Saturday, with the milliner back in town, we decided to fête her return, and my new employment, by dining out. So, we call and get some seats at Brunoise. Great little place, lovely atmosphere, my best gal by my side, etc.
Because the cook trained under Gordon Ramsay, he of Hell’s Kitchen fame, I was kinda expecting (and hoping for) expletives to come streaming out of the kitchen. No such luck, but I’m okay with that.
Being a meat-and-potatoes kinda guy, I usually stick to a select few items at restos. However, I decided to throw caution to the wind and ordered sweetbreads for both appetizers and the main course. Everything is served in the most beautiful manner, with none of that frou frou bullshit of “look, I shall build a log-cabin from carrots sticks and asparagus. Aren’t I the artiste?” But, um, main course: roasted sweetbreads. Yeah, I couldn’t do it. It looked like a brain, and tasted like congealed fat. I was thinking to myself, “Is this how it’s supposed to taste? And is it supposed to be this cloying?” I couldn’t eat it, so I expected the cook to come roaring out of the kitchen, berating me for my uncultured palate. It was worth the risk. I think I’ll stick to being a pagan. The evening was no where near a loss, however, because every thing else tasted great. And I made a great discovery: brown sugar ice cream. Mmmmm.