Chefs Cooking for Hope (and for us!)

Last night was Chefs Cooking for Hope, one of the big fundraising events for the Friends of Dana-Farber. I'd wanted to check this out for a while, especially after last year, when co-worker Robbin, who does PR for the event, had rounded up some goodies for me while I was out sick.

I still have fond memories of last year's maple bacon cotton candy from Harvest:



But that was last year. This year, I wanted to see for myself.

Chefs Cooking for Hope brings together area restaurants and caterers, who dish out small-plate samples to a crowd paying $100 a ticket.

And while that might seem pricey, look at it this way: You're in a room with some of the best chefs in town. And they have food. And they ain't going nowhere.

And no one can stop you having seconds. Or thirds.

So here's what we found:

Oysters in a spicy beet mignonette from Rialto:



Seared tuna with wasabi from The Cottage:



Sweet, lightly marinated roasted red peppers from Strega:



Amazing grilled octopus from Bistro du Midi (and a reminder to vote for chef Robert Sisca in Food and Wine's Best New Chef poll)



Just-right beef tartare from Gaslight:



Light and airy rabbit liver pâté with port gelée and picked carrots from Sel de la Terre:



Eye-rollingly good veal terrine with violet mustard from Beacon Hill Bistro:



Wild mushroom ravioli with oxtail ragout from Miel:



And the dish that seemed to be the hit of the night: braised brisket in a dumpling, in a light dashi broth, with soy pearls, from Baker's Best Catering. You ate it like an oyster: juice, then meat. It was stunning.



Between bites, we stopped by the table for Citizen Pub, who was handing out samples of a lovely rye peach punch.



We liked the Citizen people, not only because cocktail, but also because one of the staff recognized me from a visit ... four months ago.

"Yes," he said, "you came in on a Tuesday. You asked for a sour drink. I persuaded you to have a second one."

Well, that does sound like the kind of thing I would do ...

By this point in the evening, we were pretty much full. Yes, we were eating small amounts, but if you're counting, that's nine small amounts.

Wait, make it ten: I almost forgot about the sweet plantain — halfway between tostón and maduro — topped with apples and eggplant, from (I think) Zephyr on the Charles. It was a crazy combination, but it worked really well.



So yeah, not much room left for dessert. Okay, maybe just a little suspiro Limeño from Taranta. Super-sweet dulce de leche with a meringue topping.



And we'll just look at the cupcakes



and the cupcakes



and the cupcakes.



These last are bacon (the maple kind, yah?) from bakery Glutenus Minimus.

Finally, we picked up a plate of goodies from the Cambridge School of Culinary Arts and rolled out.



Tonight, I think we'll be having a nice plate of steamed vegetables.

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 ...

A few final food-related vacation highlights

Our Montreal vacation now seems so long ago (two whole weeks; time does fly when you're, um, back at work). But I can't move on without mentioning a few more tasty highlights from the trip.

1) Breakfast at Eggspectation, Montreal
From the outside, this place looked like a sketchy chain diner. But after the previous day's Ritzy $100 breakfast for four--which worked out to about $10 per fried egg, plus juice and coffee--we were up for something (anything) cheaper.

Inside, it was cool and funky, all alterno-hip waitstaff, college radio music and exposed bricks and ductwork.



Eggspectation's menu is mostly, um, well, ovo-centric, with unusual takes on classics and some of their own creations. But there's also a plethora of carbs: bagels, waffles, crepes, French toast. And smoothies, including one of fruit and granola, which would make a sufficient breakfast by itself. (I, of course, ordered it as well as more solid food, and realized I couldn't manage the whole thing.)

The rest of my meal: Brioche Beauty, which was actually two sizable cinnamon rolls covered with yogurt, honey and almonds, served with a fresh fruit salad.



This, to me, is the epitome of breakfast: 50% healthy and nutritious, 50% sweet and decadent.

