Cultured Café Chloe – San Diego

When I went to France I fell in love with the food, the wine, the sights, the sounds, the sophistication, and especially the people. Barely an hour in Paris and I was already scouting out my dream-chateau overlooking the Seine.

When in France, I spoke French. I spoke terribly but fluently, butchering the beautiful syllables of their beloved language, but my efforts didn't go unnoticed. My efforts were praised by many, lauded by all, and I returned to the US raving that I wanted to spend the rest of life in a cafe with any and all of these amazing people.

My friends did not agree. Those who had been remarked on the snooty, standoffish, nose-in-the-air Parisians who preferred not to acknowledge their presence, and those who had not been made it clear that they expected to be met with disdain for the tacky American tourists they were, the loud and proud as foreign affront to a country that prides itself in hushed refinement.

I want to say that the staff at Cafe Chloe were the people I met in France, not the people my friends describe, but I think I would have believed my friends if I didn't know better myself. Mon ami and I were completely ignored for at least 5 minutes upon entering and spent quite some time trying to get our orders in and the check out.

But all was worth enduring for the adorable alcove in which we were seated, a cozy little corner crook, looking down at the rest of the restaurant. And what experience could be more authentically French than sitting in a cafe surrounded by glossy gray scale photos featuring artful nudity?

The food was as beautiful as the seating, with all the togetherness and subtle beauty of a classic bistro-cafe. The Mushroom & Bleu D'auvergne Tarte was a seamless blend of soft, juicy mushrooms ensconced in a boldly balanced bleu. So smooth that you don't know where one leaves off and the other one starts, all on firmly flaky, crusty canvas. All the pastels of the entire Musee d'Orsay couldn't blend a scenery so seamless.

Impressionism was big in France, but the classics also prevail. And by classic I don't mean an overpriced piece of scaffolding, I mean the artistes who scribe, like Edmond Rostand and Victor Hugo. The Steak Frites are one such timeless classic. The herb-butter-infused, picture-perfect medium rare juices will roll off your tongue smoother than poetry from Cyrano de Bergerac.

But unlike the miserably bittersweet conclusion of Les Miserables, there was nothing bitter about the Pot de Creme that marked the end of my meal. Made of sugar and spice and everything nice, this dense, creamy concoction was le fin to le perfect meal.

Initial snobbery aside, I am in pure, true, unadulterated, shot-through-the-heart-by-cupid's-bow love with all that is French, and Cafe Chloe is no exception. The art, the literature, the history, everything about this culture pushes the boundaries of all that is beautiful and breathtaking, and Cafe Chloe was all those things...in edible form.