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 11th or 12th
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.
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.
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| Even the table setting sports an elegance. |
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| A bit of red vermouth as an aperitif. |
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| An appetizer. From the left, dots of reduced balsamic vinegar, a broccoli compote, a red bell pepper compote. |
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| The first course. From the left, pear sorbet, stacked silky paté, coarse paté, the compote of figs |
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| Velouté, one of the five classical French sauces. This one is fish, with mussels, shrimp and thin sliced broccoli. |
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| 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. |
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| Dorada fish (bream). Note the tiny vegetables around a scoop of creamy saffron rice. |
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| A cheese plate to finish. Green grapes, Chève cheese, Brie, Tomme, and Brouère. The first and third are goat cheeses. |
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| Elegance even with the resting crystal. |
