Garlic and Sapphires (7 page)

RESTAURANTS

BEING A NEW RESTAURANT CRITIC in town has its drawbacks: there are a lot of restaurants I haven't yet eaten in. But it also has its advantages: there are a lot of restaurants where I am still not recognized. In most places I am just another person who has reserved weeks in advance, and I still have to wait as more important people are waltzed into the dining room. I watch longingly as they are presented with the chef's special dishes, and then I turn and order from the menu just like everybody else.

One of my first interests was to review the cooking of Sylvain Portay, who became chef at Le Cirque late last year. Over the course of five months I ate five meals at the restaurant; it was not until the fourth that the owner, Sirio Maccioni, figured out who I was. When I was discovered, the change was startling. Everything improved: the seating, the service, the size of the portions. We had already reached dessert, but our little plate of petit fours was whisked away to be replaced by a larger, more ostentatious one. An avalanche of sweets descended upon the table, and I was fascinated to note that the raspberries on the new desserts were three times the size of those on the old ones.

Food is important, and Mr. Portay is exceptionally talented. But nobody goes to Le Cirque just to eat. People go for the experience of being in a great restaurant. Sometimes they get it; sometimes they don't. It all depends on who they are.

DINNER AS THE UNKNOWN DINER

“Do you have a reservation?”

This is said so challengingly I instantly feel as if I am an intruder who has wandered into the wrong restaurant. But I nod meekly and give my guest's name. And I am sent to wait in the bar.

And there we sit for half an hour, two women drinking glasses of expensive water. Finally we are led to a table in the smoking section, where we had specifically requested not to be seated. Asked if there is, perhaps, another table, the captain merely gestures at the occupied tables and produces a little shrug.

There is no need to ask for the wine list; there it is, perched right next to me on the banquette where the waiters shove the menus. Every few minutes another waiter comes to fling his used menus in my direction. I don't mind, because I am busy with the wine list, but I have only got to page 3 before the captain reappears.

“I need that wine list,” he says peremptorily, holding out his hand. I surrender, and it is 20 minutes before it returns. (Women and wine are an uncomfortable mix at Le Cirque; at a subsequent meal the captain insists that he has only half bottles of the Riesling I've just ordered. When I prove that he's mistaken, he glares at me.)

Still, persistence is rewarded. The list is large and good, and has many rewards for the patient reader. Given a little time, I unearth a delicious 1985 Chambolle-Musigny for $46.

We sip our wine and listen to what is going on at the tables around us. This is easy; those of us seated around the edges of the room have absolutely no privacy. While the captain tells our neighbors about Mr. Portay's $90 dégustation menu (“You know he was the sous-chef of Alain Ducasse at Le Louis XV in Monte Carlo”), we listen eagerly. But ordering it, we are to discover, is not smart.

It is the middle of June, and our “seasonal menu” turns out to be a lot of brown food. The vegetables are mainly carrots, turnips and radishes, and we have potatoes in three out of five courses. Still, the first course, sautéed foie gras with white peaches, is so good that the memory of it carries us through most of the meal. The sweet, soft fruit is a brilliant pairing with the rich meat.

I like the next course, too, curried tuna tartare. Encircling the silky chopped fish, which has just the perfect touch of spice, is a lovely mosaic of radish slices. But would a really great restaurant send out these pale and flabby pieces of “toast”?

We are considering this when the captain appears and informs us that a table has opened up and we will be permitted to leave the smoke zone. The move should make me happy, but when the busboy trails us to our new table, shoves our crumpled old napkins into our hands and dumps our used glasses onto the table, I can't help feeling disgruntled.

Then the parade of brown food begins. First halibut with mushrooms on soggy rounds of potatoes. Atop the fish, a single sprig of chervil waves forlornly, the lone spot of green. I am unimpressed with the dish, but I am baffled when the chef follows it with more fish and potatoes. Potato-wrapped black bass in Barolo sauce has been a standard at Le Cirque since Daniel Boulud's days; in Mr. Portay's hands it is as good as ever, the fish soft and tender inside its crisp coat, the sauce a rounded complement. Unfortunately, this wonderful fish only emphasizes how dull the previous one was.

Next there is tenderloin of lamb on a bed of pureed potatoes. It is a fine dish, if not particularly exciting, but it is certainly not the thing you're dying to eat in the first hot weather.

