking place. One concerns The Fortune Cookie Chronicles, Jennifer 8. Lee's (yes, her middle name is a number) exploration of Chinese food in America, and the way it's so far removed from authentic Chinese cuisine that it's almost unrecognizable to visitors from China.

The other revolves around changes to Britain's immigration policies, which have reduced the number of new arrivals from the Indian subcontinent while increasing the population of Eastern Europeans. As a result, Indian restaurants, struggling to find cooks with first-hand experience of the cuisine, are instead hiring kitchen staff from places like Croatia. The concern is that knowledge of traditional techniques and recipes will disappear, or will eventually only be understood by a handful of old-timers.

And these discussions have me wondering: what is "ethnic"? What is "authentic"?

If, for instance, I asked you to name some ethnic cuisines, what would you say? Thai, Jamaican, Cambodian, Cuban? Mongolian and Nepalese? Yeah, they probably fall under the heading.

So does "ethnic" food mean "foreign" food?
What about Italian? That's foreign, right? Well, it depends what we mean by "Italian." Pizza is Italian, but does that mean the excreta of Domino's can rightly stand shoulder to shoulder with the creations of Da Michele in Napoli?

Maybe Italian food isn't a good example; in the US, at least, it has largely been reduced to what Henry Hill in Goodfellas refers to as "egg noodles with ketchup"—a fast, cheap, indigestion-inducing way to carbo-load. Non-nativeness alone is not a strong enough distinction.

So does ethnic mean "alien, different, strange"?
What about French cuisine? It's decidedly alien, almost treacherously so (remember the hysteria over "Freedom Fries"? Could you imagine similar censorship over lasagne?). It's often hard to pronounce (Ris de veau renversé sur une tarte aux champignons et son jus de truffe, anyone?). It involves strange ingedients: frogs' legs and pigs' feet and tête de veau.

But it conjures up images of starched tablecloths and obsequious waiters and excellent wines—things we like to associate with sophisticated civility; things we're comfortable with (or imagine we should be). Different and strange don't necessarily work as sole identifiers of ethnic food.

So does "ethnic" mean "authentic"?
In the sense that ethnicity is a marker of belonging to a group, that could be more appropriate: it's the recipes handed down from mother to daughter, a transfer of internal, culturally relevant knowledge going back generations. (I'm thinking of the comforting, complex cochinita pibil at Tu y Yo, from a family recipe dating back to 1908.)

And that brings in the idea that "real" ethnic food can only be created by the people who grew up with it. Which explains the concern over Bosnians standing in for Bangladeshis in the curry houses of Britain.

But on the other hand, authenticity is no guarantee of quality, in Indian cuisine or any other, as anyone who has valiantly masticated a gristly General Gau's will tell you. (Of course, as the above-mentioned Jennifer 8. explains, this dish is an American creation, unknown in the general's hometown. Still, provenance notwithstanding, a restaurant that screws up deep-fried battered chicken is unlikely to excel at other dishes.)

And does authenticity rest in the creation or the creator? If I make Puerto Rican habichuelas using Goya sofrito from a jar, is that less authentic than my mother-in-law in San Juan following the same recipe, using the same brand? Does my Englishness negate the authenticity of the dish?

The conversation spilling from the kitchen at Davis Square's Irish pub, The Burren, suggests the guys working the grill are more familiar with Quisqueya than Cork. Does that mean they can't knock together a fine English breakfast (not unlike this one)?

For that matter, do people think of Irish food as "ethnic"? Apparently so, if this selection of Google search results is any indication. Oh, I'm so confused.

And then there's this report from Deloitte, which defines ethnic food as representing "dishes (and their ingredients) that can be attributed to a specific ethnic group." Not a bad umbrella definition.

Wait—does that make me ethnic?

The magical animal

Homer: Are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Ham?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Pork chops?
Lisa: Dad, those all come from the same animal.
Homer: Heh heh heh. Ooh, yeah, right, Lisa. A wonderful, magical animal.

Last night, we met that magical animal. We met him and we et him.

The event was Craigie Street Bistrot's "Lyons in Winter" dinner, a one-night-only menu showcasing the hearty goodness of the city's cooking traditions: pig, pig and more pig.

So we began with "Les Cochonailles," which loosely translates to "in heaven, the things they leave on your hotel pillow instead of mints."

