Escargot and Bourgogne

Food Critic Andre DeNeuve waited patiently for servicing of Escargots de Bourgogne at a table in Rue de Noir. The gourmet restaurant had just opened a few months ago, but through social media and word of mouth, the establishment had earned rave reviews which had managed to catch Andre’s attention. Known as a harsh foodie critic, an Andre DeNeuve review was conducted a gold standard among those who considered themselves to be true gourmets.

For the staff at de Noir, this was their biggest challenge since a favorable review would cement their reputation in this highly competitive business in Paris city limits. Owner Emile Saterini’s staff resembled a scene from Ratatouille without the rats. Emile resembled an orchestra conductor frantically waving both arms to his staff as they feverously labored to create their signature dish of escargots de Bourgogne. While the beef would be relatively routine for Head Chef Herbert L’Salle who had delegated the task to Louise Marsen, the sous chef. Having worked for many first-rate chefs, Louise was not intimidated by the delegation, but she was irritated with Emile’s constant directions. Meanwhile L’Salle was simmering the snails in a garlic butter.

Emile had ordered his wine concierge Lavelle Ournard had taken a bottle of Chateau Mouton Rothchild from the vault to compliment the meal they were about to serve to Andre. Lavelle was hired by Emile from a prestigious establishment for his excellent judge of fine wines. Careful consideration of the beef matched with the sautéed snails, made Lavelle’s choice of wine a foregone conclusion.

With his pad out and pen in hand, Andre had already taken a few notes about the cozy ambience. Bored with the trend of most of the nouveau places that were opening all over the city. The ambience of this place was more like his memory of his grandmother’s house in the countryside near Lyon. When he walked in as a boy, he remembered how wonderful who small house smelled from the meal she was cooking. While the rest of the world outside her house was frozen and frosted, inside was a warmth that would always be with him even though his grandma wasn’t. She was an expert at the dish he had requested from Emile Saterini, escargot de Bourgogne.

Walking into Rue de Noir, the first thing Andre noticed was the warmth and appetizing aromas wafting through the air. There were times Andre dreaded coming into Paris. He hated the cooperate feel when he walked the streets where pigeons feasted upon the discarded trash and garbage people thoughtlessly toss into the streets. He hated how most people passed by people living in the street without even acknowledging them, but he noticed them as he sat on a public bench feeding the birds.

“Monsieur.” A young man approached his table.

“Oui.” He look up at the young man.

“My name is Jacques.” He was trembling, “I was wondering if I could have your autograph.”

He sighed, “Oui.”

He took the pad and pen from Jacques and signed a blank page.

“Merci, Monsieur DeNeuve.” He bowed his head.

“Je vous en prie.” Andre waved his hand as Jacques walked away thrilled to have obtained the autograph of the famed food critic Andre DeNeuve.

Andre sat there numb for a moment. Offering the young man Jacques his autograph on request was as if he had given a pound of own flesh. Fame had its perks, but Andre felt as if he was a prisoner of his own celebrity reputation. He had been on some of the more popular cooking shows. He knew Oprah Winfrey personally. He could not remember a day when he left his spacious luxury apartment where someone did not recognize him as he walked his dog.

Lavelle approached Andre’s table with a bottle of wine in one hand and a wine glass in the other.

“Monsieur.” Lavelle nodded as he placed the wine glass next to Andre’s right hand.

“Merci.” Andre smiled at the concierge as Lavelle nodded as he opened the bottle of wine. “Good choice.”

“I hope it meets your expectations.” Lavelle pour the glass like a true professional with a twist of the bottle at the end.

Andre waited until Lavelle was finished before picking up the glass and taking a taste of the vintage. Swirling it in his mouth, Andre nodded as he swallowed.

“Tres bon.” Andre lifted the glass and smiled. Lavelle returned the smile and bowed leaving the bottle on the table before exiting the dining room.

He took another sip of the wine. The bouquet was rich with pleasing flavor from an oak barrel as if he was walking through the woods on a late spring day. Taking in a deep inhale, Andre feels the tug on the leash from his male Baird named Francois. There is a small pond near their apartment where geese and ducks swim unperturbed. They are surrounded by the rustic scenery of big old barns and fences made of stones covered in moss. Old wagons are parked in lush fields where spreading oak trees shelter them from the withering rays of the sun.

As a boy, Andre had played in the open meadows chasing butterflies and fireflies as the sun sank from the royal blue sky. Surely this was as close to Heaven as young boy could get. These carefree days of summer didn’t seem as if they would ever end.

