I went to dinner last night at one of my secret restaurants in Europe that sells great wine at great prices, and kept a running commentary:
FAMILIAR faces greet me at this gastronomic delight in the middle of nowhere. The maitre d' doesn't recognise me but the sommelier does -- I've been stalking her for a year now. When she saw me at ProWein I think she ran for cover, remembering my lame pickup attempts at two previous visits to this restaurant in 2008.
This time, however, she seems pleased to see me and leads me to a table big enough for four in the main dining room. This is the room that went into shocked silence a year ago when I walked in with Gav, Gen and Michel. We're not sure what we did but perhaps it was the sight of a little Eurasian girl in the company of three hulking studs ;-)
That time we discovered a 1992 Leflaive Montrachet (the greatest wine wine I've ever had) and a 1978 Rousseau Chambertin, before slipping horrendously with a brett 1993 Rousseau Clos de la Roche and some sickly 1976 German sweet wine.
On the second visit, Danny, Alex and I were ushered to a dingy table next to a sour couple with a stinky dog. The sommelier -- in fact most of the staff -- ignored us, so we went for the jugular with a 95 Matrot Meursault, a 93 DRC La Tache and another 78 Rousseau Chambertin. That showed them :-)
So here I am alone, with a great view of the dining room. The car park was packed with BMWs, Mercedes (all a bit bigger than "mine") and Audis -- the Hummers were obviously around the back -- and the number plates show French and Swiss origins. Word is getting around.
On my left are two tables of retirement-age couples, top left there is a table with two older couples, straight ahead a couple aged around 50, in the top corner is mum, dad, son and maybe grandma. To my right and front there is mum, dad and their steamy librarian daughter, probably 25 at most. And to my right, obscured behind the door, two older chaps sharing one woman.
The waitresses are decked out in traditional hausfrau outfits (OK, I don't know what sort of outfits they are, but they are meant to look like peasant servants). Mine speaks English well but is nervous if asked to repeat anything. The younger one we terrorised a year ago is still here and obviously drew the long straw, not having to serve me.
I ignore the menus and ask for the wine list. It's not massive, but they have Bordeaux dating back to 1901. There aren't many half bottles but the sommelier tells me I can have a half of something so long as it's not Latour or similar -- she'll either sell the other half or drink it herself, she says.
The red choice is obvious: 1993 Rousseau Chambertin for 195 euros. I'm tempted by a 64 Lafite and a 75 Lafleur Petrus, but I'm a burgnut, and I'd like to see how the Rousseau is travelling since I have only one in my cellar. The sommelier says it is perfect. I want a half bottle of champagne but there aren't any. A glass of 1996 Legras Blanc de Blancs is offered but I decide I'd rather have a half of white Burgundy. The sommelier offers a Bonneau du Martray Corton Charlemagne and says the 01 is very fresh, the 98 and 00 more developed and richer. I go for the 98, having had the 00 not so long ago. It's a pale gold colours and delicious even cold and straight after pouring.
For the first time I don't go for a degustation here -- the "gastronomic" menu is heavy on seafood and the sole red dish is pigeon in Sptaburgunder (pinot) sauce. I like the look of a calf fillet in black perigord truffle sauce, and ask if it would be too heavy for the Rousseau. The sommelier thinks it will be perfect. I go for the cod with a lime-celery sauce for entree, but they start me with an oxtail in aspic appetiser. It's lovely and flavoursome, not heavy or too spicy, and the BdM is easily up to the challenge.
I've got time to survey the room some more, trying to stretch out my drinking time since I've committed to a bottle and a half. The librarian is tall and looking closer to 30 now. Maybe she's the secretary. The waitress is hot and will no doubt look hotter as the wine goggles come on. She's got gorgeous eyes and a knowing smile, is blonde, quite tall and no shrinking violet. In fact, she's fairly sturdily built without being too solid, a bit like this Bonneau du Martray.
The restaurant host and hostess have independently done the rounds with their "guten abend" greeting, her hardly pausing for acknowledgement. I pick up bits of German by context and am able to respond to most greetings and basic questions. When the host comes around he does a double take on the wines on my side table. "Oh, very nice wines," he says. "Yes, I try, thank you for cellaring them for me," I respond.
