"...a moveable feast"

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a movable feast."
-Ernest Hemmingway

A long marble table is set for five.
Everyone has the same place setting: a folded napkin, two forks, two knives, a spoon, a water goblet and a wine glass. Simple, as dinner settings go.
In the center of the table is a silver basket of fresh baked bread, small pats of butter from Normandy, and the obligatory salt and pepper.
The Hyatt Regency Charles de Gaulle has decided to honor its stagiares with a dinner of their choosing as a gesture of gratitude for putting up with so much moving back and forth, to and fro, from the Hyatt to Premiere Ass and back again.
Not everyone could make it, but for those of us who could, the dinner would be resplendent with culinary delights and oneological treasures, not to mention the civilized discourse of one's comrades-in-arms.
We were all given an invitation worth sixty five euros (a large sum) towards whatever we might choose from the dinner menu of Restaurant Apollo.
To be clear, I work at Apollo; I don't eat there. I cannot afford it and am not welcome, regardless.
But tonight, I was a guest of the restaurant that I have worked so hard to master, and so, I was not taking the evening lightly.
November the first is All Saints Day in Paris, as it is in many Catholic places, but unlike the States, it is a national holiday here, and being a national holiday, many places are closed. Apollo is not, but it might as well be for the few other patrons who were in for supper that evening.
Normally, I take my meals in L'Escale, the employee "restaurant" (cafeteria). It is highly informal. I wear my jeans, don't comb my hair, and can wolf down uninterrupted mountains of whatever I so choose from the luke warm buffet line at my disposal. Usually, MTV-E is on the television, and European wannabes grind their way towards the camera while European rappers fake their way through "gangsta"hood.
It is a sad place that I try to get into and out of, with the quickness.
But tonight was different. I had been asked to dinner at Apollo, and it was coming out of Mama Hyatt's pocket. I didn't need to think about it.
To be sure, formal attire is not required at Apollo. Since any variety of traveler can be expected at any time in this hotel, only a minimum degree of formality is expected at Apollo. Basically, if your fly is closed at least half way, you can get in. Another way of looking at things is that if you can afford to eat here, we don't really care what you look like. Actually, that is much more accurate.
Regardless, I was determined that my fly would be fully closed for this occasion.
How often is it that one is invited to a full, formal supper in one of the great cities of the world in a nice restaurant, at no cost? Not often enough for me, so I decided to dress up.
I wore my blackest of black jackets and a nice pressed white shirt with a pair of nice slacks. Actually, they were pants, but "slacks" sounds a little nicer, so lets all just go with it, hmmm?
I suppose that life is in the looking at it. If you sit down on the ground with a PB&J in hand, and look at it like a banquet, then I suppose it is one.
For me, I was happy to be enjoying dinner with some good people, some good food, and a heck of a wine list, so it was the height of civilization to me.
And really, I highly recommend it, if ever you find yourself in the position to try it:
We ordered by course: cocktails, entrees, main courses, wine. Nobody really wanted dessert, so we left that out. Good thing too. I had not the room.
So, one of the great things about being away from home is that there are things that I cannot get. Case in point, I am a true lover of the martini. I like them with vodka, dry (but not too dry) and with an olive stuffed with the bluest cheese on hand. I like them up and cold, cold, cold.
If you ask for a martini in Europe, though, you are asked, "White or red?" White or red what? is what I wanted to know the first time I was asked this.
Turns out, Martini is an Italian company that makes the vermouth that goes into the concoction we call a martini, and that is where it gets its name. We don't really serve the white or red variety in the States, only the green "extra dry" variety.
So when I asked if they served martinis, and was greeted with the response, "Up or on the rocks?" instead of the usual "red or white?" I was in bliss.
On the downside, cocktails are always accompanied by American cigarettes. Being the oldest male, I was seated at the head of the table, so I had a little room to lean back and actually breath. Still, there is an undeniable glamour to the cocktail and cigarette combo. Not enough to die over, but one that I can appreciate from a breathable distance. Let the kids have their fun, I say.
Bread is served Russian style, ripped open by hand, and spread with butter and salted (that's the Russian part). It is good. The salt enhances the butter, not that it needed anything.
An AOC is a big deal in France. This butter has one. AOC stands for Appelation d'Originé Controlleé. Basically, it means that there are laws on the books limiting the amount of this butter that can be produced, so to keep its value high, and the AOC also verifies that this butter came from Normandy, the dairy capitol of France. In the long run, people will tell you that butter is butter, but anyone who has had fresh butter compared to the spreadable crap from the tub knows better. This stuff was the tops. Creamy and fresh and cold. Hot, fresh, crusty bread and good, cold butter is a feast in and of itself.
But as I was salting my bread and butter, it came.
"Martini, vodka, up, dry" was all the waiter, Pierre (of course) had to say. It was my first martini in a long time, three months almost. I put the drink to my lips and imbibed.
Cold, crisp, a hint of salt, a smack of tart, like melting snow in an olive grove. It was grand. I let it go right to my head without a worry.
Next came the salads. Apollo serves salads in American style, before the main course. I had the coeur de succrine. It is, as I may have described before, succrine lettuce (like mini hearts of romaine), sliced into quarters, drizzled with balsamic and olive oil, and garnished with shaved Parmesan. I cracked some fresh black pepper over it and was good to go. The lettuce was so fresh, little droplets of water clung to the edges of the leaves like tiny, crystal Christmas ornaments. The balsamic is good: tart and dry, and balanced by the smoothness of the organic, extra virgin, cold pressed Italian olive oil.
