Hungry for Paris by Alexander Lobrano

Author:Alexander Lobrano [Lobrano, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-58836-710-5
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-10-25T16:00:00+00:00

Consider the segue of our lunch by Christophe Moret, Ducasse élève extraordinaire. After the fish course, I had a ris de veau à la ménagère (cooked as a housewife would, which is to say seasoned with salt and pepper, rolled in flour, and sautéed in melted butter), a sublime dish coyly masquerading under a name implying homeliness and modesty, since the veal sweetbread was crispy without and creamy within, no mean feat. Bruno had a still life of Limousin lamb, a few ribs, and a miniature saddle, surrounded by doll-sized spring vegetables. Cheeses by maître fromager Bernard Antony, a giggly man who lives in a tiny town in Alsace with a perfect climate for aging cheese, and the Parisian cheese merchant Marie-Ann Cantin couldn’t be passed up, and the sommelier was instantly on hand to serve a small pour of vin jaune and suggest that it should be sipped with the Vieux Comté, an extra-aged Comté, a nutty cow’s milk cheese from the eastern Jura region of France. The combination caused such a potent shudder of pleasure in a public place that most people would have blushed; I didn’t.

I hope it isn’t unseemly for me to confess that I’d been looking forward to a single dessert, my favorite one in the whole world, throughout the entire meal. In French: caillé de brebis, caramel poivré, miel d’arbousier (fresh ewe’s milk cheese, peppered caramel, strawberry tree honey). If you’ve ever sniffed your way around an old Pall Mall club, you’ll know these scents—leather, tobacco, must, musk, and the skin of a very elderly man or a newborn baby, all of which turn up in this dessert, which is a breathtaking constellation of tastes. Simultaneously prim and primal, this dish offers exactly the sensual equilibrium one dreams of finding at the end of a long and very expensive meal.

Often when I read about other people’s wonderful meals, they stop before describing the part of the experience I consider almost as vital and nearly as much fun as the actual event—the wake of the meal, the Cinderella-like aftermath during which you tease over the details of everything you ate, committing the best to permanent memory or puzzling over some evanescent trail of taste. Sitting at my computer at dusk on a pale lilac-colored southern French evening, I contemplate supper—a few spears of asparagus I found growing wild in the apple orchards that surround me and a jar of Jean Martin brand pistou heated and poured over some pasta—and though I’m sure it’ll be fine, what I’m really craving are the three purloined caramels—salted caramel, pistachio and saffron, and apricot and passion fruit—that rode off the premises of Restaurant Alain Ducasse in my coat pocket. Not only will they be delicious, they’ll prove that this wonderful meal actually happened.

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