by Ruth Reichl
Michael and I squeezed into the small space that had been allotted to us. Our knees touched. “I love this about New York,” Lorna continued, gesturing around the warm, dark room. “An hour ago I was chasing drug dealers off my stoop so I could get out the door of my apartment. Then I walk up Avenue C, through streets reeking of urine, climb into the clatter of the subway, and fifteen minutes later I emerge into”—she pointed at a woman across the room whose low-cut black dress formed the perfect backdrop for an ostentatious diamond necklace—“all this.”
As she said it, the woman got up and trudged resolutely toward us. She was a redhead too, but one of the soignée ones; she looked as if her time was evenly divided between her beautician and her personal trainer.
“I adore your coat,” she said, reaching out to pet the silk. “Did you get it in China?”
“No,” I said, “a thrift shop on Thompson Street.”
“Oh,” said the woman, taking a disappointed step back. “Too bad. I’m going to Hong Kong next week and I thought you might know someplace there that sells vintage clothing.”
She turned to retreat to her seat just as a waiter arrived with a little silver tray. “These gougères,” she said as she walked off, “are simply divine.” With that she stretched out her arm and scooped one up as if we were all guests at a cocktail party.
“Hey!” said the waiter, startled.
“Those were ours!” said Jules.
“Do strangers always talk to you?” asked Lorna.
“They talk to Brenda,” I said. And then I didn’t say anything else because I had taken a bite of one of the little puffs and I was concentrating on the way they simply evaporated into hot, cheesy air when my mouth closed over them.
Gougères
1 cup water
¼ pound (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter
1½ teaspoons salt
1½ cups all-purpose flour
5 eggs
1 cup diced Gruyère cheese
Pepper to taste
½ cup grated Gruyère cheese
Preheat the oven to 375°F.
Combine the water, butter and a teaspoon of the salt in a saucepan and bring to a boil, stirring until butter melts. Remove the pan from the heat, let cool slightly, stir in the flour, and mix well. Return the pan to the heat and stir with a wooden spoon over high heat until the mixture comes away from the sides of the pan. Remove from the heat.
Stir in the eggs, one at a time until well combined. Add the diced cheese, the remaining ½ teaspoon salt, and pepper, stirring well.
Drop the dough by rounded tablespoons onto a well-buttered baking pan. Smooth the top and sides of each gougère with a knife, and sprinkle with the grated cheese.
Bake in batches for 25 minutes, or until puffed and golden. Serve immediately.
Makes 8 cocktail servings
We waited in the bar for a long time. We didn’t mind; we were enjoying ourselves, looking at all the rich people in the room while an endless array of tidbits kept us busy. When our table was finally ready, the maître d’ galloped us back across the bar, through the back door into the nether reaches of the dining room. The chatter of diners swelled at the sight of us, rising until it was a wave passing through the restaurant. Then it died, snuffed out by the overwhelming sense of well-being that hovered in the air.
One couple was frankly watching us, making no attempt to disguise their interest. The woman had thick white hair, and her patrician face, completely devoid of makeup, was soft and pretty despite the wrinkles. Her eyes moved slowly around our group and then settled on me and stayed there. Embarrassed, I picked up one of the tiny spring rolls the waiter had just set on the table and took a bite.
The crunch was so loud I jumped; it was almost supernaturally crisp. Then the crab inside came spilling out and I closed my eyes, allowing the sensuous flavors to permeate my body. When I opened them I found that the white-haired woman was still watching. I tossed my head and threw her a big smile. She colored and turned away.
“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice low as I went into my spiel. This was private. “Lorna, here are the ground rules. Order as much as you can eat, the more the better. You can have anything you want so long as it’s different from what other people are ordering; no duplicates. If you see something that interests you, claim it quickly. The first one who calls it gets it, and I don’t negotiate food fights. Any questions?”
“Yes,” she said. “What do you eat?”
“Whatever everyone else doesn’t want. But I get to taste your food.”
“So I can have the peekytoe crab salad,” she said.