Now, you can find organic, extra virgin, cold pressed, Italian olive oil in the States, but I am here to tell you (and Ruta will back me up on this), it is nothing compared to olive oil in France. This stuff is fragrant, bordering on pungent, and actually tastes of olives. It is syrupy and smooth, elegant. It is the perfect foil to the balsamic. The vinaigrette dances on the tips of the lettuce, and glides around your palate like skinny dipping teens on a hot August night, silky and graceful. Absolutely delicious, and with the salt of the Parmesan, it is almost too much to bear. I suffered through.
Next course (main course for me) was a plate of baked red pepper, eggplant and cucumber in sea salt on foccacia with fresh feta, and roquette salad. It was light, and delicious.
If you over cook vegetables, somehow, they all wind up tasting vaguely the same. Mushy and semi-bland. On the other end of the spectrum, if you under cook vegetables, they are rough, difficult to impossible to chew and have that very "green" taste. Some people make a third mistake of smothering cooked veggies in dressing of some kind, usually melted cheese or that age-old American abomination: "ranch."
Quick aside: what the hell is ranch anyway? It is undefined herbs in salted cream. Of course this tastes good, but never great. I don't care if the valley is hidden, the request for ranch, bacon or no, should always be stated thusly: "Will someone pass the ranch dressing and then kill me, please?" My good friend Josh, an ex-pat in Brazil, recently asked my wife to bring him a bottle of the stuff, as it was something he missed from the States. Just before her leaving, he changed his mind, and I can only assume he came to his normally highly intelligent senses. Either that, or he discovered Brazil's strict "No Ranch" policies. I hope it was the former.
Regardless, if vegetables are cooked just right, they can be ecstasy.
These were. Al dente, lightly basted in the aforementioned olive oil and lightly salted. Their natural flavors shone and complimented each other so well. It left me nearly agog at the vastness of variety of flavor that the Earth has to offer.
The bread was warm and flavored with fresh rosemary and thyme. I love this stuff.
I love rosemary and thyme so much, I actually had it put into the boutonnieres for my groomsmen. Really. I'm nutty that way.
There is just something about rosemary and thyme that satisfies. Simon and Garfunkle will tell you that too. Together, they taste like coming into a warm house when it is just a bit too cold outside. They taste safe and warm and like home. At least for me they do. Maybe some people get that same feeling from eating ranch. Poor souls...
The garnish to my entree was a small salad of roquettes. I don't think we have this salad in the States; I can only describe roquettes as super arugula. Smaller, pointier, strong flavor of white pepper and earth. I had it with olive oil and salt and went to town. Deee-vine. I think I will be the chef who bring roquettes to the popularity in the States. Keep an eye.
Of course, as you already know, no meal is complete without wine, and this meal was no exception.
I ordered a glass of Les Hauts du Smith, a haut Medoc cabernet/merlot blend from Bordeaux. In Bordeaux, the wine is aged in barrels that are made from a mix of American and French oak. The oak really came through on this one, as did the strawberry notes. It was a full, round, deep ruby red. It was the 2004 vintage, which was a great year in Bordeaux. Lots of fruit and a bit dry. It was a meal on its own. I think I could have just had this glass and been satisfied. The dryness of the wine cut through the salt and cream of the cheese and the oak picked up the earth of the vegetables. Glory to Bordeaux in the Highest!
Of course, I could have had all of this on my own, in my room, while watching Cagney and Lacey reruns, and it would have been nothing more than some good veggies and good booze with Tyne Daly before the weight gain.
So what made this whole event so special? The conversation. I know this sounds really snotty, but there is something about enjoying a three hour meal in a refined setting, with cloth napkins, and real silverware, and fantastic wine, while chatting away with your friends in French.
Since there were five of us there from four different countries (Korea, US, China, Russia), it was almost necessary to speak French, because it was the common language, not to mention that we are in France.
I think that sipping your delicious wine while crunching into hot, crusty bread and butter while discussing photography and making plans to meet on the Champs Elysees for coffees, all the while gabbing in the most beautiful language on Earth, well, that is what world peace is like for me.
It is civilization. How else can five people from four separate corners of the globe come together and enjoy a meal, unless they share an appreciation for being together, and know how to eat, unless there is peace between them? Because eating- dining- is a skill that you learn. When you sit down to break bread, there is something immediately intimate that you share with those you break bread with.
It was civilization, in the least arrogant sense possible, and it made me proud that this is what I provide for people. I am the guy who makes these meals happen.
After dinner, we all went off to a bar in the area for after dinner drinks. The Russian had a red Martini on the rocks (a fruity vermouth, that I actually like quite a bit), and the Korean had a Cognac. I was feeling like a guy, so I had a 1664, a French beer. It was nice. We all talked about our home countries, and what we plan to do when we go back there.
Afterwards, I got back to my room and slept. It was the sleep of kings.
I had a belly full of good wine and beer, not to mention a great meal, and a head swimming with great conversation.
I will take that experience with me as propulsion, inspiration: this is what I do; this is what I provide.
This is Paris, and thank the good Lord is it movable, because I never want to leave.