I'm so used to "fruit salad" that turns out to be awkward chunks of under-ripe melon with a few grapes thrown in; here, the strawberries had flavor, the kiwi wasn't sour and there were slices of mango and papaya.

Eggspectation is a Canadian franchise, with only a handful of locations in the US; our closest is South Portland, Maine. (They're in one other country: India.)

I'm not saying I'd want to make a trip north solely to eat there, but if we were in the area ...

2) Hotdog and poutine, Cité Souterrain, Montreal

I really don't think this needs an explanation.



3) Turkey dinner at The Parson's Corner

We were on our way back from Montreal, somewhere close to Nowhere, when we realized it was time for lunch, and took the next available exit off Rte. 91: Barton, Vermont. The pickings were slim--an ice-cream place, a Chinese resto called Ming's (which is always a dubious name to the English) and The Parsons' Corner, a pretty house that claimed to be a restaurant.



They stopped serving lunch at 2:30. It was 2:15. We hurried inside, and found a full-on diner counter, a guy slinging hash and the living- and dining-rooms converted into booth space.



I went for a straightforward grilled cheese sandwich; The Boy chose the steak and cheese sub. His dad ordered a burger, and his mom decided on the day's special: turkey dinner.



Everything was good, but the dinner was the winner, getting big points for nostalgia (canned peas! Gelatinous cranberry sauce!), for the silky mashed potato and gravy (doubtless both reconstituted, but who cares) and especially for--because there's no way you can fake this--the tender, moist, thick slices of roast turkey.

4) Scotch eggs in Portsmouth, New Hampshire
The last leg of our return trip included lunch in Portsmouth. We wandered the streets for a while and decided on the Portsmouth Gas Light Company, which has a look and vibe much like the Miracle of Science. The food was lovely, fresh and interesting.

But this isn't about that place. It's about the place I wanted to go, but which didn't open for another hour: The Coat of Arms, a British pub whose menu included not just yer usual faux-Anglo fish 'n' chips and bangers 'n' mash, but also a ploughman's lunch, sausage rolls, treacle pudding and custard and (gasp!) scotch eggs.

After lunch, as we were heading back to the car, I ran a quick errand.



I probably should have ordered them uncooked; they came hot, and they warmed my lap for the rest of the ride home. Sadly, we were too full to eat more, and didn't get to try them until the next day, when they were cold and a little tough and chewy: not at their best.

This just means we have to go back. And also try the treacle pudding.

Au Pied de Cochon: pig-out, Montreal style

The Boy's birthday coincided with our trip to Montreal, so when I asked where he wanted to go for his celebratory meal, he had an immediate answer: Au Pied de Cochon.

Both our previous Montreal trips had included visits to this palace of porkiness; it's one of those restaurants that, when brought up in conversation, causes a Pavlovian reaction for us. And we were pretty sure The Boy's parents would approve. (They did. Oh, boy, they did.)

Au Pied de Cochon is a long, narrow, noisy room, with clusters of tables at both ends and a bar that runs the length of the intervening space. If you sit at the bar, you get to watch the chefs at work in the tiny kitchen.

On past visits, we've sat at a table in front, squished between other diners and subject to waiter traffic. This time, we got a table at the back of the room, which felt a little calmer (though no less cacophonous).



We started with a plate of cochonailles (which, as we learned from the pig-fest at Craigie Street Bistrot, kind of translates to "little bits of porkular loveliness"). And then to the main event.

The Boy's mom went for the signature dish, a fabulous plate of pig's foot braised until fall-apart tender, with pommes purées and a crispy mushroom-cream-filled cake.



The Boy's dad had the lamb shank confit.



Do I even need to say how gloriously moist and juicy and fatty it was? (Wanna make it yourself? Here's a recipe. Stock up on duck fat.)

I had the PDC Melting Pot, a crock stuffed with pommes purées topped with garlic pork sausage, blood sausage, pork belly and bacon, as well as a couple of sweet roasted onions. Yes, it looks obscene. No, I couldn't eat the whole thing, though I gave it a damn good try.