The entree arrives. It's poached cod on a bed of lime and celery puree. It is quite pungent but tastes mostly of the lime. I'm not a saltist, but this could do with some.
Oh, there's a comedy act by two of the waiters, unintentional I'm sure. The short, young one fits under the flailing arms of his senior colleague, so the passing of plates in a ceremonial fashion passes with barely an elbow to the face. The short waiter has dark brown hair with a yellow-blond patch on top, so maybe the tall guys rubs lemon sauce on him from time to time.
The wine choices of fellow diners at these fabulous restaurants I'm going to this weekend never cease to amaze me. Most people here are drinking the house wine. Maybe that's what they came for. Actually, I can see 10 bottles of house wine and just a bottle and a half of others.
The hot waitress stops for a chat. She has been working here for three years but has "three" days off a week -- Tuesday and Wednesday -- when the restaurant is closed. The librarian seems to be more interested now, perhaps envious of the attention. Actually her group must be foreigners: they have a bottle of chardonnay but I can't tell what it is, and a half bottle of what looks like Bordeaux.
There's not much difference in price from entree to main here, by the way. My entree is 32 euros and the main 38 euros, and cheese to follow is 11e. Tap water wasn't an option, and a 375ml of still water is 3e. So the food bill is going to be 81 euros, while the degustation options were 54e, 68e and 89e for eight courses.
Oh, the librarian is drinking Bonneau du Martray too -- it's a sign.
This restaurant is located 4.5km from my hotel. The police are off at the Nato summit near Strasbourg so I needn't worry about random breath tests, and if I really get carried away I can always sleep in the car for a few hours.
More random thoughts: it's hard to pick the wedding ring situation in Europe. Many people wear their rings on the right hand, but my waitress has what looks like an engagement ring on the right hand and a wedding ring on her left. Turns out they are neither, but the ring on the right hand is a friendship ring. She's embarrassed but flattered by the attention. I think.
I ask for my main meal to be brought out as late as possible, but they've already set the cutlery: a beautiful Laguiole en Aubrac steak knife. Reminds me to buy more fakes at the market in Chablis.
No, it's not Bonneau du Martray. Must be Olivier Leflaive.
This is not a great BdM. It's not getting that creamy, rich, round finish of a great year but thankfully it also doesn't have the resiny paint aromas of too much new oak. It has a lemon edge, the fruit not quite emerging as expected. It's not tart, but it's not as generous as BdM can be.
OK, I'm convinced she is the daughter again, and maybe 23. So hard to tell. I'm guessing the waitress is 28, the sommelier 37 and in danger of never being kissed -- the ultimate ice maiden.
If Mark AS (www.winestar.com.au/forum) thought the 1991 Rousseau Chambertin I opened a couple of weeks back was the greatest Burgundy he had drunk, he would absolutely have wet his pants over this 1993. Storage is everything I guess, and this bottle was cold and dusty and probably hadn't been moved since purchase 14 years ago.
The nose is sensational and the colours rich, with a hint of browning on the rim. The palate is packed with power -- soft and supple at first, with hints of tea, brown sugar, rose petals, soy sauce, but then comes this rush of force, a punch to the mid-palate. Would you want that to soften? The sommelier tells me they don't have so many 93s and only a couple of 78s left. It's possible to see the family traits from the 78 to this one, but I'm enjoying this right now to consider I might have cut it short.
The main dish of calf meat is pinned down by equal parts warm foie gras, and the side vegetables are five potato fingers, sliced white asparagus and that Japanese kind of mushroom, the name of which escapes me.
My request to delay the main as long as possible and to decant only half the bottle of Rousseau and pour the rest into a half bottle have been ignored. It's OK, I'm hungry, I didn't have lunch and it's 9.15pm. Mind you, I've had almost a bottle of wine in 1hr 45min, and I was hoping to spread a bottle and a half over five hours.
The second glass of Rousseau is better than the first. It's getting a bit more assertive, showing a little oak and its firm structure. Maybe it would benefit from another five years.
The food is pretty rich. I can't taste the truffle much but the foie gras is powerful. The mushrooms have a lovely delicate flavour but the asparagus is fairly flavourless.
I call for the cork for the BdM. No one else is going to drink that so I wonder if I'll be charged for a half or the whole.
