I Eat Escargots

Spago Sex Fantasy 1987.

2006-01-02T09:40:00.000-08:00

The year is 1987. The month, July. The place, Spago, LA, United States of America.

After the mini-scandal my father made at the Beverly Hills Hotel, the concierge used his best clout to have us a table at Spago.

Strangely, that wasn't too difficult to get one. I remember, lots of noise and a nice dining room with a view making the corner of a street.

No remembrance of the food whatsoever. No stars present at the site either.

But I remember a good image of those 2 American sisters sitting with their family at the table behind us.
Being French was quite fashionable at the time, and those people were crazy about us from the moment they heard us speaking.

A weird moment, as both families tried to tie my brother to the youngest of the sisters. She left him a nice message, a kiss with her red-blood lipstick printed on a napkin - nice. Jennifer. Pretty girl indeed, who sent my brother her own picture in Paris with a romantic message attached to it. Ah, old times when we were still writing mail with ink.
Personally, I was really excited with the older sister who was about 3 or 4 years older than me and had a very "generous brest". Strangely they didn't try to tie her with me... too bad, she had this exciting blondy american haircut that gave me hot sweats.

Not really interesting story. But I wonder if some people might think the same as I do about Spago... blondy, big tits, sex. It's what's all about, am I right ?

The place closed in March 2001, and re-opened as the new Beverly Hills Spago.

link&photo: courtesy of seeing-stars.com

tags: Hollywood, Spago, Stars, Cinema.

The Best Restaurant of the French Alps - or what !!

2005-12-19T16:07:00.002-08:00

Have you ever tasted meat that... tasted like meat ?

During the 1980's I used to go outrageously often to Meribel in the Three Valleys of the French Alps, at least 2 weeks twice a year. At the time McDonald's was not so omnipresent and genetically modified food was still a myth you could only read about in a Scientist-like magazine or a Sci-Fi novel of morbid inspiration.

Meribel is a pleasant ski resort. Back in 1978, only a few hotels were present. With the 80's came the easy money for many French and Parisians in particular. Lots of tax-free cash (read "black money") was made by business men who were eager to spend it all around in fast cars, expensive girlfriends and vacations with their families in luxury resorts.
Meribel became fastly the place to be for the nouveaux riches. This status culminated in 1992 when the Olympic Winter Games took place in Albertville. The mini-city of Meribel, like lots of other villages in the French Alps, then became the prey of entrepreneurs who ill advised many city councils in very ambitious and too costly building developments. After 1992, 60% of those buildings were empty as a result of this "other" scandalous French misadventure of public money.
As a result and thanks to the development of the Eurostar and cheap flights, those buildings were then promoted and sold to many English people who now own most of the place.

Anyway. Back in the beginning of the 80's, Meribel was a village of real Savoyards (the habitants of Savoie, the name of the region). The landscape was almost immaculate, and the city very small. It was like, if you were spending more than a week or two there you knew exactly everybody (and I mean it). Back then, the apres-ski hour (after-ski tea time if you prefer, though in Savoie it's more like drinking a glass of hot red wine) was a good reason for everyone to meet at La Taverne, and later on, for late hours at Les Saint Pères (the disco club).
Fights between people were occurring from time to time like to expel bad blood. Back then 2 brothers were owning the whole village's shops, selling ski suits for today's equivalent of 700$.

Yes, that was cool.

You can imagine th smell then. The immaculate smell of the mountain, the French cheese, the cows, the snow. A dream today, even for the wealthiest people on earth.

It is there that I tasted the best meat of beef I have ever tasted in my life. The côte de boeuf (T-bone) Chez Kiki has been a miraculous experience, luckily on several occasions.
Kiki, the chef and owner of the place was a very welcoming man. It seemed he always smiled with his small moustache. Surprisingly enough, the guy still has the moustache today. I wonder if the meat is still that good though.

There's not much more to say about this. It was just good meat.

Once, my father and I were having a big problem with the wheels of the Range Rover. When we arrived at the corner of Chez Kiki, it was then a very snowy winter, my father lost control and almost destroyed Kiki's car and Kiki himself (the car was a Lada, so imagine the bloody damage it would have been). We all survived.

A couple of months ago I went to the dentist who has his office at the corner of my house, some 50 meters away door-to-door. We had a nice chat about Meribel. He also mentioned this very nice restaurant : "mmm, I can't really remember the name right now". I held my breath.
"oh yes, of course, Chez Kiki".

The Dream of l'Orangerie.

2005-12-15T16:48:00.000-08:00

L'Orangerie incarnates the myth of Hollywood as I imagined it at the age of 12.

The background of this story takes place in the Beverly Hills Hotel in Los Angeles. The year is 1987 and even though the A-Team is at its paramount and Sylvester Stallone is over the top, America is slowly beginning to decline with the dollar losing its potency in the world's currency market. 1987 is also the year of Wall Street and the discovery of one of my favorite films of all time, of which I know the French dialogues almost by heart: The Vikings, starring Kirk Douglas.

At the time French were not used to travel so far. The price of plane tickets was ten times what it is now in comparison, and vacations in LA and actually the Americas were a luxury for most French and Europeans.