And The Boy?

On our first visit, he'd considered getting the poutine with foie gras because it seemed so decadent. On our second--having actually tried poutine--he thought about it but passed for something else. And then we made our own version of posh poutine at home, and he came to fully grasp its potential.

When we started to talk about taking his parents to Montreal, he mentioned the poutine with foie gras. When we discussed going to Au Pied de Cochon, he observed that they had poutine with foie gras.

And so, finally, he got what he wanted. It may look like hell, but it tastes like heaven.



Au Pied de Cochon is a fun, lively place. (And loud. Did I mention it's loud?) The crowd is young and hip, the staff are cute in a tousled punk/pirate sort of way, and the restroom is awesome:



Yes, that's a full-on dishwashing sink with rinsing nozzle. And yes, the hand towels are in a steam table.

Oh, and they have a dish called canard en conserve--or, en anglais, the less-romantic-sounding duck in a can. The adorable chef/waiter couple from Toronto, sitting at the next table (close enough that we could follow their conversation, apparently) ordered it, and we got to watch as it was served. From the can. A can-opener is involved.

I wasn't able to take photos, so I direct you to Claudine's gorgeous frame-by-frame reveal on Flickr. And take a look at the rest of her PDC set; her camera skeelz are much better than mine!

Anyway, we have to go back. We still haven't tried the duck carpaccio, or the bison tongue, or the venison tongue, or the (gasp!) pied de cochon stuffed with (gasp!) foie gras, or ...

Is it wrong to whip it out at the table?

This week, I caught a re-run of No Reservations in which Anthony Bourdain goes to South Carolina. He's sitting in some fabulous southern food joint, eating shrimp and grits and Coca-Cola cake, and he says something along the lines of "This stuff is so good, you're gonna start having New Yorkers coming down and taking photos of all the dishes."

And I thought Oh my goodness; he's talking about me (I assume he doesn't know exactly where I live).

Now, I'm not one to be influenced by the opinions of celebs. That said, I love Bourdain. largely for his honesty and frankness (one favorite moment: he tries the deep-fried cheesecake at the Mall of America and declares, "Jesus God this is awful." Can you imagine Rachael Ray doing that?).

So if he's making snarky comments about people pulling out their cameras at dinner, should I pay attention?

In fairness, it's not just Bourdain's offhand comment that has me thinking like this. I suspect my fellow diners put up with my snap-happy attitude because they don't have much choice.

The Boy is wonderfully patient, but at home, a good 50% of his meals are delayed in their journey from kitchen to table as I hijack them for a photo session. I always take my camera to restaurants and take pictures of anything I think I might want to write about, which means he has to wait for me to adjust lighting and focus so I can shoot his rapidly cooling meal.

And what about the people around me? I spend a lot of time complaining that my fellow diners are unthinkingly loud and inconsiderate. How do they feel about me taking pictures of my food? I don't use the flash, of course, but isn't this still inappropriate behavior for a restaurant? Is it too far removed from using a cellphone?

I want to know what other people think. Do you photograph your food? Does it bother you when others do? Have you ever seen diners being admonished for whipping out their Nikon? (And did you take a picture?)

L'Espalier: the end of the affair

L'Espalier is closing. Not for good; just for a couple of months, while it relocates to its new home in the still-under-construction Mandarin Oriental. While the move will doubtless be a blessing for the restaurant's staff, who have had to cope with the tiny kitchen and narrow hallways of the current century-old Back Bay brownstone, it's sad news to Boston diners.

There aren't many restaurants with L'Espalier's sturdy elegance and architectural detail: the curving staircase, the plaster wall moldings, the marble fireplaces that make the house feel like, well, a house. Tables are divided between three rooms on two floors, so even though the restaurant seats more than 70, each space feels like an intimate and private dining club.

This is the second-floor room overlooking Gloucester Street.