“All yours,” I said.
“I wanted that,” said Jules.
“Too late,” said Lorna.
“Okay, then I claim the oyster velouté,” he said.
“Lobster salad’s mine,” said Michael quickly.
Good, I thought, that leaves the linguine with truffles for me.
“Now what about main courses,” I asked. And as I said it the white-haired woman leaned over. “Please excuse my interruption,” she began. Her voice was quite high, with an English accent that sounded more pretentious than authentic. “But you should not miss the short ribs; they’re exquisite!”
“Muriel!” said her husband, “please!”
“No, really,” I said in my Brenda voice, “we are grateful for your help. Do you have any other suggestions?”
“Yes,” she said reverently, “foie gras with quince.”
“Please excuse my wife,” said the man formally. His lips were tight, his face as stiff as a sheet of cardboard, and he held his hands out as if he were offering a benediction. “She can’t help herself. Muriel doesn’t understand that people want their privacy even in public places.” He seemed genuinely embarrassed.
“It is quite obvious that these are people who appreciate food,” Muriel said earnestly, “and they probably don’t get to eat in places like this very often.” And then, realizing what she had implied, she broke off. Her white hair made her red face even more so. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted, “I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay,” I said, delighted by all this. Brenda’s low voice was gentle. “You’re absolutely right. This is a once in a lifetime experience for us, and we wouldn’t want to blow it. Please go on.”
She lifted her chin and threw her husband a small, triumphant look. “Just one teensy little suggestion. The wine-poached pear with verbena ice cream. It’s very beautiful and you won’t find that anyplace else!” With great dignity she lifted her goblet and saluted us with her wine.
“Brenda, Brenda, Brenda,” said Jules, shaking his head. His lips twitched. “I’d like to get to know you better.”
“Me too,” said Michael, and once again I felt that odd little twinge.
But then the first courses were there, and I was tasting the velouté of oysters, holding it in my mouth so I could savor the smooth, rich feel of the liquid as I picked out the flavors, first the oyster itself, then a hint of lemongrass. I felt the sea urchin slide beneath my tongue, as subtle and sneaky as the glow of a buttercup under your chin, and then admired the pop of the caviar as it was crushed beneath my teeth. It was wonderful soup, as if the chef were dreaming of the sea.
I tasted the linguine, fragile ribbons as delicate as butterfly wings with curls of white truffle skittering between them. “More truffle?” the waiter said, and then he was showering more of the pungent white shavings onto my plate.
“For Brenda,” murmured Michael, “endless truffles. Maybe you should dye your hair.”
I laughed, as if the idea was ridiculous, but I was beginning to understand that Brenda’s world was a gentler place than mine: people wished her well.
When the civet de lièvre, hare stew with wine and onions, arrived it had a flavor so funky and complicated that I tasted it and tasted it again, wondering whether a New York chef would use the traditional blood to thicken the sauce. It had an elusive fermented flavor that I could not figure out.
“Blue cheese?” I guessed, knowing that was not quite right. The waiter must have been watching, because he leaned over conspiratorially and whispered “Chocolate” in my ear.
“Chocolate?” I asked.
“Oui,” he said. “Chocolat.” He pronounced it the French way. And then he winked.
The wine contributed its own magic to the evening. The sommelier suggested the Marcassin Upper Barn, Gauer Vineyard and I said, yes, yes, anything, and the wine almost knocked me out with its richness. When he suggested that we follow it with an ’88 Gazin, I knew I could trust him. And I could. The wine was plummy and delicious, perfect with the wild hare and the short ribs, which were everything that Muriel had promised.
Muriel and her husband were still there, lingering over coffee, as we left. Daniel Boulud was standing at the table, cozily talking to them in the special half French-half English language that was all his own. Muriel interrupted him to ask, “Did you have a good dinner, my dear?” as we passed.