Desserts don't make any concessions to summer either. The chocolate soufflé cake with whipped cream is excellent, and I like the latte cotto, a sort of light lemon custard served with marinated berries. But watching the people at the next table tucking into tarts filled with summer fruits, and gorgeous sorbets and crème brûlée sheltered beneath an enormous dome of spun sugar, I feel cheated.

The food hasn't been bad, and there was certainly a lot of it. Still, as I pay the bill I find myself wishing that when the maître d' asked if I had a reservation, I had just said no and left.

 

 

DINNER AS A MOST FAVORED PATRON

“The King of Spain is waiting in the bar, but your table is ready,” says Mr. Maccioni, sweeping us majestically past the waiting masses. Behind us a bejeweled older woman whines, “We've been waiting a half-hour,” but nobody pays her any mind. Mr. Maccioni smiles down at us. “Let me get you some Champagne,” he says as one of his assistants rushes up with a sparkling pair of flutes.

Who wouldn't be charmed? He has not even checked the book to see if we have reserved (in fact we have, but we are 20 minutes early). My date and I suddenly feel chic, suave and important. And that's before we see that there is a luxurious table for four, a little sea of space in this crowded room, waiting for the two of us.

“We are in your hands tonight,” I say. Mr. Maccioni nods happily and goes off to do his magic. A young sommelier appears (“His parents run a wonderful restaurant in Italy,” Mr. Maccioni whispers before drifting off) and begs us to let him introduce us to a few of his favorite wines.

The first course comes; it is a luxurious layering of scallops and truffles nestled inside a little dome of pastry. This is not a new dish—it was on the menu before the arrival of Mr. Portay last October—but no chef has ever done it better.

It is followed by more truffles, white ones this time, shaved over an absolutely extraordinary risotto. Risotto is a balancing act that requires perfect timing; there is just one perfect moment when the rice has dissolved into creaminess but you can still bite into each single grain. Few French chefs can make great risotto, but Mr. Portay manages with Italian finesse.

Next there is lobster, intertwined with chanterelles, artichokes and tiny pearl onions. This dish is so trem blingly delicate, so filled with flavor, I feel as if I have never really tasted lobster before. It is followed by turbot, a fine, firm white fish, simply surrounded with zucchini, turnips and red peppers.

Now the captain is coming to the table with tiny glasses of golden sauternes. Is there foie gras in our future? Yes, here comes a slim slice, simply sautéed. Combined with the sweet satiny wine, each bite is an essay on richness. Under the heady influence of the unctuous foie gras, I find myself thinking of all the spectacular dishes I have eaten here over the past months.

One night there was lobster and rosemary risotto, an unlikely combination that really shouldn't work. But the rosemary was just a savory hint, a suggestion of the forest that nudged the lobster into tasting more of the sea. Another night there was jarret de veau, the whole shank of veal carried triumphantly into the dining room before being carved into succulent slices. Sprinkled with cracked pepper and sea salt, it had the true elegance of simplicity.

Mr. Portay does a fine job with the standards, too. His bouillabaisse was practically perfect, a big bowl of intense stock filled with aromatic seafood and served with a powerful rouille. And nobody makes a prettier chicken salad, which came to the table looking like a gift-wrapped package.

When the sommelier appears with the red wine, a mouth-filling Brunello di Montalcino, we discover that it is the perfect choice for venison. Surrounded by chestnuts, apples, a fruity puree of squash, the meat is so delicious that I find myself eating as if it is the first course. When I look down, I realize that I have eaten everything, even the single aromatic grape that decorated the plate.

But there is still dessert. They bring six if you don't count the plate of pastries with its gorgeous ribbon of pulled sugar. Jacques Torres, the pastry chef, likes to play with food, and some of his desserts are sublimely silly; who could resist a miniature chocolate stove holding tiny pots of sauces to pour over a napoleon? Still, my favorite is apple sorbet, the icy essence of fall fruit crowned with a halo of crisped apple rings.

We order espresso. Tiny cups filled with intense little puddles of coffee appear. Each sip takes your breath away; it is the perfect ending to the perfect autumn meal.

I walk reluctantly out into the cool evening air, sorry to leave this fabulous circus. Life in the real world has never been this good.