[Pink Pig Time Machine by Wilfrid: September 22, 2016]
Diverting my attention briefly from my stomach, I did some exhibition-going the next day, and stumbled serendipitously across a survey of the Dreyfus affair at the Musee d'Art et d'Histoire du Judaisme in the Marais, replete with contemporary photographs. Then Cubism and Surrealism at the Pomidou.
Lunch was in an old dining room known as Machon d'Henri, packed with regulars; dinner at the rather more ambitious Chez Michel, just a short walk from Le Gard du Nord. It had an acclaimed young chef, who turned out--very audibly--to be a screamer in the kitchen. Here's what I wrote:
Convulsively hungry by now, as you can imagine, I piled onto the subway armed with the correct address for Machon d'Henri, not far from my dinner destination the previous evening. This place needed a recommendation, because it is one of maybe fifteen little restaurants on the same narrow street in St Germain-des-Pres. Little more than a split-level dining room (and a group of very satisfied customers were wining the day away in the upper section), the Machon offers a brief carte and a more extensive blackboard listing of specials. Annoyingly, I overlooked a seven-hour-cooked lamb dish with prunes, and ordered a decent lapin a la moutarde, served with some large and sternly plained boiled potatoes. To guard against pangs, I preceded this with a huge plate of andouille du pays. Miguel, among others, will be keen to learn that this is a cold slicing sausage structured much like an andouille. Pink, smoky, very fatty, served with crisp bread and a pat of butter. Also a jar of gherkins with wooden tongues - a condiment I had seen several times on the trip already. It is useful as an indicator that one has ordered some kind of cold pig again.
As has been said, nothing smart or fancy about this place, but honest food and a nice atmosphere.
My "light" lunch only served to stimulate my appetite for dinner, which was to be at Chez Michel, located most unfashionably near the Gare du Nord (and therefore my hotel). Of all the restaurants on this trip, Chez Michel was the most precious and self-impressed; it was the only reservation which required advance confirmation. It was also the only restaurant where the staff (young and attractive, to be frank) eschewed any kind of traditional uniform, whether the bow-ties of L'Ambassade or the honest aprons of Chez Henri. In fact, they would not have looked out of place at the Fatty Crab.
Needless to say, it was also the worst service and most hassled, least relaxing meal of the week, the restaurant being directed - it seemed - by the young chef, Thierry Breton, yelling at his staff from the kitchen. Not that the food was bad.
A pretty little restaurant with a small terrace, Chez Michel pays homage to the food of Brittany. The diner is welcomed with a little bowl of petoncles, accompanied by a light, mustardy mayonnaise and attendant pins. I started with an aperitif of the region, a Cedron Rose - pink, sparkling and fruity. I thought I should eat some Breton lobster, so I ordered the "tartare" as an appetizer. It wasn't. By which I mean the lobster was fully cooked, but served cold as a salad, the whole thing sitting in a puddle of cool, tomatoey broth, which I didn't much like. The lobster was fine, but nothing remarkable.
My predilection for grouse trumped regional interest for the entree; the chef imports Scottish grouse and serves half a bird, appropriately rare - yet mahogany brown in color - stuffed with a big slice of fresh foie gras. Not a bad combination, and accompanied by an excellent blackcurrant sauce: not to sweet or too sharp. Most restaurants which serve grouse serve a whole bird to each customer; with the addition of foie gras, this was unnecessary. It was a very rich dish.
My server with the Fatty Crab hairdo paused from her furious scuttling about the restaurant to set a massive slab of rock on my table, which appeared to be the restaurant's cheese selection. I asked what the cheeses were, and she laughed gaily, flapped her hands to indicate ignorance, and sped away. Whether this was an individual cheese course or a communal board I'll never know, but I did my best to make a dent in it. There was a lovely flat disk, probably of ewe's milk cheese, but its name is lost to history.
The young Cote-de-Brouilly was correct, and a glass of prune eau de vie possibly de trop. I retired to a cafe to watch the end of the France/Italy game over a chilled bock.
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