The Prelude
About three years ago I went to Masa's and an evening of uninspired food, indifferent service, and a high price tag ended with a very disappointing petit-four experience. I love petit-fours. I love stuffing my mouth with a dozen little gems even though dinner is packed tightly halfway up my esophagus and, at the same time, pushing lunch out the other end. I love the variety of petit-fours and how they symbolize the restaurant's extravagance. It's as if they're asking you to stay a few more minutes and eat carefully crafted treats even though you've just had two dessert courses, an offer that seems so generous and over-the-top that it leaves some visitors giddy with disbelief. So I was disappointed when the cart came by a few years ago and the server placed just a few pieces on a shiny tray and walked off robotically, leaving me wondering if I'd been a bad guest. I felt half guilty and half angry. I could've used about nine more pieces. I wanted some more petit-fours but the evening was over. And now, three years later, I sat alone at the restaurant, curious to see if things had improved.
The Review, in Twelve Parts
1. There was some fumbling in the beginning. The bartender brought me the menu as soon as I sat, and after I ordered the first runner delivering the canape nearly collided with another waiter who, holding a menu, didn't know I had already placed my order. When things settled and and the dust cleared, I found a small espresso cup in front of me. Mushroom bisque - a favorite of mine. I looked at it for a moment, the white foam, the latte color underneath. I smelled it, the aroma rich and earthy. I tasted it... but too much cream. Cream brings body and silkiness to a soup, but put one drop too many and at some unmeasured point the cream dampens the intensity of the theme ingredient. And dampened it was.
2. Fried tofu on seaweed salad? Perhaps it's because I grew up on the stuff, but I was hardly amused by this amuse-bouche. Imagine if you were served a square of peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich on white bread at the Ritz Carlton dining room.
3. I only recently began appreciating caviar (I hear that lady from Neiman Marcus calling me a snob again). It tastes and feels the way pearls look - smooth, silky, minerally. It's surprisingly versatile - serve it on salmon, oysters, potato blinis, use it as garnish on soups even. Here it was served on a brioche toast with a poached quail egg. The very slight crisp of the brioche and the creamy body of the egg went perfectly with the caviar, adding the warmth that caviar, served naked, can't deliver. I could've made an entire breakfast out of this.
4. Call me a purist, but I don't like sushi served at French or American restaurants. Don't get me wrong - I'm a huge sushi fan. But it's one thing to enjoy it in a proper sushi restaurant, and quite another in a Western restaurant serving haute cuisine, where the whole point is transformation of raw ingredients into something greater. There must be an emergent quality to the end product. You and I can both slice a piece of nice sashimi-grade tuna and it will taste just as good as it would if Thomas Keller himself sliced it. Which is why he once said that he loves preparing organ meats (offal) because they don't naturally taste good. It requires a tremendous amount of technique and creativity to soften, stretch, and pull the flavors so that something that doesn't taste so good tastes good - and that's the whole point of great cooking. So why was I served sashimi of big-eyed tuna on hearts of palm and daikon sprouts with a wasabi-soy dressing here at Masa's? It tasted good enough, but I have to question its purpose.
5. The crab salad was special. Lumps of chilled maine crab were served on fava beans, waterchestnuts, and croutons, and accented with two drops of chili oil. The flavors were light, a breeze carrying the cool coastal air of Maine in your mouth. The chili oil, an ingredient that caused me to raise an eyebrow at first, proved to be a clever and imaginative counterpoint to the crab. The variety of texture really made the dish fly. The soft meatiness of the crab, the firm density of the beans, the vibrant crunch of the waterchestnuts would have done well by themselves. But the tiny croutons that stayed crispy for the 30 seconds it took me to inhale the dish added a stunning quality of genius to the construction of the course.
6. The fish course was sturgeon on wilted spinach, raisins, cauliflowers, and madras curry. The fish was firm and moist, the quality of a ripe savory fruit. The raisins went surprisingly well, punctuating the unfocused run-on flavor that often characterize fish, no matter how well it's cooked. The spinach played its role dutifully and without surprise. The cauliflower added body. The curry was superfluous.
