Severus Snape (bitterman) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2015-08-18 09:20:00 |
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Entry tags: | severus snape |
When one goes to a restaurant that bills itself as providing ‘authentic French cuisine’ then in general one actually expects to get ‘authentic French cuisine’. Not ‘French Fusion’ or ‘French-American’ (and the less said about that abomination, the better) or ‘French-Spanish’ but actual French cuisine, that particular blend of ingredients that speaks louder than words that what you are eating has its roots in the cities, villages and fields of France. Thus, on arriving on the doorstep of L’absinthe, which hails its ‘Authentic French Cuisine’ loudly and proudly, that was precisely what I was expecting. The restaurant décor certainly lent itself to the experience. Polished wood tables covered in pristine white tablecloths, comfortable lighting, soothing music and an ambience that encourage quiet conversation and appreciation of the food. When I sat down at my table, I was anticipating a pleasant evening of excellent food. The first tremor in the Force, if I may use a Muggle expression, came with the arrival of the waiter. On the surface, he was all that you might expect of a waiter at an establishment such as L’absinthe tries to mark itself as being. Impeccably dressed and turned out, his mannerisms polite and calm as he handed over the menu and the wine list. All was well until he opened his mouth. I believe the accent was meant to be French. It was hard to tell. It was certainly affected and frankly over the course of his explanation of the chef’s specials, it managed to rove its way across the globe starting in Brooklyn before migrating to Greece, somewhere in Eastern Europe, then possibly Pakistan or maybe India, back to Spain, south to Nigeria before ending up coming to rest in the depths of South Africa. Needless to say, he missed France by quite a distance. On reflection, I decided to ignore the misgivings that had been engendered by the waiter’s roving accent. A mistake on my part and one I am sure that all reading this will be surprised to hear that I made. It’s true my well-founded paranoia and suspicions are normally something I listen to but here in New York, with its refreshing lack of Death Eaters and gormless students, I fear I have let my guard down. Never again! Given it was my first visit to L’absinthe, I chose to order the true basics of French cuisine. After all, how better to test the mettle of a chef than to see how he or she handles the basics. It is somewhat akin to potion brewing, after all. If a student cannot handle brewing a mere cure for boils then one wouldn’t expect them to be able to brew the Draught of the Living Death or Felix Felicis. Thus I ordered the classics – Escargot for entrée and Coq au Vin for the plat principal. The Escargot... well, the kindest thing I can say is that they were indeed snails. They arrived, rolling around on a china plate as though they were trying to escape (I honestly can’t blame them), and were smothered in an oily ooze that might have been butter on a day six years ago when the full moon shone in the night sky and maidens danced in circles in the meadows. Clumps of parsley adhered to the plate and to the snail shells like fungus on a Fifth Year boy’s toenails and looked about as appetising. The tongs and fork only arrived after a pointed reminder to the waiter. In spite of my better judgement, I tasted the Escargot. I should learn to trust my better judgement and listen to it carefully. This world is making me disgracefully lax and soft. Boot leather has a better flavour, though the texture was very similar. To say the snails were overcooked would be charitable. It would perhaps be better said that they had been floating in oil for the better part of a month, perhaps while the chef read those execrable Twilight books. Needless to say, after the boot leather masquerading as snails, I approached the plat principal with trepidation. I was not disappointed. Or perhaps it would be better to say that I was disappointed. I would not say that the Coq au Vin was raw but I was almost surprised when I cut into the meat that it wasn’t accompanied by the kind of squawking usually associated with live chickens... or Third Years in general. The meat itself was pink and oozed blood, which, while perfectly acceptable had I ordered steak, was somewhat disappointing to see with chicken. After tasting the accompanying jus, I cannot say whether the chef went with the usual Burgundy for his wine of choice or perhaps something he bought from the bodega down the street that is more usually seen wrapped in a brown paper bag in the hands of one of the unfortunates one passes in the street. I should spare a paragraph here for my choice of wine to accompany my dinner. I made an excellent choice and their sommelier has gathered a fine collection of wines. Or perhaps I should say he has gathered together a fine selection of wine bottles. The wine I received was certainly not the one I ordered. The Slytherin in me can only admire the sommelier as I assume by his smug air that the original contents of the bottles have likely made their home in his personal collection, while the restaurant patrons are left to swill down the cheap plonk found that that handy local bodega. It must be doing good business. I am sure it will come as no surprise to find that I declined the offer of cheese or dessert. After the disasters that presented themselves for entrée and plat principal, I was in fear of my life from what might have been served for dessert. While my stomach will survive the shoe leather snails and raw chicken, I fear even it might be overwhelmed by what this chef (and I use the term loosely) might do with cream and butter. I feel that rancid might be the fate of those fine ingredients were they to enter his lair... I mean, kitchen. In conclusion, I feel I can give L’absinthe no stars and no recommendations. I withdraw that last bit. I can give it a recommendation. I recommend you stay well away from L’absinthe unless you enjoy food poisoning. If the chef were one of my students, I would feel compelled to give him a T. For Troll. And I have a strange suspicion that if I were to peer into the kitchen, that is what I would find cooking the food, so it is an accurate grade. ~Severus Snape |