An absolutely brilliant op-ed piece from Harvey Silvergate, “Parody flunks out,” unearthed courtesy of the NY Times Paper Cuts.

I remember quite well (though I wish I could disremember quite well) when the editor of the Daily Campus brought in new guidelines for “politically correct” speech (seriously, where the hell did these insidious rules come from?) that were to be enforced immediately unless the ol’ DC were to appear embarrassingly cretinous. (Even my dumbass brainwashed college-kid brain knew something was plainly wrong with these regulations, but I followed orders just like a good Nazi).

By [the late 1980s], the strictures of political correctness had seeped into all levels of American higher education and had utterly destroyed the sense of humor of so many college and university students. At the very least, this atmosphere stifled them from admitting (to anyone but their friends) that they even got a joke involving matters of gender, race, sexual orientation, religion, or any other hot-button issue at the center of the nation’s culture wars. And, as was predictable, the intellectual rot that began to infect the academy in the mid 1980s spread to the “real world” within a single generation.

Oh, and how that infection has become an epidemic.

Racist and sexist language — so-called hate speech — may not be pleasant, but it is nonetheless legally protected in public places governed by the Bill of Rights. Private campuses, however, are allowed to make up their own rules as to what speech is and is not acceptable. . . . For academic freedom to offer less protection for speech is a breathtaking departure from long-standing assumptions about the nature and purpose of the academy. As the cynics now note in Cambridge, one may not safely say in Harvard Yard what is constitutionally protected in Harvard Square. The same may be said for just about every campus where there once was a hallowed hall of learning, now converted to a humorless hall of conformity.

Thank you Mr Silvergate for speaking the truth. This column should be required reading for all.

Venture into any online foodie forum where Pierre Gagnaire’s name is mentioned and you’ll find people who’re passionately unequivocal: they either love him or hate him. And that’s fine with me. Who wants their food (or their chef) to be middle-of-the-road?

11 September’s lunch was our introduction to Pierre Gagnaire; he succeeded with great aplomb, propelling us willingly into the former category. So much so, in fact, that I wonder why anyone would hate his food—especially those who haven’t had the pleasure of tasting it. Now, being a little afraid of the man and his food? That I understand. His menus can read like there’re too many cooks in the kitchen. Yet, as The Wife says, “With Pierre, more really is less.”

Ultimately, though, what’s to hate about a chef who coaxes maximum flavour and texture out of each (albeit stellar) ingredient and then blends them so effortlessly you can’t imagine one element being removed without upsetting each dish’s unique balance of contrasting flavours and textures? This rarely seen feat of gastronomic alchemy’s made more amazing because his food tastes so damned real . . . appears, more often than not, so damned unfussy.

Once seated inside the spacious and surprisingly unstuffy restaurant (served by a gracious staff who know not this terrible word “condescension”), we decided upon “Le Menu Pierre Gagnaire” which the maître d’ agreed was probably the best way to experience Pierre Gagnaire’s food for the first time. (And yes, he was in the kitchen, coming out twice to say “Bonjour!”.)

So, then, on with the tasting (yeah, I’m skipping our apéritifs and amuses bouches) . . .

Crevettes impériales et nacre de Saint-Pierre.

Sirop moelleux de pamplemousse aux concombres, céleris dorés, coriandre fraîche et citron vert. Jus de carcasse au macis.

A light dish to start of imperial shrimp and John Dory in a satiny syrup of grapefruit juice flecked with a confetti of cucumber, golden celery, cilantro, and lime. On the side an espresso cup with a tablespoon’s worth of rust-coloured fish broth, reminiscent of Chez Fonfon’s incredible bouillabaisse. The seafood’s sweetness was tempered by the syrup which added well-balanced tang and bitterness. After every bite I sipped a tiny spoonful of the jus de carcasse au macis, enjoying that wonderful contrast of hot and cold, dusky and fresh.

∏

Effeuillée de lieu jaune de ligne.

Tranche d’aubergine grillée, marinée à l’huile d’olive toscane Santa Tea; cèpes et cœurs de tomate tempérés, étuvée de cocos de Paimpol à la sarriette.

A small piece of pollock wrapped in two thin slices of grilled eggplant sitting atop a warm tumble of coco beans and winter savoury, porcini mushrooms, and the sweetest (hearts of) tomatoes I’ve tasted. Absolutely simple, absolutely delicious. The down-home earthiness of the eggplant, beans, and mushrooms was artfully balanced by the exquisite sweetness of the fish and tomatoes. Soul food for the bluest or brightest of days.

