I had a rough day last week and needed some gastronomic therapy. Sitting at the counter at Gary Danko would have been the most obvious treatment, but I was craving something new yet equally effective. Fleur de Lys came to mind. It's impossible to be a foodie in
The dining room is impressive. Whereas diners at The French Laundry speak in hushed tones out of reverence for the legendary restaurant and chef, diners here seemed to be forced into submission by a most opulent setting. It's famous tent-like canopy drapes the entire ceiling and colors the room with deep luxurious reds and golds, the colors of papal majesty. A golden glow permeates the entire room, punctuated in the center - the tallest point of the canopy - by a large autumn arrangement of fruit branches and flowers. Even now, I can't escape using the most florid language to describe the place. "Papal Majesty"??? What is this crap that's pouring from my finger tips? Let me try again: the place was nice but a bit stuffy. Better.
I would be more generous in praising the decor but, unfortunately, the grand setting succeeded more in highlighting the shortcomings of the food and service rather than buttressing them. Let's start with the service. At the risk of sounding "difficult": it was the little things. It's hard to relax (this is therapy, remember?) when the waiters are perspiring and dropping off a plate of bread without eye contact or even a pause, when you hear them murmuring among themselves that the food is for THAT table and not for THIS one, when your water glass is empty and a crouton is in your mouth. I don't think the Pope has to ask for more water when he's dining under his opulent canopy, does he? There was a wonderful article recently in the SF Chronicle that addressed Laura Cunningham, who runs The French Laundry front room, and her method to creating a great dining experience. She brings in professional dancers to train her staff to move, they measure how far away the waiter should stand from the diner and from which side their plates should be set down on the table, they study where every ingredient is grown or harvested and where every plate is glazed and fired. It seems like a lot of work, but a hundred little things translates to a dining experience so refined and so complete that it's hard to pin down a single element that's responsible. The service at Fleur de Lys was fine, so ignore me. My point is, it just lacked that special polish which could have had a magical effect in such an opulent setting.
After we had ordered from the menu - choices within 3, 4, or 5 course options, much like the menus of Gary Danko and La Folie - we were brought an amuse bouche which was forgettable, since I can't remember it, followed by a canapé, which was also forgettable, since I can't remember it either. What I CAN recall is how impressed I was by two palette teasers, exactly the kind of extravagant effort that sets a restaurant apart. Following our first course, there was yet another teaser, or rather a cleanser. It was a cantaloupe sorbet, an appropriately light flavor that doesn't linger, and is therefore a good cleanser.
My friend ordered the Symphony appetizer, a plate with so many ingredients and flavors and even temperatures that if this was a symphony, then surely the chef was Schoenberg. The only thing to match the labor in assembling this dish is the labor required to eat it. The flavors didn't seem to complement each other; instead they were all vying for your attention. Fortunately, his entrée was more like a Sibelius tone poem. The foie gras stuffed squab breasts with a ravioli of squab leg confit in a Sauternes-ginger sauce, was delicious and flavorful, elegant yet comforting. It was like the dishes you find at La Folie - it had self-confidence.
I have to confess, I cannot much remember my appetizer or entrée. They were neither as interesting (bad or good) as the Symphony, nor as delightful as the squab. They were, to use a technical term that we wannabe food critics like to throw out in careful measure, ‘blah’. To round out the meal: the soufflés were large, billowy, light – standard (but I’ve never been a big fan of classic sweet soufflés); the sparkling water was Pellegrino (my body would have broken down from the shock had I not been vaccinated previously at Michael Mina); and the champagne (Perrier Jouet) was a delicious start to the meal.
My final analysis is this: Fleur de Lys boasts one of the most beautiful and romantic dining rooms in the city. Its reputation for its décor is well deserved. But as for food and service it falls short of La Folie which has more polish. I will, however, consider Fleur de Lys again when I’m in the mood for Gary Danko.
