Gastronomic Poetry

It was now Tuesday. I’m not fully convinced on what it was that did it. It may have been that I watched the Brad Pitt special of Oprah the day before (conceding to a brand of American television and culture that I try not to think about on a daily basis), or if it was the need to actually know how much money I owed the credit card company. Shame and financial worry aside, I somehow rolled my lazy ass out of my wonderfully comfortable bed and down the steep hills to downtown Wellington once again.

By the time I neared the library, laptop in hand, I was feeling pretty good about my decision. I had forgotten about Brad’s home life, and was looking forward to checking up on things back home as well as conducting a little bit of business for my return. I grabbed the usual obnoxiously large International Law book that I always intended to read more of, and signed into the Internet, immediately rendering any intentions of furthering my self-attained law knowledge a thing of the past.

While the once painfully expensive book gained dust behind the screen, I began to feel bits of hunger coming on. Nearly six o’clock and all I’d eaten all day was my routine breakfast of European-style bread with Brie. I let the taste buds wander in thought as to what they desired most in this culinary paradise; Irish food needed a break, Korean was done, Indian was eaten the last visit. I considered the Lebanese restaurant again when it suddenly flashed back to my memory. Yes! Down on the corner near the top of pedestrian Cuba Street; a modest looking French bistro. That settled it. I may have been conversing with friends 16,000 miles away, but there is no time for shenanigans; this man is hungry.

A short walk away and I’m greeted by a French-speaking maître de inside Le Metropolitain. Promptly seated, I’m given a drink menu. I thought to myself, I’ve been fiscally responsible lately, I believe a little binge on “class” is in order. I saw an unfamiliar drink at the top of the “aperitifs” section and felt obligated to order it. The Rinquinequine was delivered with bread and olive oil in tow. It was described in the menu as a the “perfect drink to start off a meal.” The only item I would add would be the words “during summer.” It maintained the personality of a light white wine, but contained a timid peach taste that really seemed perfect for a summer meal eaten on a warm sunny day. Served over ice, it really was the perfect afore-meal indulgence.

After I came to the conclusion that the lemon peel in the drink was just for show, I ordered the braised lamb as the main course. I’m in New Zealand. I feel it would be wrong not to try lamb at least once on the trip (or twice for those actually keeping count). The lamb shank arrived, beautifully displayed, among carrots and potatoes, sitting in a paper-thin pool of dark brown sauce. The sauce itself was ever so slightly sweet, not overpowering the taste of the lamb, but complimenting it perfectly: adding flavor, yet keeping the lamb’s inimitable taste the main event on the plate. It was prepared flawlessly- cooked the whole way through yet juicy and tender enough to cut with a fork (even if cutting is actually mashing).

The accompaniments to the generous portion of meat were equally enjoyable. The seasoned baby potatoes were a perfect side with the sauce, the carrots were cooked, yet maintained the perfect amount of crunch. Two cloves of roasted garlic also sat among the vegetables. I must have had it written on my face my philosophy that garlic is something of which there can never be too much. However, after sampling all the parts of the meal, I had no use for it. Everything was perfect the way it had been prepared.

I still had room after the main plate, and my “class” binge could still go on. Tort de jour it was. A plum tort with French vanilla ice cream on the side was to be the finale of the meal. A work of art was placed before me. A yellow cake with a reserved amount of a deep purple filling and topped with chopped almonds, flanked by a lone scoop of ice cream, sitting among a river of plum sauce, all lightly dusted with powdered sugar. After the first bite, I was completely content paying a lot for this meal. Hell, I would have paid at least fifteen bucks just for the dessert alone! The buttery tort was so moist it nearly melted in the mouth, and the plum filling was brilliantly sweet, but tasted wholly natural, adding a pang of guiltlessness to the undeniably diet-crushing dessert.

I left the defeated dessert along with the paid check sitting on the mahogany table, and headed home. I was the perfect kind of full and couldn’t help reminiscing over the event that had just occurred. A meal of such proportions isn’t just a meal, after all, and its not just due to the food-It’s everything in the restaurant. It was the maitre de asking me, “how many?” in French, it was the glass walls overlooking the streets, it was the close proximity seating, and it was the dining room that proclaimed loudly, “Yes, I am inadequate to suite large groups of evening guests, but this is all I need.” Because what that says to me is, what I have to serve you is well worth the wait and the little inconveniences.

If you were to ask me why French cuisine is my favorite to cook, or why it is one of the few I will consistently enjoy at a slow pace, my answer will mirror some of their most phenomenal dishes. I heard it said once that the Scottish eat to live, and the French live to eat. If a culture can find a sure-fire, flawless way to make something taste inconceivably delicious from less than five simple ingredients, ingredients that can be found in virtually any kitchen at any time, they are most assuredly masters of the art. I give the French a lot of shit, and on a fairly consistent basis, but I am near the point where I may take offense if you insult their cooking. Credit is given to the Italians for their renaissance art; the Greeks, basic philosophy and mathematics. So why not give credit where it is undoubtedly due?

To the French, I salute you. Because, lets be honest, god-dammit, you know what you’re doing in the kitchen, and I cant think of many things more respectable and honorable than that. A votre santé les recettes Francais, a votre santé.