But they did. They did when someone spoke the word that would forever change his life. Cancer.

She told him not to worry, but as that summer wore on, the shadows in her eyes would not lie. She would tell him that she needed to rest. And rest she did until one day the doctor told him she was gone. His beloved mother had passed on.

He attended her funeral holding his father’s hand. Together they grieved her passing. He would lay flowers on her grave like the loyal son he had become. His father would find another woman to love. He left you a note to let you know he was gone to live with. Andre’s grandmother open her doors to him, but his dreams of becoming real French chef evaporated like a mud puddle in the warming sun. Andre’s love of French cooking never went away.

“How are you, monsieur?” Barron the waiter asked as he poured Andre another glass of water.

“Service seems to be quite satisfactory.” He smiles as Barron raised his bushy eyebrows. Andre salutes him with a glass of water Barron has just filled. Barron bows his head and disappears into the kitchen.

Andre grew up in a fishing village on the Atlantic Ocean where fisherman would display their catch of the day near the docks. Wandering along the wharf holding his grandmother’s hand, he would sample some of the samples laid out by the fishermen. He did enjoy some of the more exotic offerings.

When grandma was able to get escargot, Andre feel in love with that garlicy taste. It was bold and never laid flat on the spoon when he ate it. Memories are like flavors. Some become favorites while others seem to be forgotten as soon as they are tasted. In keeping his note pad close at all time, he was able to chronicle some of the flavors he had tasted in his journeys.

He never intended to be a food critic, but his honesty and discriminating sense of taste had served him well. Living with Grandma at Sainte Andresse, Andre found a small newspaper in Le Havre advertising for a traveling reporter, but when he wrote about some of the food he had to endure while he was traveling became popular among the populace. It wasn’t long until he began to write his own column where he would write about his own experiences. Marked with humor and ability to communicate to the reader, Andre soon moved onto a bigger audience in Roen before eventually landing in Paris where his “Man Tasting the Town” became a much renown column Le Monde.

Emile Saterini sat in his office trying not to tremble or lose his dinner in the commode.

“We are ready to serve our guest.” Chef L’Salle announced. His high-pitched voice almost made Emile leave his desk chair. Quickly he exited his office.

“Chef L’Salle, what is your assessment?” Emile asked.

“Come have a taste.” L’Salle held a spoon out for Emile to taste. “Let me know what you think.”

“Oh, I’d rather not.” Emile shook his head.

“Don’t be a coward, boss.” Lousie piped up, “Try it.”

“Better than reading about it in the paper, right?” Georges Mondeau, the short order cook shrugged from his corner in the kitchen.

“I want a good review.” Emile insisted, “This is my business after all.”

“Come try it.” Louise insisted.

Emile slowly edged toward Chef L’Salle who was standing there, still holding the spoon.

“You will like, oui?” He smiled as Emile took the spoon and brought it to his lips.

“My that is quite tasty.” He smacked his lips and put the spoon in the sink.

“Oui and the escargot is delectable.” Chef L’Salle kissed his fingers before spreading his fingers out.

“I’m a little overwhelmed by all of this.” Emile shook his head as he felt tears tugging at the corners of his eyes.

“This critic is just a man.” Louise declared, “If the food is good, he will write about it. I’ve have been through this before. The chef I worked for then nearly had a nervous breakdown, but in the column, Andre was honest about it.”

“Yeah, he is just one of many.” L’Salle put his arm around his boss who was having a moment.

“We are a team.” Louise told him. She kissed Emile’s forehead leaving red lipstick behind.

“You are all right. I have hired the best staff.” He hugged them all. Feeling better he hobbled back to his office.

“That one is problem, non?” L’Salle put his hands on his hips.

“Is the plate ready?” Lavelle asked when he appeared in the kitchen.

“Yes, have the server deliver this to him.” L’Salle covered the plate with a metal cover.

“He seems quite content.” Lavalle nodded as he made some markings on his pad.

“Really?” Emile hung out of his office trying to smile.

“Oui, boss.” Lavalle shrugged with one shoulder.

“Oh, I could kiss you!” Emile exclaimed.

“Please don’t.” He shook his head, “No need to show such emotion.”

When he first saw her, Claudette was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. She was far more beautiful that the Mona Lisa that hung in the Louvre. Her voice only hinted at pleasures that she would bring to his heart. Love was something he had never had the pleasure to fully taste. While Andre had tasted fame, love had eluded him for the most part.