7. The service was, for the most part, excellent. Because I sat at the bar near the entrance, I was entertained not only by my bartender/waiter, but by the hostess also. As I put my fork down on the plate that once carried the sturgeon, the waiter asked if I would be okay with the foie gras course. I said no, I wouldn't like to eat the organs of tortured geese. He proudly brought me a bowl of agnolotti served with carrots and sweet English peas. With most vegetarian dishes, I like to sample the individual vegetables first to appreciate the full effect of each flavor. The sweet peas sang with the green flavors of Spring; the carrots were mute, utterly flavorless. The dish turned out to disappoint, especially since the sauce was simple beurre monte with an offensive amount of minced parsley, and the chef would've done better by serving me a bowl of those peas.
8. The squab was pleasant, as all 11 week old pigeons tend to be. It was served with spinach (didn't I just have that with the sturgeon? Were they having a special at Costco?), applewood bacon, shallot jus, and again, lots of parsley.
9. The Colorado lamb had a nice strong flavor - a bit stronger than I like, but still pleasant. The loin was served on spinach (definitely a sale at Costco) and root vegetables, finished with a little simple lamb jus. Perhaps I've dined out too many times, but the squab and the lamb were so expected. I was craving more revelations like the croutons in the crab salad. Croutons with crab! So clever.
10. Pineapple sorbet on coconut "noodles." A palette cleanser before the dessert course. I had a bite or two of the sorbet, but the "noodles" were left untouched. I didn't want more.
11. After the first bite of the dessert, I wanted more of the pineapple sorbet. Hell, I would've eaten the coconut "noodles" as well. I was served "lime wontons" over mangoes with a mint dressing and lemon churros. What a disaster of flavors. It tasted like Trix cereal except not as palatable. I ate a few bites and left it alone, not caring whether they'd be offended or not. No, actually, I wished that they would notice, and I imagined a heated argument among the chefs and the owner, one of them tasting one of the "wontons" for himself and spitting it out and another throwing his chefs hat down in protest. I imagined someone leaving, everyone not quite sure if he had quit just before he was fired. But instead a waiter strolled by and quietly carried the plate away without a peep.
12. The check arrived. I was anxious, but not at the price. I knew how much the dinner cost. This was an issue far more grave. It was that the check arrived without the petit-four cart, that dreaded cart. So I asked the waiter if there would be petit-fours (tacky, I know, but I really wanted petit-fours, but you know that by now). He grew a large smile, and the hostess hearing our conversation as she walked by grew one as well. With eyebrows raised, the waiter said that of course the petit-fours were arriving, and that in fact, Alex would be serving it. The hostess, as if playing the second voice in a fugue, raised her brows in similar fashion, nodded and said, yes, Alex WAS the best at it and would be serving me petit-fours. Was she really as good as they all said she was? Could this be the new and improved Masa's where they were actually generous with petit-fours? Alex finally arrived with the cart, this beautiful cart with tiny little cakes and chocolates and truffles and fancy lollipops. I wasn't sure, so I asked. Can I have this one and this one and this one AND this one? She didn't flinch. And then... this one and this one and this one and this one AND this one? She placed them all on the fancy little tray and smiled. I couldn't believe it. I ate them all quickly, afraid that surely someone would see that I'd been given too many petit-fours, would apologize for Alex as she's new and doesn't know the limit of four petit-fours per customer, would take them away from me, my little preciouses. Then something remarkable happened. The hostess came by and said that if there were any others I would like, she could prepare me a to-go box with whatever I wished. My jaw nearly unhinged. I leaned over and whispered if I could have five more of those delicious canalis. She leaned in herself as if still in the fugue and whispered that those were her favorites too. Then I told her about my last visit to Masa's and that I was grateful for her generosity. She laughed with genuine excitement at having done her job well. You could tell she felt good, but not as good as that guy in the black suit and untucked shirt, the one walking to his car with four canalis in a box and one in his mouth.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Saturday, May 07, 2005
A Good French Bistro: Bouchon
With the disappointment of Plouf still lingering on my tongue, I drove to Yountville with a friend, determined to get my mussels done right. I secured a table for two at Bouchon, Thomas Keller's "casual" french bistro just a block down from The French Laundry, where I knew I wouldn't be disappointed by the food.