We were over excited my brother and I, thinking we would meet tons of stars at every corner of every LA street. After 2 weeks, we eventually met with Mickey Mouse (in Disneyland), lots of Ferraris, the robot of the Nintendo Entertainement System, but definitely no living star at all.
We were actually pretty much disappointed and very stressed about this trip, my father having divorced from my mother recently and having lost his Texas operations in Dallas (I guess he dreamt he would become a sort of JR down there).
We also had a couple of problems with the management of the Beverly Hills Hotel which refused us having dinner at their restaurant or having a bath in their famous swimming pool "because they were not admitting children". The first night we were actually forced to buy country club suits at BHH's shops for my brother and I, and even then, we were just allowed to eat at the bar a vulgar club sandwich.
My father got extremely upset of course and many things changed the following day. We were eventually given suites facing the swimming pool, but even then my father decided we were not going to waste our time in the hotel's restaurant.
Instead my father, with the "generous assistance" of the concierge (who also tried to have him date a gorgeous Madame of his staff), took us to the most famous restaurant addresses in LA of which I only remember a couple: Spago and L'Orangerie.

On the second day of the first week we went to L'Orangerie. We went using the Mercedes convertible my father actually rented for the whole 2 weeks of the trip (after he exchanged it against the Lincoln he thought was classy on the first day).
We were welcomed by 2 gay guys, who seemed weird at the time, not because they were gay (I didn't even knew what the word meant) but because they were sticked together all the time either welcoming guests at the reception, or giving instructions to waiters all over the place. It contrasted so much with the cold welcome and tense atmosphere at the BHH.
I can't remember what we ate then, but I remember the experience so well because our 2 hosts took care of my brother and I for like 2 hours, always telling us nice things in a pseudo-LA French language. Still, we enjoyed the place. We were a bit disappointed though as we left and were told that Mel Brooks had dinner there 2 nights before, and Rambo himself the night before.

The rest of the trip was not so glorious, and eventually when my father asked us what we would like to do on the last night, we chanted in choir "L'Orangerie! please papa!". Strangely enough my father agreed and we took one of the hotel's limo. When we arrived we realised we were not the only one that had something to celebrate as a couple of Rolls Royce were parked against the restaurant main entrance.
At the entrance the 2 gay guys reappeared, this time with less enthusiasm and a bit of anxiety in their manners to welcome us. Issur Danielovitch Demsky was celebrating with the wife he met in Paris and a few friends. Kirk Douglas was there, at the table near the reception (centre right on the photo above), the same "son of bitch" I dreamt I wanted to be in The Vikings.
There was actually another star that very same night, sitting with another three friends at the round table just closed to Kirk Douglas' assembly. Elton John was sitting there, wearing his usual hat and poncho style of garments of the time.
We were actually sitted to the round table on the left of the picture, behind the tree (I can't remember if it is a fountain).
There also was a young TV female star there, talking apparently to a big TV honcho guy. Well, I can't remember her name, but I was told she was very famous by the 2 gay guys (sorry I continue to call them this way), so I believed them.
Amazingly enough, my brother was proposed to do a commercial by a producer that was at a table behind us. My father refused as we had to fly the following day to Houston.
Towards the end of the dinner, our 2 friends came to ask my brother if he wanted to be introduced to the Officer of the Legion d'Honneur Kirk D himself (I wasn't proposed the privilege as I looked pretty upset that night because of my father).
On that memorable occasion Kirk Douglas told a few sentences in French to my 9 years old brother. He told him something I'll remember all my life: "you look already a strong muscular man for your young age!" while he touched the shoulder straps of my brother's suit.
We spent the rest of the night in a total exhilaration.
I think Sir Elton must have been jealous somehow because he wasn't introduced to us. He eventually stood up and went to shake a good hand to Kirk to salute him and left jumping around. The fact he didn't come to salute us as well remains a mystery to this day.

tags: US+Food, Food, Los Angeles, Cinema+Cuisine

Hum, 'xcuse me Monsieur Laurent, why my potatoes are... empty?

2005-12-03T17:22:00.000-08:00

I have been in a few good restaurants in this world.
And every time I experienced a little je-ne-sais-quoi that reminds me of the place more than the food itself.

Take Laurent, in Paris.

I was young. Maybe 10 or 11. 20 years ago. My parents brought me there, and we sat at a table somewhere in the garden.
They were talking about this and that (must have been about money and the amount my mother was getting from her divorce), nothing really exciting.
I remember I was really tired, I think that was the end of the week-end, and my dad was bringing me back to my mother and decided to take us to dinner. Anyway. I was really bored.

What my parents ordered for me didn't really help to inspire me anything positive for the rest of the night. While I must have been dreaming of hamburgers and French fries, they ordered me a pigeon: "no no no my little one, they don't make mash potatoes or frites here. And they don't have Ketchup neither".

I never tasted pigeon in my life. The "thing" was stuffed with a nice jardinière. Very French (now that I know more about cuisine and French culture).

There was a side dish with it. The famous pommes soufflées “Laurent” (soufflé potatoes as translated on www.FoodNetwork.com).
I remember their size, smaller than a ping pong ball.
What was more amazing about it is that they were completely empty (also like a ping pong ball). I know, you're going to tell me that's the concept of "soufflé", empty. Fine, thanks. Tell that to a 10-years old kid though and you'll see an inevitable mix of curiosity and dumbness on his face. "Soufflé what ? How can this be ?! Do you mean that someone has blown in a potatoe like you would into a bottle of liquid soap to make a bubble ?". Yes I know, really dumb. Today I still don't know how soufflé potatoes are made. And I actually do not want to know how they're made, because that has been the magic about this restaurant for me, and I just don't want to know the trick of the magician.

The potatoes will make me remember the place until my old days. I really hated the pigeon and I actually only ate the jardinière and the potaoes. I enjoyed them I think... because apart from being small and empty, I remember there were only 5 or 6 of them in my plate.

tags: Paris, Paris+restaurants, French+food, French, food, gourmet