I’ve just gotten home from dinner with the always-smashing, nothing-but-dashing Keaton. We started with Lillet at the Alibi Room, where the handsome but awkwardly lanky waiter accidentally brought us an extra drink…quelle horreur! We then moved on to Le Pichet, where we scandalized the eavesdropping couple at the next table with our racy stories. It serves them right for listening.
For those of you who are waiting and wondering, there were no gizzards to be had this evening, as there were on our last Le Pichet outing. [I’m so proud of those gizzards, and apparently I’m not the only one—Keats has also been telling all sorts of people about our culinary bravery.] We continued our theme of sharing little plates, starting with a salade Marseillaise: a pretty clump of golden raisins and chickpeas, surrounded by beets and long leaves of endive that had been lightly tossed with a tahini-ish dressing, the whole topped with a halved hard-boiled egg, the yolk cooked to not-quite-opaque perfection. Unusual combination, but it went down plenty easily. We also split a plate of grilled sardines on a bed of dandelion greens with fennel, pine nuts, and capers. Few things are better than fresh sardines. The skin is perhaps best, crunchy from the heat of the grill. We then moved on to a country pork paté with candied walnuts and other condiments I can’t recall, along with Roquefort and crispy pork confit and cornichons. We also shared a demi-pichet of Sancerre, not needing too much after the abundant Lillet before dinner.
Keaton is a madwoman at Le Pichet. The girl eats. It is a joy to behold.
Le Pichet is a Francophile’s dream, a narrow bistro lined with tile, clean white and wood. My newish shirt from 0044 is so sexy, although I have now managed to drip some sort of greasy food substance on it yet again. It must emit some kind of electromagnetic field that captures any and all vinaigrette molecules within close proximity. Off the dry cleaners once more!