The building is not L'Espalier's only draw, of course: the food is fabulous. And priced accordingly, which has meant, for us at least, that it's a special-occasion destination, reserved for anniversaries and birthdays. But as the clock is ticking on the current location, we figured we should make an exception and go one last time before the doors close.

So we made a 5:30 reservation (the only available option for a Saturday night at short notice) and arrived ready for an evening of elegance and indulgence.

As the hostess hung up our coats, I glanced at the evening's reservation list (helpfully illuminated on the computer screen).

8:30: GERVAIS, RIC

Darn; unless we ate reaaally slowwwly, we'd be finished and out the door before he arrived. And anyway, fawning over celebs (or, rather, inquiring as to the veracity of the claim that a certain person has a citrus-shaped cranium) is really not The Thing To Do at L'Espalier.

Part of the joy of the L'Espalier experience is the service, which is generally flawless, graceful, subtle. The hostess introduces you by name to the maitre d', who leads you to your table. The waitstaff wear suits (actual well-cut suits, rather than penguin-waiter-wear); the plates arrive table-side covered with silver cloches, which are whisked aside with an understated flourish.

Yes, many other places have good service, but L'Espalier is special in that regard. The waitstaff are not trying to be your buddies; they don't tell you their names and explain they'll be taking care of you (as though you'd never encountered waiter service before); they're professional and discreet and speak in hushed tones, as though in church.

So it was decidedly strange to be in earshot of the second-floor waiters as they criticized the previous night's Celtics' performance, practiced gang signs and voguing, traded insults and discussed the cable show Rock of Love. It was unusual to have our waiter dribble martini on the table.

And it was, frankly, downright strange to overhear the maitre d' call the staff together--after the start of service--and explain that, as of that moment, the menu prices had all changed, and that they were to use the new prices for the rest of the evening.

On previous visits, we'd been seated on the third floor; The Boy wondered whether the second floor was less formal, or a training ground for newer staff, and that's why the vibe was different. It could also have been that the night was young, and the staff hadn't yet warmed up to the task at hand. Either way, it was unexpected. And it was actually a good thing.

I'll explain later; it's time for the food.

First, a teeny tiny amuse-bouche of smoked salmon and cream cheese napoleon, with the tiniest whisper of lemon.



Then what was described as "a welcome from the chef": a (rather tough) slice of grilled flatbread topped with a duck and rabbit pâté. And then appetizers: for me, veal sweetbreads coated in almonds, sweet and tender and subtly nutty, served with an Asian-style fresh carrot slaw:



The Boy chose foie gras, which came with--and this is the genius part--a marshmallow toasted with thyme, the cloying sweetness heightening and expanding the woodsy herb and making both of them sing.



The entrees (my roasted rabbit with gnocchi, olives and peas; The Boy's rack of lamb with carrots and fried chickpea cakes) were similarly harmonious combinations of deep, rich flavors and bright, fresh notes.

And dessert was likewise lovely, though the options all seemed too heavy after such an indulgent main; it would have been nice to have a light, fruity option within the lineup of cheesecakes and chocolates and creams.

The Boy went for the roasted barley crème brûlée, which was a reasonable version made more interesting with the addition of granola and a tangy Greek yogurt sorbet; I had an ice cream trio (tropical fruits, strawberry/mango and chocolate) which arrived in a brandy-snap basket and would have looked more impressive were they not already melting.

Which brings me back to my previous observation that the waitstaff's unexpected jocularity was a good thing.

Have you ever been in a relationship that ended before you were ready? And just as you were breaking up, he did something that made you realize he wasn't quite as dynamic and debonair as you believed, and that you had no reason to cry over him after all?

That's how it was last night. We loved L'Espalier when we saw it as the pinnacle of Boston restaurants, a place of impeccable service and flawless food. But now, the blush is ever so slightly off the rose. Sure, we'll probably visit when it opens in the new space. But there's still Clio, and Radius, and No. 9 Park, and Craigie Street. And Guy Martin's new place opens in June, allegedly.

