Garlic and Sapphires (25 page)

RESTAURANTS

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.