And I wasn't (for the most part). The menu is printed on thin wax paper and wrapped crisply around your napkin. A long list of daily specials is written on several chalkboards, and everything sounded so appetizing that finally pinning down what to order was labor, but one of love... or at least of lust. We'll call it lovst. Lovst for food.
We finally opted to split a chilled Maine crab salad and their house special soup, French Onion, as starters. The crab salad was crisp and clean, the flavors - the crab, the citrus, the mache green - standing on their own before resolving to a major chord in your mouth. The soup was special, full and robust. The onion was well caramelized and created, along with a vibrant beef stock, a deep smoky yet sweet flavor. The cheese, however, was a bit heavy on top and I found it difficult to finish in pace with the broth.
My friend picked the wild mushroom crepe as an appropriate Sunday brunch selection at a French bistro on a sunny day in Napa Valley. The crepe was pleasant, although a bit salty in certain areas - undoubtedly the work of an intern whose unpracticed fingers haven't quite learned the very important craft of salting. I chose the mussels. I have to confess that I hesitated - gasped even - when I read the recipe prior to coming to the restaurant. It calls for mustard, a flavor I don't associate with Mussels, and one I don't like in general. But I'm glad I ordered it. The Maine mussels were small, perfectly cooked, and tasted like the sweet ocean where they happily grew plump on protein-rich fish poop. The broth was the best I had ever tasted. The mustard was barely perceptible, used more to color and thicken the broth and bind the other ingredients together, forming a rich dipping jus for the bread and frittes. Roasted garlic is used, and shallots, and white wine. Parsley and a generous measure of saffron too. It was the perfect bowl of mussels. I miss it a lot.
We ended with an order of profiteroles and a mint pot-de-creme. The profiteroles were magnificent, the dough crisp on the edges, the flavor creamy, with vanilla bean ice cream and Valrohna chocolate sauce ("you can leave the chocolate sauce gravy boat on the table") to complete the dish. I have to admit though, my friend Ann Kim makes them from the Bouchon cookbook and she's been able to successfully improve on it by creating larger profiteroles which results in a slightly spongier pastry and a more prominent egg flavor and reducing the ice cream to pastry ratio which results in a better balance of flavors, textures, and temperatures. I didn't care too much for the pot-de-creme - it tasted like toothpaste, although a high-quality all-natural one like Tom's of Maine. But my friend, who loves the herbal flavor of fresh natural mint leaves, enjoyed it completely.
It was all a very pleasant experience. The food, of course, was excellent. I never expected it to be revelatory the way it is at The French Laundry where one discovers what celery can really taste like with a little help, a little coaxing. Sitting there in a sun-drenched dining room with marble floors and brass rails and eating profiteroles, I forgot that I was in California, merely an hour away from the city, so close yet so far from Plouf. For a moment a flicker of rage flared up at the thought of Plouf, but was put out immediately and simply with a sip of good, strong French coffee.
And I wasn't (for the most part). The menu is printed on thin wax paper and wrapped crisply around your napkin. A long list of daily specials is written on several chalkboards, and everything sounded so appetizing that finally pinning down what to order was labor, but one of love... or at least of lust. We'll call it lovst. Lovst for food.
We finally opted to split a chilled Maine crab salad and their house special soup, French Onion, as starters. The crab salad was crisp and clean, the flavors - the crab, the citrus, the mache green - standing on their own before resolving to a major chord in your mouth. The soup was special, full and robust. The onion was well caramelized and created, along with a vibrant beef stock, a deep smoky yet sweet flavor. The cheese, however, was a bit heavy on top and I found it difficult to finish in pace with the broth.