∏

Pavé de Saumon sauvage d’Alaska poché mi-cuit; poêlée de grenouilles aux cébettes; légumes vert hachés au mac vin.

Crème de persil fumé.

The first dish we consumed with our eyes before raising a fork: a square of perfectly poached, “half-cooked” bright orange wild Alaskan salmon on top of uniformly chopped (½-inch by ¼-inch) vegetables in a deep forest green sauce (an intense purée of spinach perhaps? Yes, I now know what green tastes like; truly “none more green”) with sautéed lightly-caramelised frog thighs. A dollop of smoked parsley cream (a darker shade of green) adorned 12 o’clock on the plate.

As beautiful as it was to behold, it was even better to taste. I love salmon and how it stands up to bold flavours . . . and then I realised Pierre’s intentions: each dish was getting a little bolder, a little more intensely flavoured. A true tasting menu . . .

The smoked parsley cream was genius (and tastes just like it sounds), but best (don’t separate the elements!) when (carefully) added to a precariously balanced forkful of rich, juicy salmon, tender-al dente veggies, and delightfully chewy frog. Rich but not heavy, this dish enchanted the eye as much as the tongue.

∏

Rouget de roche: cuit à la salamandre, déposé sur un Bellino; amandes coquillages au poivre blanc de Malabar.

Hure au safran, sommités de chou fleur en aïoli.

Petite pissaladière de foie du poisson au provolone.

Tête de veau croustillante à l’oseille.

A wildly different painting this time (perhaps one to be found in the Pompidou?). Four separate elements on one plate: warm, flaky red mullet fillets topped with raw meat from a clam-like mollusk (abalone-esque in both flavour and crunchy texture); hure au safran, sommités de chou fleur en aïoli, which, for the life of me, I can’t remember (perhaps The Wife can help?); Pierre’s take on Provence’s famous pissaladière, flavoured with mullet liver and provolone rather than olives and anchovies; and a coin-sized sliver of crispy veal head seasoned with sorrel.

Although our least favourite course, nothing tasted bad (granted, The Wife didn’t like the amandes coquillages) and nothing was disappointing. In fact, the tête de veau (a nice contrast to the fish) may have been the tastiest element of the day’s plates: crisp, chewy, and heart-warmingly meaty.

Perhaps this course suffered from a lack of context (simplicity lost in abstract playfulness?); the elements just didn’t connect outside of tasting good . . . which isn’t necessarily bad; merely an odd deviation from the previous courses.

∏

Gelée de poule au porto blanc: jambon cru de Saint Yriex, pistes, supions, encornets et chair de tourteau.

Glace d’artichaut réglissée.

Redemption.

The best dish I’ve eaten? Perhaps. I can’t think of one better . . .

A jelly of (roasted?) chicken and white port consommé (which slowly melted into a soup) covered a triangular slice of raw (unsmoked) ham; on top of the gelée a small scoop of artichoke and liquorice ice cream craftily concealed by tender pieces of chicken, squid, and crab.

I’ll never be able to eat “chicken soup” again.

This was a masterpiece: the velvety gelée delicate yet unapologetically chicken-y—über-umami (comfort food à la Jewish grandmothers); the salty ham, (roasted? it has to be!) chicken, squid, and crab adding different textures and contrasting yet complimentary flavours; the ice cream tying everything together with its slightly sweet, refreshing anisic bite.

Brilliant.

This is why we eat (and don’t mind spending the money) at Pierre Gagnaire: for food that’s playful, soulful, and deceptively simple with no disconnect once you’ve tasted the whole . . . unforgettable dishes that are a pure and unadulterated joy to eat (and to share with someone very special).

∏

Soupe de betterave blanche à la tagette; caillette périgourdine.

Poêlée de gross huîtres, girolles au vinaigre de raisin.

Chutney clair de potimarron.

Nestled midst a creamy frothy broth of white beetroot, two giant, barely cooked oysters, a tiny bronzed, boned, and truffled whole quail breast, chanterelles in vinegar, and a clear chutney of Hokkaido squash.

The bittersweet white beetroot soup, slightly acidic chanterelles, and rich chestnut flavour of the squash chutney provided the perfect backdrop for the plump oysters’ fresh sea-sweetness and the truffled quail’s deep chewy earthiness . . . Close your eyes and imagine taking a bite out of the best the earth and sea have to offer. Simply stunning.