The chef turned to look at us, and I saw how attractive he was in his chic little glasses. “Oh yes,” I said, “a wonderful meal. A meal to remember. Thank you so much.” And then, mischievously, I turned to Daniel and said, “You should hire this woman to oversee first-time customers. She made sure that we ordered all the best dishes. This was truly a four-star meal.”
“Brenda,” said Michael when we were in the taxi. He took my hand. “Eating with you is an experience.”
I stroked his hand, smiling in the dark. I felt good, and I knew that it was not because of the wine or the good company or the wonderful food we’d just been served. I was experiencing the opposite of that horrid feeling you get when you know that you are behaving badly but feel helpless to stop it.
Brenda was my best self, the person I’ve always wanted to be. She was generous and funny, optimistic and smart. She was kind. Brenda, I imagined, would know how to be nice to Myron. But would they ever get the chance to meet? Now that I had discovered Brenda, I had a new dilemma: I hoped that finding the Brenda inside me would not always require a wig.
RESTAURANTS
by Ruth Reichl
A GREAT RESTAURANT is like a race-horse: it may take a while to discover its style, but once it does the ride is exhilarating.
Daniel, a year and a half into the race, has finally hit its stride.
“Four stars?” asks a friend one morning. It is 8 A.M., and he is calling to say thank you for the dinner we finished a mere seven hours earlier.
“I have never had a better dinner,” he says, dreamily recalling ethereal linguine topped with slender shavings of white truffle. “If I concentrate,” he adds, “I can still smell the truffles and feel those noodles dissolving in my mouth like gossamer ribbons. What a meal!”
“Can’t we talk later?” I ask crossly. But he is busy remembering a velouté filled with plump caviar-topped oysters, butter-drenched leeks and sea urchin roe. The voluptuous flavors were rich and decadent, so that the hint of lemongrass in the cream soup combined with the bracing taste of caviar to deliver a gentle shock. “It was perfect!” my friend insists. “Aren’t you going to give them four stars?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I have to go back a few more times.”
“But was there anything wrong with the meal?” he wants to know. I pull the covers over my head and think for a moment. I hope he’ll hang up. No such luck.
“They were nice to me when I walked in the door,” he says, “and it was abundantly clear that I was not one of their regular customers. All my clothes put together did not cost as much as one of those custom-made shirts the other men were wearing. And although neither of us had a single piece of jewelry, the hostess could not have been more welcoming.”
“Didn’t you think the bar we waited in was awfully small and crowded?” I ask. “Our knees were hitting those of the people next to us. I thought it was uncomfortable.”
“O.K.,” he admits, “it was small. But they made up for it by bringing out that plate of lovely little cheese puffs.”
“They’re called gougères,” I can’t resist saying.
“Whatever,” he says. “They were delicious. And we only had to wait seven minutes for our table. I timed it.”
“But didn’t you think the dining room was awfully noisy?” I persist grumpily.
He has to concede the point; the dining room was crowded, and noisier than it should have been. “On the other hand,” he reminds me, “you said you thought the flowers were fabulous.”
They were. The drama of the flower arrangements dominates the restaurant, transforming a bland beige room into a place with personality. There are no windows, but the flowers announce the seasons and set the stage for the food with designs so spectacular you find yourself rushing in the door to look at them.
“And you liked the service,” he prods. He is right about that, too: the service that night was smooth and sweet, more like that in a stately mansion than a large restaurant. It was formal, thoughtful and not at all stuffy. The waiter passed the amuses gueules as if he were serving at a dinner party, urging us to eat the tiny crab spring rolls and mushroom toasts while they were still hot. One day at lunch, two Brazilian runners were seated at the next table. Before they had finished their meal, the waiter had not only offered tips for tourists in New York, but also convinced them that Daniel would be the perfect place to carbo-load before the marathon; the chef, he assured them, would be happy to create some special pasta dishes.
“Remember the nine-herb ravioli?” my friend asks now. Who could forget it? The floppy squares of pasta were filled with a bright green puree of herbs and painted with a vivid red coulis. Colorful leaves of herbs were scattered across the top with fragrant bits of toasted pine nuts and shavings of cheese.