My friend picked the wild mushroom crepe as an appropriate Sunday brunch selection at a French bistro on a sunny day in Napa Valley. The crepe was pleasant, although a bit salty in certain areas - undoubtedly the work of an intern whose unpracticed fingers haven't quite learned the very important craft of salting. I chose the mussels. I have to confess that I hesitated - gasped even - when I read the recipe prior to coming to the restaurant. It calls for mustard, a flavor I don't associate with Mussels, and one I don't like in general. But I'm glad I ordered it. The Maine mussels were small, perfectly cooked, and tasted like the sweet ocean where they happily grew plump on protein-rich fish poop. The broth was the best I had ever tasted. The mustard was barely perceptible, used more to color and thicken the broth and bind the other ingredients together, forming a rich dipping jus for the bread and frittes. Roasted garlic is used, and shallots, and white wine. Parsley and a generous measure of saffron too. It was the perfect bowl of mussels. I miss it a lot.
We ended with an order of profiteroles and a mint pot-de-creme. The profiteroles were magnificent, the dough crisp on the edges, the flavor creamy, with vanilla bean ice cream and Valrohna chocolate sauce ("you can leave the chocolate sauce gravy boat on the table") to complete the dish. I have to admit though, my friend Ann Kim makes them from the Bouchon cookbook and she's been able to successfully improve on it by creating larger profiteroles which results in a slightly spongier pastry and a more prominent egg flavor and reducing the ice cream to pastry ratio which results in a better balance of flavors, textures, and temperatures. I didn't care too much for the pot-de-creme - it tasted like toothpaste, although a high-quality all-natural one like Tom's of Maine. But my friend, who loves the herbal flavor of fresh natural mint leaves, enjoyed it completely.
It was all a very pleasant experience. The food, of course, was excellent. I never expected it to be revelatory the way it is at The French Laundry where one discovers what celery can really taste like with a little help, a little coaxing. Sitting there in a sun-drenched dining room with marble floors and brass rails and eating profiteroles, I forgot that I was in California, merely an hour away from the city, so close yet so far from Plouf. For a moment a flicker of rage flared up at the thought of Plouf, but was put out immediately and simply with a sip of good, strong French coffee.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
A Bad French Bistro: Plouf
I was just twenty one years old, fresh out of college, and eating frozen pizzas and taquitos from Costco when a friend invited a group of us to dine at Plouf. It would be my first "nice restaurant" experience and I felt like a grown-up. I was mesmerized by the menu - each item read like a recipe in haiku. Sauteed Pacific Halibut, braised endives, in a saffron sauce. This wasn't Sizzlers, and it certainly wasn't the dormitory dining hall. No, it was something entirely new and satisfying. Dining al fresco in downtown on a brisk San Francisco Summer night while a waiter with a french accent poured water into my glass made me feel sophisticated, cosmopolitan. Even now, the memory elicits a sigh.
So what the hell happened? On my most recent visit, the place was bankrupt in every department. I love energetic spaces. Crowded airports, malls, downtowns - even crowded restaurants (read my entry on Town Hall). But pair it with painfully slow service and the once boisterous murmurs of the crowd begin to press in on you and choke out the fun. Have to ask repeatedly for water, the check, anything, and you begin to suspect that the restaurant is more concerned about generating more revenue regardless of the limited number of pans on the burners than choreographing energy. Belden Lane has the potential to be charming and European - in fact, it once was - but as its popularity has grown the restaurants have seized on the opportunity as if to take revenge for the bleeding during the dot-com bust years by packing tables so tightly outside that you can't tell where one restaurant ends and where another begins. So you find yourself not in Europe, but in Las Vegas.
