Stroud Is All Over the Place: Le Schlossberg Restaurant

So, you foolishly think I confine myself to England? Mas non, mesdames et messieurs! Certainement pas!

I stray across other borders, into small towns, wine caves, fine restaurants, and as long as the money holds out and my trousers fit, I will continue to consume fine potables and nosh at tables that require no rush, and no qualitative guessing.

Just last weekend, my current girlfriend, who keeps referring to herself as my wife, and I visited Le Schlossberg Restaurant in Forbach, Alsace, France.

As the name implies, the restaurant shares a space up on a hill, in the castle in the center of Forbach. The castle itself dates to somewhere in the 11^th or 12^th centuries, although wars and whatnot have led to considerable rebuilding. The grounds are part of an expansive park, with rolling green slopes and slender trees that set the castle apart from the town and allow for a quiet, and restful repast, divorced from the traffic below.

We stumbled on the restaurant perhaps a year ago, a wrong turn, a fortuitous find. It was closed at the time, but we always meant to go back. Our first attempted return foolishly involved inviting friends to join us, and when that didn’t work out, we cancelled. (We also crossed the so-called friends off our Christmas Card List, and left an anonymous tip on the drug abuse hotline.)

Months passed. Maybe a year. Who knows when you wash down a bottle of wine each night? Well, maybe a fourth of a bottle. I’m always aided by my ever-eager-to-help family.

Then one Saturday, I woke up fairly early, which is to say well before cocktail hour. The sun was not shining. After all, this is Germany. But, it was not raining, or snowing, nor was there enough road construction to stop a determined column of Panzers.

You’ve heard of German efficiency? Don’t believe everything you hear. Stretches of major highways are sometimes down to one lane for months, or even years. The famed speed limit-less autobahns slow to what you might find in Los Angeles during a riot, without the accompanying gunfire.

The road to Forbach, France lay open, clear, and without stagnation. I’d been studying French and had that innocent swagger of confidence. Bonjour, merci, au revoir rolling fluidly off my silvered tongue.

I always say the French can teach anyone how to eat. No matter if you drop into a rowdy neighborhood bistro, or op for the elegance that comes with Michelin Stars, you’ll soon wonder how food can taste this good, or be presented so artfully.

Bonjour! I said happily to the lovely woman who greeted us at the door. Deux personnes, s’il vous plaît. No matter what, in France the first word out of your mouth must be Bonjour.

Always best to let the locals know with whom they’re dealing. They soon found out. French flew back at me like the sting of ricocheting shotgun pellets. When under attack, stutter and stammer, or in my case, smile like an idiot and nod. The waitress saw my problem, but treated me gently. German? She inquired. English? I countered. She shook her head, as if to say, Messieur, this is a respectable restaurant. I smiled as sheepishly as a schoolgirl being asked to her first ménage a tois. German it is! But, I also reserved the right to ravage the French language to the best of my ability.

French cuisine is frequently held as the gold standard and I’m often asked, “What’s different about French cooking?”

It’s been said, the three secrets to French cooking are butter, butter, and butter.

I have a different take. My answer comes in just a few words: Time. Attention to Detail. Freshness.

Time: Good cooking cannot be hurried and that means: neither cooked rapidly, nor prepared ahead. Every sauce is strained and tasted time and time again, until the ingredients meld and the satin creaminess brings out the best of the dish.

Attention to Detail: Every texture, flavor, and color is important to the French chef. Every vegetable is prepared exactly, from peeling, to cutting, to cooking. It’s arranged on the plate exactly, and cooked to bring forth both taste and aroma. Meats ,fish, and vegetables will never be overcooked. Even a ragout, in which the meat literally falls apart, is cooked to exactly the right point so that flavor is not lost. Another part of detail is providing a blend of flavors and textures that tease and please the palate.

Freshness: A can has never seen a French kitchen. As one French housewife put it, “I do not buy vegetables that do not have dirt on them.” Fish never smell fishy because, freshwater or sea, they go from swimming to the pan. Breads and rolls are crusty outside, warm and soft inside.

French cooking may fool you into thinking you’re not going to get enough to eat. Small to tiny portions dominate, but after several courses, unless your stomach was a donor organ from an NFL lineman, you’ll come away pleasantly pleased and politely satisfied.

A French meal is to be relished, discussed over wine, compared to delightful things in heaven and on earth. A time of dining and conversation. Better than sex? No, for the French, one is merely a continuation of the other.

Rather than ramble on, with the address, hours and other restaurant details you can quickly find on Le Schlossberg’s web site, just feast your eyes on photos from the best lunch I’ve had in a long time.

(http://www.restaurantleschlossberg.com)

Even the table setting sports an elegance.

A bit of red vermouth as an aperitif.

An appetizer. From the left, dots of reduced balsamic vinegar, a broccoli compote, a red bell pepper compote.

The first course. From the left, pear sorbet, stacked silky paté, coarse paté, the compote of figs

Velouté, one of the five classical French sauces. This one is fish, with mussels, shrimp and thin sliced broccoli.

A main course. scalloped potato tart, dimples of potato mashed with spinach, a row of sweetened red cabbage and finally, veal "in its skin," which is actually a Wellington style crust.