∏

Aiguillettes de canard Burgaud en bigarade, feuille de datte sèche et poivrons rouges confits.

Oreiller d’herbes et quartier de rave violette au colombo.

The main course, as it were, of the tasting menu . . . and what better meat than duck, and what better accompaniments than the sour Seville orange and the sweet dried date?

Oh, I love duck. I love all things duck. From the bill to the feet and all that rich fatty goodness between . . . so, yeah, I was pretty biased before this dish was served. And after? . . . Yes, Your Honour, I remained steadfastly biased.

Perfect duck; perfect sauce; perfect candied skin. Nothing else mattered. I was eating duck . . . à la Pierre Gagnaire.

∏

Trois fromages . . .

Chantilly de Pont L’Évêque, sorbet de pomme verte au calvados.

Saint-Nectaire, pointe de café et pâte de châtaigne aux noix.

Feuilleté croustillant de roquefort et poire à la mélasse.

A smart departure from the typical cheese board (oh! how I love thee, fabulous cheese boards which gather grateful flies!) . . . The sweet cream of Pont L’Évêque with apples won me over . . . Pont L’Évêque and apples will always win me over . . . 

All three, however, were more than a cheap way (as some unlinked gourmands claim) to get around the more expensive and extensive cheese boards of other Michelin-starred restaurants. For us, the Trois fromages were in keeping with the tasting menu, providing the simplest gateway drug to the next course:

 ∏

Les desserts de Pierre Gagnaire.

Five desserts ending with an all-chocolate extravaganza. I’m not a big sweethead, but chocolate? . . . A perfect end to a pretty perfect meal (who can forget the half-dozen mignardise which arrived pre-dessert to be consumed post-dessert with coffee?) . . .

We staggered out of Pierre Gagnaire four hours after entering, sated & slightly dazed, vowing to return . . . to indulge . . .

∏

Ninety minutes later we mosyed into Bar Hemingway as the clouds burst . . .

And then we drank at the behest of Colin Field, the world’s greatest bartender (sayeth I, among others), for the next four-and-a-half hours before finally bidding the day adieu to ramble on home, pleasantly drunk, hand-in-hand, through Paris’ glistening, almost silent streets.

It takes only a few minutes walking Paris’ streets before the jetlag begins to wane. Of course, it helps having to dodge scooters which’ve taken to the sidewalks to circumnavigate stop-start traffic that begins at dawn and eventually fades around 8 p.m.

Having spent an inordinate amount of time sweating profusely on Métro Line 4, I now understand why so many people drive cars in Paris. How nice, then, that that’s my only complaint—damn you, Métro Line 4!—after two weeks in Paris. (The only other complaint that we left . . .)

We couldn’t have picked a better place to stay for our two weeks: on rue de Cléry in the 2e arrondissement (home to Bourse de Paris, the Paris stock exchange, and Le Quartier du sentier, the Garment District).

Sounds dull? In less than five minutes from our clean, spacious, well-equipped, and ultimately very comfy apartment we could walk to:

• Rue Montorgueil (one of Paris’ best market streets, home to the delectable pâtissier Stohrer—opened by one of Louis XV’s pastry chefs—and Au Rocher de Cancale—operating since the mid-19th century—for a day’s-end drink or two and that most Parisian of pursuits: people watching)
• À la Cloche des Halles (our favourite wine bar)
• Au Pied de Cochon (for 24-hour, 7-day-a-week classic eats)
• Willi’s Wine Bar (started by an Englishman, natch)
• The Frog & Rosbif (for English football)
• Le Mesturet (for its fantastic, lemony blanquettes de veau)
• Centre Georges Pompidou (nothing else quite like it in Paris)

Add a few minutes to the walk and we were in Le Marais, home to Paris’ Jewish (rue des Rosiers) community, Place des Vosges, the Musée Picasso, and countless little boutiques for The Wife.

Walking was one reason we chose Paris and it’s a wonderful city in which to wander grand boulevards or cobbled sidestreets, whether aimlessly or with purpose. A café (Au Sauvignon, perhaps) is always beckoning you to sit, relax, enjoy a glass of wine or a pastis and people watch before picking up and moving on.

