Dining: The Demanding Diner

I must
confess that as a young chap in England, my youthful excesses
exceeded anything ever countenanced by even the most lavish media
budget. I gulped (no quaffing then) vintage gallons of the Old Widow
and Taittinger Blanc de Blancs at commemoration balls from Oxford to
Cambridge. I consumed cold grouse and porter for breakfast at stately
homes throughout the United Kingdom. Deplorable, I know.

Then I landed in New York. Twenty years of indulgent but indifferent
dining in restaurants across America followed. I forgot how to be a
discriminating snob and became merely a well-fed guttersnipe. But no
more. I have returned to my senses in, of all places, Dallas. Perhaps
more than any other U.S. city, driven by media and a herd impulse,
Dallas embraces trends. We fancy what is “hot.” But this Brit, a reborn
snob and a cad besides, won’t be fooled. With experience of restaurants
and cuisine that have endured centuries, in comparison with Dallas
months, I am determined to discover which establishments may
un-begrudgingly afford a consistent quality of food coupled with
exceptional service.

Put differently: even though it may mean being a pain in the
derriere, I intend to go to restaurants and demand more than any
civilian can or should.

So on a busy Saturday, just when business was building to a
well-organized crescendo, I made my first foray to Paris Vendome in
West Village, the veritable nuclear-reactor core of what’s “hot” in
Dallas. “There will be two of us,” I announced to the hostess. “But
could you make it a four-top—and a banquette? Oh, and somewhere where
we can see who is coming and going.” I neglected to leave a name or
even offer a seating time as I swept on toward the bar.

I was joined by my date, dear N, a flower child of prompt and
distracted lateness. Being a generous type, I had brought her a bottle
of something bubbly. Being a caddish type, I asked the bartender to
open it and bring the appropriate glasses. We were served without a
murmur of dissent or even so much as a corkage fee. I seethed but moved
on to another quirky request without any reference to a menu.

“Rillettes!” I demanded, without even an attempt to approximate a
French accent for the spread made from minced, pounded pork preserved
in fat. Another charming smile, a trip to check with the kitchen, and a
quick return. “I’m sorry, sir, but we have no rillettes today.” His
denial would have delighted me except that it was both gracious and
indulging. I moved to my next request: “Some pâté and cornichons,
then!” Silverware, bread, butter, and more napkins than Ringling Bros.
requires for tenting were ours in a matter of moments—and despite a
press at the bar like the first row of rugby scrum.

N found all of this splendid. I fumed. Confronting such attentive
and graceful service at the epicenter of trendiness was almost more
than I could bear. I resorted to a surefire, “There’s no way I can
leave the bar, sir” and, handing over my valet ticket, I barked, “Could
someone get my cell phone from the car? I have to check with the
babysitter.” There was no babysitter. But, damn it, the phone was with
me in minutes. Things were going far too well.

We swigged the last of the bubbly. Back to the hostess. “Is our
banquette still available?” I asked, looking out over a now completely
full dining room. With a well-practiced smile and a ubiquitous, “Right
this way,” she whisked us, not to a banquette and four-top, but to a
perfectly adequate two-top by the dining-room entry. The young lady
seemed much more preoccupied with making doodles with red and black
pens at the front desk than with remembering someone who had failed to
offer even a name, so I think this was just the luck of the draw. On
reflection, I really cannot fault her. Paris Vendome: 5. Moi: 0.

Because N lost fewer gray cells to the ’60s and can still recognize
who is who if they are anyone at all, I offered her the inside seat to
do the observing. We began to appreciate how truly accommodating this
restaurant really was. Karl Lagerfeld, Jean Shrimpton, and Jerry Hall
(or at least a host of “folks” who looked like them) were all allowed
in without question or security check. So, too, were people in ball
gowns (mostly female), dogs of various sizes, and kids in t-shirts
drinking 6-ounce Cokes next to martini-sipping dads. All were clearly
welcome and happy. It was depressing. We ordered.

I’ve never had a decent bowl of onion soup outside of Nantes, so I
suggested one for my date. With equal perversity, this being a French
restaurant, I ordered an almost impossible United Nations merger:
quesadillas of confit of duck.

The result was an overwhelming
victory for the south of the border, which easily overpowered the few
strands of the one-legged canard. Still, I had to admit it was tasty.
So was the onion soup. Too tasty, really. It was sweet, and, if a soup
can be drowned by convention, this bowl was dead from the massive melt
of nondescript cheese that suffocated the whole concoction. I believe
all “American” French restaurants should omit this item from their
menus. Having my opinionated belief bolstered gave me hope.

On to the entrées. N had opted for the coq au vin. I had asked—again without referring to the menu—for a steak and pommes frites. “Are your French fries frites, or are your frites American fries?” I asked, almost losing myself in obfuscation. Reassured that the pommes came frites, I requested my steak à point with a beurre maître d’hôtel.
I had gambled on something getting lost in the translation, and this
time I was rewarded—but not by any error of the restaurant.

In France, a country where they are not frightened of blood and
where a rare hamburger can be requested at your neighborhood
McDonald’s, à point is a safe way to ask for medium and
receive medium rare (my preferred level of bloodiness). But being
“French” in America backfired on me, and my steak came exactly
translated: prepared medium. Knowing full well that I shouldn’t have
called a shovel a spade or une pelle une bêche, I told the
waiter that my French fries appeared too thick and limp. Without making
reference to my inability to express myself in any language (or
sidelong glances at our third bottle of wine), the waiter simply asked
what I expected. “Potatoes ’Frenched’ into slender, crisp pommes allumettes,”
I explained, “and piled beside an only slightly quivering steak on
which a dollop of fresh herb and garlic-rich butter slowly melted.”

He took everything back without further question. I was horrified.
Even worse, he was back in minutes with rare steak; fragrant, melting beurre maître d’hôtel;
and crisp, salt-tossed, thinly pared fries. I was back in Paris. The
evening was a disaster for me and an overwhelming victory for Paris
Vendome.

I admitted defeat. There was no charge for our disappointing
appetizers, which better sense said we should never have ordered. Paris
Vendome’s own wine list (once I had located my monocle and reading
light) contained an exceptionally well-priced and delicious Côtes du
Rhône-St. Joseph. They even promised to locate and stock an unlisted
favorite Loire wine against a future visit. Some hard-worked soul in an
extremely busy kitchen actually took the time to shred perfectly good
French fries into a close approximation of the strings of pommes allumettes. They even smiled as we left.

But do not take advantage of them. You never know when hip flasks
and pythons may be rejected. This clearly is one restaurant where you
can have a wonderful evening without making the smallest demand.