So, the cute waitress would like to move on. She lives alone, two villages away, her family in Dresden. She'd like to work in Austria or England but she's "waiting to see what happens". There is a problem, she says. Maybe she means the GFC. You can feel the other diners straining to hear what we're talking about, so I let her go back to her work.
I like this place because it takes Diners and it'll probably be my last chance to use it. There wouldn't be enough credit on any of the other cards anyway. I hope it works!
"We make a little break?" the waitress asks. I'd love to, but there are still a couple of glasses of Rousseau to drink.
The table in the far right corner could be son, dad, wife and ex-wife, and they speak English. People move stealthily here. I notice Librarian Girl go to the bathroom but I didn't see the middle-aged couple leave. I was probably lost in the Chambertin. I couldn't miss the cheese cart being wheeled to the table next to me though, with its own pungent cloud trailing along behind it.
People are intrigued by me writing at the table. They probably think I am a restaurant critic. Or they think I am writing them into a play. Maybe I am. The woman at the table to my right decides it should be a comedy, and starts laughing. People do seem more animated here than last year, when it was quite stuffy. The people at the top left table are even having their photo taken together now, and some diners don't have a jacket and tie on: shock, horror.
Librarian Girl is taking an awfully long time in the bathroom but I'm pinned in by the cheese cart so I can't go to trigger an international incident. Just then she floats back into the room, noticeably preened. Very cute.
The host is back. "So, what is happening down under?" he asks. He has a scar that runs from his left eye to the corner of his mouth. Maybe the hostess glassed him one drunken night. He inquires again about the wine and says Charles Rousseau is a friend of his. Charlers's daughter Corinne is said to be helping run things at the domaine now and is a divorcee. I decide it'd be rude not to call in and pay my respects next week.
Two more tables of diners leave. There are still 23 people up the other end of the restaurant, I'm told. The restaurant is usually busy -- full most Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, lunch and dinner, but Thursday and Monday are quieter. The wait staff work from 10am to 2 or 3pm, then return at 6.30pm for the night shift.
10.02pm, the top right table leaves. The "ex-wife" bails up the son while the others head for the exit. She was definitely traded in for a younger, slimmer model.
The note-taking has kept me amused, I imagine I will give my hotel name and room number to the cute waitress and she will show it to the others and giggle at my expense. Or maybe she will send someone to rough me up. Maybe that's what happened to the host. I'll ask what sort of wine she likes. She'll probably say she has to be back at work at 10am, but I have a tasting at 10.30am and it's a 45-minute drive away, so I'm no better off. I do have the afternoon free, though. And another dinner tomorrow night, subject to how good their wine list is.
Did I tell you I think I broke my elbow? When I hit my funny bone trying to reach my mobile phone while on the toilet at home in Sydney no less. Either that or I have a torn ligament from lifting cases in the cellar. I have very little strength in my left arm but there is no swelling.
My last glass of Bonneau du Martray, which the sommelier suggested I keep for the cheese, smells like french vanilla yoghurt now. Yum.
Service has tailed off to the point that I've been able to drain my glass for the first time. Something is "verboten" at the table next to me. Maybe it's me chatting up waitresses. They've paid their bill, so go home already.
Unbelievable. The waitress's name is Claudia. I was just saying the other day that I have a predisposition towards girls named Claudia. She doesn't believe me but I explain why and she seems pleased.
The cheese trolley comes back and she chooses one cow's milk one for me to match the Rousseau. I also take a gruyere, a heavily mouldy blue and another cow's milk cheese. They are all gorgeous. And there was no limit ... but I figured they would repeat on me if I took more.
I notice the candles still burning on the tables of departed guests. Maybe it's to ensure they get home safely.
Ah, I thought I was feeling good for 1.5 bottles of wine: there's about a third of a bottle of Rousseau left. I have another glass and offer to keep the rest for the cute waitress if she would care to join me at the hotel. She says she knows where it is and she might come around after work.
My work here is done. I try to pay by Diners and they no longer accept it. Gulp. Somehow, the Amex comes to the rescue again, although I'm sure I'm over the limit. Back to the hotel, I linger in the foyer using their wifi on my laptop, then wait outside in the fresh air for a while. It's almost 1am. I doubt she is coming. The last quarter of a bottle of 1993 Chambertin goes to waste.
And now? It's time for dinner again ;-)
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