We averaged at least 10 miles a day, leisurely walks (even in the rain) to almost every arrondissement, taking in famous sites (Les Invalides, Arc de Triomphe, Opéra de Paris, Cimetière de Montparnasse, Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, Cimetière du Père-Lachaise) as well as those not as well known (Canal Saint-Martin, Le Viaduc des Arts, La Promenade Plantée, Nicolas Flamel’s house).

In the end, however, it may be the meals that we most remember (or at least remember most fondly). Leaving Pierre Gagnaire to one side for now (and I will recap that insane day tomorrow), two other restaurants need to be highlighted:

Chez Michel, 109 rue de Belzunce, 10e, 01.44.53.06.20. Métro: Gare du Nord.

Chef Thierry Breton is considered one of the best young chefs in Paris. I concur. There wasn’t a single misstep during our lunch on 4 September. Let me dine at Chez Michel once a week for the rest of my life and I won’t need to eat out anywhere else. The meal was that good; and it won’t break the bank. I believe our only regret of the trip was that we didn’t return. If you’re going to Paris, you must go. We will.

Casa Olympe, 48 rue Saint-Georges, 9e, 01.42.85.26.02.  Métro: Saint-Georges.

Olympe Versini has been part of the Parisian scene for a long time, but she’s returned to her Corsican roots with her namesake restaurant. I started with terrine de foie gras de Canard à la vanille but it was the cocotte de pintade aux épices that brought me near tears. Who’d have thought guinea hen from Challans would have such a profound effect on me? Not The Wife who looked on in amazement (momentarily pausing from her ris de veau croustillants, câpres de Pantelleria) as I lovingly savoured every tiny forkful of the most delicious guinea hen that’s ever been served.

Ah . . . memories.

Too much food? Ha! Tune in tomorrow . . .

Our last full day in Paris, interrupted by the Pope’s arrival. Métro stations and streets closed. Gendarmerie swarming in the hundreds.

I found it quite humourous that as the pope arrived at Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris so did dark ominous clouds, gathering over the old circe as if bidden . . . The rest of Paris? Blue skies and fluffy white clouds.

I’m done till we get back to Laguna Beach . . . I’ll wrap up my thoughts on Paris and give you a rundown on Thursday’s eating and drinking extravaganza.

Au revoir!

We arrived at Pierre Gagnaire at 1 p.m. for lunch. We left at 5 p.m.

We arrived at Bar Hemingway at 6:30 p.m. for one drink. We left at 11 p.m.

I’m still digesting today.

An unforgettable lunch at Casa Olympe. Some dishes speak directly to your soul; Olympe Versini’s sublime cocotte de pintade aux épices tugged at mine till I was near weeping. Following this, an improbable victory by England, 1 – 4, away to Croatia have left me bereft of words.

How wonderful when two of my favourite things—food & football (sandwiching a trip to The Red Wheelbarrow to buy beloved books)—combine so fabulously in one day.

This truly has been one hell of a memorable holiday.

The sizzling sound and tantalizing aroma of duck fat bubbling fills the apartment as we near midnight.

I admit: most of my posts have been centred around food. Then again, food’s one of the main reasons we chose Paris for our 2008 holiday. Once we return to Laguna, I’ll write more about the city, the apartment, the neighborhood . . . all of that other stuff. For now, though, our immediate memories are of the food we eat, the restaurants we visit . . .

Tonight’s dinner: a salad of rocket, olive oil and freshly squeezed lemon juice, topped with sautéed girolles mushrooms; followed by confit de canard (the biggest cuisses, certainly the most expensive, and, hopefully, the best I’ve eaten, purchased from JMS Gastronomie in the Marais), potatoes from Brittany sautéed in the remaining fat from the confit, and haricots verts sautéed in a little butter.

After a long day wandering Montmartre and Basilique du Sacré-Cœur (what a horrendous tourist trap; worth going once merely for the view of Paris from Sacré-Cœur), the 9e, and then Place des Vosges and the Marais (searching successfully for new shoes pour moi (see Paris: Day 10), we headed back to our arrondissement for a bottle of Côte de Brouilly (our Parisian café wine; particularly nice on a warm day when properly chilled) and people watching.

Dinner’s almost ready so you must excuse me. Here are a few pics from today’s walks:

Basilique du Sacré-Cœur (with a wisp of The Wife’s hair for good measure).

The obligatory picture of the significant other (in this case, moi) lording over Paris.

The house of alleged alchemist Nicolas Flamel, considered the oldest house in Paris.