I Have A New Love

Last night, my friend Catherine took me to a wonderful restaurant called Bistro de Coin near her place in Dupont Circle. We walk in and it is big and noisy, full of people eating wondrous looking dishes and listening to funky music. The restaurant had all the ear-marks of a great French place, with the waiters who either spoke or were French, the music that didn't match the setting, and a disco ball high up on the ceiling.

We looked over the menu and I found that I had a problem. A wonderful problem. A problem that I very rarely have in a restaurant. I couldn't decide what to get. We finally settled on Moules Frites to start (mussels and fries), followed by Canarde (duck) for Catherine and Blanquette de Veau (a kind of veal stew) for me.

The mussels were divine, along with some of the best fries I've ever had. Each mussel was big, plump, practically falling out of the shell. There was fresh French bread, to be used to dip into the remaining broth from the mussels. The fries were consumed, along with our glasses of wine, and our own bottle of water. (I mention this because of a phenomenon in American restaurants, one that I despise. The little man who walks around the dining room, pouring a quarter or a half an inch of water into your already full glass of water. I hate this man. Nothing personal, but GO AWAY. My water is fine without your help.)

Then came the main dishes. They were beautifully prepared. Catherine's tender slices of duck are beautifully arranged around a salad, and my Blanquette....well....words fail. Even now I look at this dish and I want to cry. I can smell its goodness, its pearl onions and button mushrooms, its shallots in their delicate cream sauce. Its chunks of the most incredible veal I have ever tasted. I think I said "wow" after ever bite of this heavenly concoction. When we were finally done, and I had half of mine still on the plate because I was so stuffed, we motioned to the waitress. She had stayed away all through our meal, unlike American waiters who insist on disturbing you to ask "is everything alright? to your liking?"

She came to our table and leaned down to hear me tell her that this was seriously the best French food that I'd ever had, and I grew up in France. I asked her to go in the back and tell who ever was responsible for this masterpiece that they had made someone very very happy that day. I was almost ready to cry. She laughed, a nice big genuine laugh, to indicate that she too appreciated someone who could truly love their food that much.

They kindly boxed up the remainder of my meal, which was consumed this morning at the airport. It fortified me against a day of cramped airplanes and lousy food. The memory of it alone comforts me, though I dearly long for more. Thankfully my copy of Anthony Bourdain's Les Halles Cookbook has a recipe for Blanquette de Veau in it with a picture that looks faintly similar to what I ate. Maybe with some luck (and Tony's help) I'll be able to touch upon such perfection again.



Cheers! (and here's to the cooks at Le Bistro de Coin!)