Instead of a photo (which will just make some people all complainy, no doubt), here's a nice diagram:



A: Pork terrine--delicately textured with a light, intricate flavor
B: Lardo. The last time we ate at CSB, The Boy responded to our waiter's description of a dish containing this wafer-thin slice of pork fat with "You had me at lardo."
C: Chicharrón. You can never, ever go wrong with deep-fried pork skin. Okay, so it wasn't as insane as the stuff you get at La Viña, the corner coffee-shop/social club near The Boy's parents' house, but it was still acceptable (snif).
D: I didn't catch their name, but they were lightly fried cubes of the most melt-in-the-mouthingy sweet pork fat. I'd go so far as to say they'd knock bitterballen into a cocked hat. And you know how I feel about bitterballen.

The cochonailles came with a glass of a brut rosé from Burgundy, which was a brief reminder of summer: hints of hay and strawberry.

Next up: a salade lyonnaise for The Boy--frisée and salty lardons and a poached egg--and a creamy salt-cod soup decorated with cockles, as well as the world's sweetest, juiciest shrimp, for me.



(Sorry the image quality isn't great--we were at a romantically underlit table).

And then The Boy had fried pork tripe, crispy on the outside and soft and salty on the inside; I went for the ragout of kidney beans with boudin noir and pork sausage. Because they had me at "boudin noir."

Next, the dish that was our main reason for making a reservation: pied du cochon for deux.



It was a good eight or nine inches long, plump and round and generously stuffed with hammy goodness, sitting on a bed of lentilles de Puy. Though we'd had a fabulously porky feast, this was the only dish that was verifiably, recognizably piggy. And it was glorious: salty-sweet, moist and tender.

And finally, dessert: crème caramel for The Boy, because that's his thing, and a rich, intense chocolate mousse pour moi. I was slightly disappointed that it wasn't made with bacon chocolate, but it was still lovely.

Oh, and we left with a parting gift: a beribboned jar of herbes de Provence. Which is good, because we're almost out. And I might do a pork tenderloin this weekend.

Happy happy Turkey Day ...

A question I'm often asked at this time of year: "Do you celebrate Thanksgiving?"

Well, duh.

I understand the assumption that because I'm not from around these here parts, and didn't grow up with the tradition, I may not embrace the full meaning of the holiday.

But come on--it's all about food. How could I not celebrate?

In the past, our Thanksgiving has involved getting together with friends and turkey and a multitude of side dishes and eating until coma sets in. Last year was a prime example.

But this time, as we hadn't made plans to get together with others, and as I had to be back at work on Friday, we decided to take the easy way out and made reservations at Sandrine's in Harvard Square.



I was slightly reticent, because even though I love the food at Sandrine's (Alsatian, so lots of pork and sauerkraut and incredible Flammkueche), the clientele skews toward hard-of-hearing Harvard alums and their entitled families, meaning there's a good chance of being wedged between parties of yelling yahoos.

Today, however, we were in luck. The place was busy but not heaving, and apart from the family behind us (whose black-turtle-necked patriarch, when not conversing with his disinterested offspring in clumsy French, felt it necessary to explain his 12-year-old daughter's vegetarian stance to the waiter), we had a peaceful meal.

Ah, yes, the meal. The Boy began with a half-dozen escargots in garlic butter. I went for the butternut squash veloutée with wildflower honey.



It was creamy (of course) with a slightly spicy edge, the sweet intensity of the honey coming through as a final note.

And then we did something we hardly ever do in restaurants: we both had the same entree. Well, you have to have turkey at Thanksgiving, dontcha?



With haricots verts and jaunes, golden beets, obscenely buttery mashed potato and a cake of chestnut stuffing.

As often happens, I only ate half my main. But while this is usually because I'm too full, this time I had an ulterior motive. If Thanksgiving is about eating huge piles of nosh, the day after is about reheating the leftovers for breakfast. And I was damned if I was going to miss out on that tradition.

Plus I was, um, too full.

Though apparently not too full for dessert: pernod creme brulée with a perfectly carmelized, crackable crust of brown sugar.



The Boy decided to end the meal with a glass of Pierre Ferrand cognac. It was of exceptional quality, and deliciously smooth, the reason for which became clear when we got the check: despite The Boy's best efforts to point at the 12-year-old vintage, the waiter had delivered the 25-year, with associated markup. Still, it was fabulous. And very pretty.



A delicious meal, capped off by the joy of not having to wash dishes. We'd definitely do Thanksgiving out again.

But that said, we both missed the fun of cooking--of prepping the turkey, and roasting veggies, and finding new ways to add extra sin to gravy and mashed potatoes. This morning I came across my favorite cranberry chutney recipe (from Julia Child via Robin) and felt a twinge of regret that I had no need to make it this year.

On the other hand, Christmas is only a month away. And we'll need to eat something.

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 ...