I have no words to describe this dinner, this decadence, this picnic-table extravagance, a prix-fixe offering of three courses so French that even the French stopped making them.
Every course is a new adventure, a chance to try something very old and new (to me).
The Quenelle de Brochet is a dense dumpling, a meatball of fish mousse in a chenille sauce that sings.
Pommes Soufflees Caviar Rouge a la Creme: Carve out a clot of crème fraiche, cram into the crevice of an impossibly thin potato cigar, and relish the roe.
The mains succeed the pommes soufllees, a progression from luminous light to something deep and grounded. The Duck Magret is meaty and dark, red rounds of juice-jets and game. There are no words to describe the seasoned skin with the sweet and tart dark of the cherry sauce.
Les Delices "Veau d'Or" Sauce Moutarde speak strongly, a statement of the chef. Three organs served side-by-side, all absolute perfection. The kidney is supple and springy, the brightest of the bunch, with earthy undertones and only the slightest silt. The liver, too, retains a supple texture with barely any iron and delivers a finish that is sensationally smooth. The sweetbreads are the most surprising, soft and creamy with a sweetness that slides and glides like velvet.
Next comes an ethereal Ile Flottante. Meringue forms a fluffy cloud dotted with caramel, soaked with clinging creme anglaise, to saturate the senses before dissolving into effortless air.
The Nougat Glace a la Rhubarbe is a surprise, a fantastic, flaky frozen cream encasing nutty specks, covered in tangy-sweet rhubarb chunks.
They gift us a deep-fried twist of a Beignet, which I wish they hadn't done. The fry wasn't fresh, and the dough had soaked far more oil than it should.
Strangely unsatisfying finale aside, the meal is truly transcendent. I hate to end on a negative note as it in no way negates this spectacular menu, but every rose has its thorns, and if this is the worst of it, I would eat fifty more to earn another meal like this.








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