Unfortunately, the quality of the food didn't help the situation. As an appetizer my guest and I split their house specialty: mussels, marniere in this case. The broth was warm vinegar (never cook with a wine you wouldn't drink) and the mussels were overcooked (always remove from heat just after the shells open). My friend's scallops over corn risotto was standard, perhaps even fine except for the coarsness of the risotto, the grains crumbling between my teeth. I ordered baked lobster with tomato salad and wild mushroom flan. The uneasy look of the waiter when I read it from the menu should have warned me. The lobster was undercooked and came off the shell in shreds (my guess is that they used frozen lobsters), and the flan was lacking any hint of mushroom. It had the flavor of pure cream and the texture of raw fat - and under normal circumstances the words "cream" and "fat" in a single sentence would cause me to swoon with delight, but this time the swooning arose from nausea.
Still... a restaurant that made Michael Bauer's Bay Area 100 as recently as this past year couldn't be entirely bad. The molten chocolate cake with vanilla bean ice cream - a sure fire crowd pleaser any where - would certainly salvage the meal! While we spent 20 minutes waiting for our mussels and about 30 for our entrees, two suspicious minutes passed before the "molten" cake appeared. The cake was pasty and only barely warm, the flavor substandard as if the quality of the chocolate - the chief matter of importance - never registered on the pastry chef's mind. The ice cream was more like icy whipped cream, the kind you buy in a plastic container in the freezer aisle of your local Safeway, except less palatable. More on what I think of Michael Bauer in a later entry.
I'm disappointed by the restaurateurs who also own a handful of incredible french bistros in the city, including Le Suite and Chez Papa. This will be the last time I return to Plouf, I regret to say. I recommend you also avoid it, unless you like the Stinking Rose and Bucca di Beppo and other restaurants that the crowds patronize because they confuse popularity for excellence.
So what the hell happened? On my most recent visit, the place was bankrupt in every department. I love energetic spaces. Crowded airports, malls, downtowns - even crowded restaurants (read my entry on Town Hall). But pair it with painfully slow service and the once boisterous murmurs of the crowd begin to press in on you and choke out the fun. Have to ask repeatedly for water, the check, anything, and you begin to suspect that the restaurant is more concerned about generating more revenue regardless of the limited number of pans on the burners than choreographing energy. Belden Lane has the potential to be charming and European - in fact, it once was - but as its popularity has grown the restaurants have seized on the opportunity as if to take revenge for the bleeding during the dot-com bust years by packing tables so tightly outside that you can't tell where one restaurant ends and where another begins. So you find yourself not in Europe, but in Las Vegas.
Unfortunately, the quality of the food didn't help the situation. As an appetizer my guest and I split their house specialty: mussels, marniere in this case. The broth was warm vinegar (never cook with a wine you wouldn't drink) and the mussels were overcooked (always remove from heat just after the shells open). My friend's scallops over corn risotto was standard, perhaps even fine except for the coarsness of the risotto, the grains crumbling between my teeth. I ordered baked lobster with tomato salad and wild mushroom flan. The uneasy look of the waiter when I read it from the menu should have warned me. The lobster was undercooked and came off the shell in shreds (my guess is that they used frozen lobsters), and the flan was lacking any hint of mushroom. It had the flavor of pure cream and the texture of raw fat - and under normal circumstances the words "cream" and "fat" in a single sentence would cause me to swoon with delight, but this time the swooning arose from nausea.
Still... a restaurant that made Michael Bauer's Bay Area 100 as recently as this past year couldn't be entirely bad. The molten chocolate cake with vanilla bean ice cream - a sure fire crowd pleaser any where - would certainly salvage the meal! While we spent 20 minutes waiting for our mussels and about 30 for our entrees, two suspicious minutes passed before the "molten" cake appeared. The cake was pasty and only barely warm, the flavor substandard as if the quality of the chocolate - the chief matter of importance - never registered on the pastry chef's mind. The ice cream was more like icy whipped cream, the kind you buy in a plastic container in the freezer aisle of your local Safeway, except less palatable. More on what I think of Michael Bauer in a later entry.
I'm disappointed by the restaurateurs who also own a handful of incredible french bistros in the city, including Le Suite and Chez Papa. This will be the last time I return to Plouf, I regret to say. I recommend you also avoid it, unless you like the Stinking Rose and Bucca di Beppo and other restaurants that the crowds patronize because they confuse popularity for excellence.
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