“And the wild hare stew?” he asks. At that I sit up and sniff the air. I do remember the civet de lièvre. Its deep red wine sauce was thickened with blood and a touch of chocolate; it was so rich and exotic I was seduced into taking one bite and then another as I tried to chase the flavors back to their source. Served with a puree of chestnuts and the roasted loin stuffed with porcini mushrooms, the stew was a masterpiece of hearty regional cooking.
Daniel Boulud was, for 6 years, the much-acclaimed Chef at Le Cirque, but in his own restaurant he is working with a new confidence. He seems to be cooking for himself with a menu that offers both hearty French food and classic cooking so technically proficient it takes your breath away.
Chilled lobster consommé is a tour de force. The soup is as clear as crystal but so expressive of lobster that if you close your eyes and take a bite, you are surprised to find your mouth filled with liquid. The soup, decorated with rounds of lobster topped with crème fraîche and caviar, is dotted with coral cream when it is served. This is an astonishing dish worthy of a temple of haute cuisine. Still, if you want to continue with a less complicated course, you could order something as down-to-earth as tripes gratinées, hearty cuisine bour geoise that would be at home in a great country bistro.
Mr. Boulud also offers a changing celebration of the seasons: daily specials that depend on little more than great ingredients. One might be the simple luxury of a large yellow potato mashed with lots of butter and fresh truffles, another an abundance of porcini sautéed in clarified butter, sprinkled with bits of rock salt and a small shower of herbs.
“And wasn’t that foie gras fantastic?” my friend asks, reminding me of the way the unctuous liver had been balanced by the austerity of fresh quince. Fully awake at last, I begin to revel in last night’s dinner as my friend and I start shouting the names of dishes, giddily recapturing a cornucopia of flavors.
“Pumpkin soup!” I say, recalling the bright orange puree anchored by a small mound of grated squash topped with black trumpet mushrooms, tiny bits of bacon and crunchy little pumpkin seeds.
“Steamed skate!” he cries, and in my mind I can see a broth the color of clover, and feel the way the corduroy texture of the fish was emphasized by the soft lobster
dumplings in watercress-lobster broth.
“Quail salad!” I say, thinking about a lunch when I was served the most appealing salad I can remember. Leaves of mâche were topped with a pair of tiny fried quail eggs and laced with velvety strips of foie gras, silky pieces of grilled quail breast and rough shavings of Parmesan cheese.
“And the wine!” my friend says, reminding me of the sommelier’s suggestions from that list of fabulous and fabulously expensive bottles. We had settled on a ’91 Chassagne-Montrachet from Colin followed by a wonderfully plummy ’89 Bon Pasteur.
“Desserts,” my friend says now, almost reverently. Together we recite the sweets of the evening, like children recalling Halloween treats. I liked a fruit soup that looked like a reverse sunset, a mint green verbena ice-cream sun setting in a magenta wine-poached pear. He liked the gratin of chocolate, a slim disk of warm chocolate on a fragile sugar wafer. We both loved the crème brûlée with macerated strawberries, and were charmed by the finale, a plate of petits fours with its fanciful pulled-sugar birds and flowers.
“So?” says my friend. “Four stars?”
“It was a great meal,” I concede, pushing back the covers, “but I still have to go back and see if Daniel can sustain that level of cooking.”
Five meals later, it is clear that the restaurant can. I have had an occasional disappointment: a salty soup, a 15-minute wait for dinner, a lost reservation at lunch. But even on an off day, the restaurant is so exciting that you wake up the morning after a meal at Daniel eager to remember every bite.
It’s quite a ride.
DANIEL
Thank you for your splendid review of Restaurant Daniel,” wrote Daniel Boulud after my review appeared. “We are particularly pleased that you were inspired to write in an innovative style.”
Other people wrote in much the same vein. One person called it the strangest review she’d ever read. Another asked if I had been abducted by aliens. A third said that I did not quite seem myself.