So, good times, while they lasted. Good memories. But there are plenty more fish, just as lightly poached and served with beurre blanc, in the sea.

Hungry Mother (and other women)

Last night saw a return to Hungry Mother for a girly night out with Linda, Melinda and Cindi. I used to work with the first two reprobates; Cindi is a more recent member of the gang who shares our ribald sense of humor and appreciation for good nosh, so it was a fun, improper, tasty night all round.

Yes, there were cocktails: Cindi chose an insanely good vodka martini with thyme, rosemary and red pepper flakes, and she very kindly and generously allowed me to take her last olive, which had been soaking in a house-made lemon marinade. Melinda had a Manhattan-esque concoction that featured sorghum syrup and amaretto, garnished with a boiled peanut.

But that really has nothing to do with the quality of these photos.

Linda just moves very very fast.



Melinda always looks this blurry.



And Cindi's cocktail really was almost as big as she was.



So we talked about gardening and crazy neighbors and kids and rock 'n' roll and food.

And we ate: the amazingly tender and deeply flavored beef tongue canapés; the soft boiled peanuts sprinkled with gray salt; the crunchily battered fried oysters with tabasco sauce; the catfish pâté with sweet fig jam and sharp pickled ramps; the feather-light gnocchi with delicate mushroom broth; the roast chick'um with hot jalapeno spoonbread; the light and flaky catfish (possibly cooked to perfection, depending on your own personal concept of what "perfection" means); the single juicy fried green tomato; the rich and creamy grits topped with ham and cheese.

And somehow there was room for dessert. But just to share, you understand; just a spoonful to say we'd tried. Really. So we gamely dismantled a lovely buttermilk pie, light and fluffy and lemon-scented, and did our brave best with a dense, deliciously dark chocolate pot de crème infused with cardamom.

It looks as though Hungry Mother is still doing well, though I felt a twinge of apprehension at our waitress's hope that we notify our friends about the place: "Tell everyone when you go to work tomorrow! Tell them you had a good time!" Are they just pushing word of mouth, or do they really feel under-promoted? Time will tell, though as long as they're cooking at the current standard, they should be quite safe.

So, ladies: where next?

OpenTable to hoi polloi: How was your meal?

Some time back, I ranted about calmly discussed my opposition to OpenTable's move to include user comments in restaurant listings.

A pointless act, I argued. Dining out is such a subjective experience; one man's delicious pasta feast is another man's nightmare of gluey fettucine, diluted pomodoro sauce and recycled salad. Which diner do you trust?

OpenTable's restaurant pages already include reviews from Gayot, Zagat's and BoMag, which between them provide a reasonable cross-section of review experiences, both customer-generated and editorial.

So there's really no reason to ask OpenTable users to chime in with their opinions (other than corporate haste to echo the current marketers' mantra that social media is the shiny new way to engage customers).

Nevertheless, today I had two emails from OpenTable asking me to provide feedback on recent resto visits. Here's the first part of their survey form:



I like some of the adjectives they chose to define the star rating: "memorable," "enjoyable" and "needs work" are pretty distinct. But "a rare find" is ambiguous; is it a "rare find" if you go every month? Is it a "rare find" if the place is always busy, or only if no-one knows about it?

What about its rarity in the market? Is Elephant Walk "rare" by default, because it's the only French-Cambodian restaurant in Boston?

The second subjective section looks like this:



The problem here (apart from the dubiousness of phrases like "Hot Spot") is that some of these options only apply to specific diners. Would you check off "Good for Groups" unless you dined with a group? Or "Kid-Friendly" unless you'd had first-hand experience of the waitstaff's attitude toward your rugrats?

Does that mean that a place that actively welcomes families, but doesn't get as much feedback from them, will appear not to be kid-friendly?

