(That last link is just because I like the phrase, “Cooking without pants.”)
Cal started off with a gin and tonic, which in France means they give you a lowball glass with a shot of gin in it and a tiny bottle of Schweppes tonic. I had a glass of champagne, because I am classy like that.
For grub, Cal started with a delightful and buttery grilled foie gras served with creme freche (again, with the accents) and artfully placed potato crisps, while I chose to go sea with about 147 crevettes (yes, heads and all) with a garlicky aioli and a high-society finger bowl on the side.
For our entrees, I had an enormous piece of steak-like and hearty lotte with a sesame crust, onion confit and carrots gratin. Cal enjoyed grilled veal brochettes, which he labeled as “interactive” since he had to disassmeble the brochettes, cut a bite-size piece and then pour the caramelized sauce over each bite.
I had a tinsy bottle of Riesling, my favorite white wine EVAH and a most satisfactory complement to my fish dishes, and Cal had another gin and tonic because he is allergic to wine and felt strange buying a beer in such a class joint.
We finished our meal with a calvados for Cal to offset his diverticulitis, and I had a chocolat fondant with creme anglais, which frankly I could drink creme anglais until I literally got sick, and the fondant was exactly as it should be – a bit crusty on the outside, but break it with a fork and chocolate half-liquid lava flows from the inside, and the creme anglais is cold.
I wore black, of course and many layers of pearls, and Cal looked like a respected rock star in exile at an interview in a Paris bistro, with his layered look and his always-trusty blazer but without the fey cravat, more like this but all in greys and blacks and his chipped black fingernail polish from the Marilyn Manson show last weekend and his titanium glasses.
We then went up to the Vert Anglais to see the band and then Le Huit for a righteous cocktail. Le Huit looks like the bottom of a swimming pool and has impossibly cool patrons who are an average of 12 years younger than Cal and myself, but surprisingly it’s not hipper-than-thou and was packed for a rainy night.
Cal went back to watch the rest of the bands’s set, but I am back at home in my comfy PJ’s and ready to kick some butt on CSI for Playstation.
HAPPY TURKEY BOK BOK.