He invited her to dinner with him at a place he quite like in one of his reviews, but the evening turned into a disaster as the soup was tepid, and the mushrooms were overcooked. The waiter that served them was an oaf spilling the coffee on her sequined dress.

“How could you bring me here, Andre?” She scowled. He would never see her again much to his dismay. He never understood how such a place would become such a disappointment. No sooner that that memory vanished from his mind than Barron appeared with carrying a large tray with his dinner on it.

“Monsieur, dinner is served.” Barron placed the tray in front of Andre and removed the covered plate from the tray. Andre rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “May I present, escargot de Bourgogne.”

Removing the metal cover, Barron laide the escargot de bourgogne on the table before the famed food critic who was already smiling.

“Oh this looks exquisite.” Andre picked up a fork and knife.

“Bon appetit.” Barron bowed regally before he turned to leave Andre with his dinner.

Taking a sip of wine, Andre put the first piece of bourgogne into his mouth. The marriage between the wine and meat was beyond words at the moment.

It took just one kiss for Andre to forget about his failed attempt at love with Claudette. What Jean Marie had to offer was much more than he ever could imagine. She appeared to him like an angel. Her beauty seemed to emulate from another source, but she held his gaze as well as his heart. She had no false pretenses or expectations that he could not fill.

He took another sip of the wine before indulging in finishing what was left on his plate. With his pad on the table next to him, he scribbled some notes about the lovely meal he had consumed. Barron hovered in the far corner of the dinning room trying not to make it obvious that he was indeed hovering. He pretended to be in conversation with the bartender, but it was obvious that his attention was completely focused on Andre.

He drifted into the dinning room, “May I take your plate, sir.”

“Oui, merci.” He watched as Barran lifted the plate from the table. “How was it?”

“Delightful.” Andre wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Will there be anything else?” Barron asked.

“Non.” He smiled. “Tell Monsieur Emile Saterini that I thoroughly enjoyed this meal.”

“Oui.” He smiled and walked into the kitchen with the empty plate.

“Well?” Emile was waiting for Barron when he opened the kitchen door.

“He was very happy.” Barron told his boss who was overjoyed to hear the preliminary report. He grabbed his waiter and kissed him on both cheeks.

“He is writing something on his pad.” Louise reported as she peered through the window.

“I am sooo happy.” Emile gasped.

“I’d wait until I saw the review in print.” L’Salle shook his head.

Everyone should have listened to the chef since L’Salle had seen Andre write things in his column that did not match what he had experienced while dining.

The next day, Emile got to Rue de Noir as early as he could purchase a Le Monde. Nearly ripping the newspaper in half to open it to Andre Deneuve’s column. When he saw the column, Emile could not believe his eyes:

By now you are used to my critical opinion of a restaurant that I have recently patronized. Usually I comment on the taste and overall presentation of the dish that was served to me. I am quick to render my take on whether or not it met with my approval based on my current culinary standards. In the case of Rue de Noir, I will forego my expected reaction and reveal memory became a welcomed companion to my table. They say that taste and smell become the last memory we have before departing from this life. When I was seated, my memory was stimulated by the ambiance and presentation of my menu choice. Many consider escargot and bourgogne to be part of the gourmet palate, but where I come from, this is dish I was served often by Olivia Carreaute, my grandmother. One of the reasons I have become known as a quite persnickety food critic in my reviews for Le Monde is because her culinary skills were far superior to most in the profession, To my experience, she was the master of this particular dish of snail and beef. Her gentle touch in using seasoning made it nearly impossible for anyone to even match it. So I was quite intrigued when it was served to me at Rue de Noir. Upon tasting their rendition of escargot and bourgogne, the memories I had seemed to come to life once again. Both taste and smell brought me to that wonderful place once again.

“Boss, I think you’d better come and have a look.” L’Salle stood over Emile as he finished Andre’s column.

“What is it?” He looked up at his head chef standing there with his arms folded over his smock.

“I cannot explain it. You must come and take a look.” He insisted.

“Oh very well.” He was a bit irritated with Andre’s Blaize review. “I am a busy man.”

“I read the review.” L’Salle shrugged, “It was a good review for him.”

Emile followed L’Salle from the kitchen to the dinning room.

“What?” Emile saw nothing out of the ordinary.

“Come look.” L’Salle stood in front of the picture window. “You will see.”

What Emile saw when he stood next to L’Salle was a line of people wound around the city block waiting for the doors to Rue de Noir to open for business. Emile could not believe his eyes.