(And you know me: I prefer not to have people talking near my food, so I'm more likely not to encourage group dining, especially at places I enjoy. Keep 'em away, I say.)

Is "Neighborhood Gem" only valid if it's in your neighborhood (as Tu y Yo is to us), or does it refer to any place within a clearly defined section of town? And if the latter, isn't every restaurant eligible for that category, regardless of location?
Is L'Espalier a "Neighborhood Gem"? When it reopens in the new Mandarin Oriental hotel this fall, will it still be a "Neighborhood Gem"? (Word on the street is No, but we can hope.)

Back to "Hot Spot." Their translation (I assume): "New place getting a ton of attention."

My translation: "New place getting a ton of attention. I give it six months."

The main issue with these classifications is their ambiguity, of which the first item, "Fit for Foodies," is a prime example. Does it mean the restaurant has unusual ingredients and dishes for the culinarily curious? Or that the menu choices are not so inventive but use organic or locally sourced ingredients? Or that the portions are gargantuan? Not everyone defines "foodie" in the same way. So how useful a classification is this?

Similarly, "Notable Wine List" could mean an impressive selection of wines by the glass. Or it could mean a wide variety of prices. Or it could mean rare vintages only recognizable to dedicated oenophiles. Different customers, with different expectations, will make their own assumptions about the definition. And someone's likely to be disappointed with the restaurant and dubious of OpenTable's credibility.

So what descriptions would be more useful (read: useful to me)? How about:

• Great for people-watching


• Cute waitstaff


• Hip, eclectic playlist


• Has boudin


• Serves random amuse-bouches


• Tables not squished together


• Barstaff understand that a true Martini is served really really cold

How about you? What categories would you find useful?

Walking to Mexico

I know, I know. I've already waxed rhapsodic about Somerville Mexican restaurant Tu y Yo on many occasions. Oh, their frogs' legs! Oh, their annual Festival of Gastronomy! Blah blah blah.

Usually, our visits there begin and end with an entree; the servings aren't ridiculously huge, but for me they're generous enough that I often just eat the main dish (pork in a garlic-orange sauce; chicken in red mole; the always-fabulous pibil) and take the rice and beans home for breakfast. Which gives the added benefit of starting the day with this:



Last night, however, I walked from my office to the Central Square T stop—a good two-mile walk—and by the time I arrived in Davis, I was ravenous. I called The Boy, who was just getting home, and we organized a rendezvouz at what we refer to as "the Mexican place."

He ordered the nopales en salsa verde.



How much more green could it be? (The answer, of course, is none more green.) The sauce is bright, with a vinegary edge; the sesame seeds add a note of nutty sweetness.

I had tinga poblana, a dish of shredded chicken stewed with sweet onions, peppers and tomatoes:



(Hmm ... it looked much better than that. Apologies for my weak PhotoShop abilities.)

I ate the whole thing, reflecting only briefly that it meant we'd be having cereal for breakfast.

And then, still hungry, we ordered (gasp!) dessert.

The Boy had flan. Why? Because he always has flan if there's flan to be had. It was light and delicate and sat in a cinnamon cream sauce. He was happy.

I'd hoped to try the avocado napoleon, because I'd always cast envious glances when other diners ordered it: layers of mille-feuille stacked with vibrant green sauce. But when you're not up to date on the latest dessert news, you fall victim to the ancient adage regarding somnolence and associated loss.

(You snooze, you lose.)

Napoleon had been exiled from the menu. Instead, there was an avocado cheesecake and a cactus-nut bread. After much prolonged weighing of the pros and cons, I went with the former.



It was creamy but not too dense; the avocado gave it a light, fresh flavor. It was much like a desserty guacamole, which probably makes sense. The crushed pistachios on top added a nice crunch, and the drizzle of condensed-milk sauce added a boost of sweetness. The Boy said it reminded him of a Vietnamese avocado milkshake.

Next, time, I'll try the cactus bread. Just have to go for a good long walk first.