What Makes A Meal Great

I just had one of the most wonderful meals of the year and perhaps the decade.  I’m sure you’re dying to know where and your eyes fall to the bottom of the page where you see no name and address.  Why?  I’ll explain.

Let me start by setting the stage.  Le Perroquet Vert is a relatively local restaurant, that is, it is a place I can walk home from.  We used to eat there 10-15 years ago and it was always OK, no more, but convenient on a night before we had an early AM plane.  Recently I had read a review that said there was a new equipe and chef so I thought; Why Not which is exactly what my friend the Real Food Critic wrote me.

OK.  I arrived early, no problem, I always do, especially if I’m eating with others so I size the place up, sense the décor and welcome, take a few notes, etc., sit back and relax before work.  I had ordered a pichet of win, not sure when they’d arrive (I know, I know, the French/US “cultural difference” books all say you’re supposed to order a coup de c. or verre de v., but my insider French friends tell me that’s BS propaganda pumped out by the Wine & Tourism folk to sell booze by the glass.)  

First impression, what is all the smoke in this place about.  Now granted, whenever I come back to France from the US or even Italy, Spain or Greece etc, I have to remind myself the first day that this is France, it’s their country not mine (although that’s not really true, since my people came to Britain on little dinghies in 1066 from Normandy and came back from Britain for quite a while before embarking to Canada), anyway they have their ways, they don’t believe the US Surgeon General’s Report, well, it was only 43 years ago and the Romans were here 1700 years ago.  In any case, this was the first day smoking in France was strictly forbidden in public places, with the typical exception Francais, it’s OK in restaurants and bars (same objections from them as everywhere else in the world, including NYC, which fears, of course, are bogus.)

Anyway, my luncheon companions walked in; about midway in age between my kids and grandkids; both relaxed and confident; no sweat.  Waitress asks if we want any aperitifs, no, they say we like this wine.  Cool.

Menus arrive.  Quick look.  Kindainteresting but not very.  Weaving in and out, there’s something there.  We order.  And wait. And wait. And wait.  It’s getting ridiculous except (the exception Americain), these are two fascinating people.  1/3rd my age, they know as much about food as I do.  We’re moving from Paris to the East Village in NY to Arpege to Perry Street.  Plus they happened to have attended a few schools I got kicked out of, almost got kicked out of or applied to when “between” schools.  So we’re (or at least I was) having a great time.  But there’s no food.  We shoulda quit there.  But no, the food arrived: the Monsieur’s foie gras was gold standard plus, incredible; Madame’s salmon tartare was OK, if the rest of the meal had gone well, I’d pass it; but my entree was bizarre: cold tasteless lentil “salad” with warm chicken gizzards and livers that were great.  OK.  We’ll manage – yesssss.  And the conversation flows ever onward.

We wait.  And wait. And wait. And wait.  Et voila!  The mains arrive.  Everyone takes a bite and passes a bite on.  Her rouget was the first fish I’ve had in decades that was fished-out, bland, cardboard, nul, nil, with a pathetic excuse for a tomato sauce.  I mistakenly was given his pork and had three bites of meat that I was not sure came from which animal; I quickly passed it to him only to be greeted by the thinnest, most overcooked piece of liver since my mother massacred such – and I said I wanted a thick piece almost blue.

But still we talked and it was wonderful.  The food sat on out plates uneaten, the wine flowed from the pichet, and we were fine.

Dessert and cheese.  Must I?  

The coffee was superb, the company was the best of the year, and the bill was a very easy 113 € for 3.  They asked me what everyone does – “what did you think?”  I think sometimes process beats results, impressions beat data, presentation beats product, nurture beats nature and what happens beats what you eat (or leave behind in our case).  I had a great time.  

Coda: but don’t you worry about all those food critics who have great conversations in horrible restaurants and don’t fess up?  I do.

My favorites from the above.  Are you serious, because you’re not paying attention?
 

©2006 John A. Talbott