like something else. (Metal rings, remember? You might want to
reconsider what I said about them too.) Green and white asparagus were
spooned with chanterelles and truffle fondue. Chilled lobster was stacked
on fava bean puree and drizzled with Ligurian olive oil. Even the green
salads were hand picked, one leaf after the other piled gently on the
plate, the garde-manger guy tasting the occasional piece. A filet mignon
came up in the window with a medallion of bone marrow looking pretty
and pink under a thin veneer of sauce.
And Scott still doesn't make veal stock. There was tête du porc en
crépinette, monkfish with white beans, lardons, roasted tomato and
picholines, diver scallops with pea shoots, black truffle vinaigrette and
truffle/chive/potato puree, Scottish salmon hit the pass-through with
chestnut honey-glazed onions, old sherry wine vinegar and chicken jus.
Not a damn thing to sneer at. That I do more meals at Les Halles in
forty-five minutes than Scott does all night was cold comfort. The food
was all so dead-bang honest. No bogus wild-weed infusions, cookie-
cutter piles of pre-made garnishes, no paper collars used to force food
into tumescence. Garnishes, such as they were, were edible; the food
looked good without them. And the plates were white, no SB logo, no
multicolored spirals, baroque patterns, oddball novelty shapes, football
field sizes or ozone layer-puncturing space needles of verticality. The
pâtissier whacked off a hunk of Morbier for a cheese plate—a daring
selection, touch that stuff and you'll be sniffing your fingers for a week.
Bread was from Amy's, along with a rustic ciabatta.
When orders came in faster, the pace quickened slightly, but nobody ran.
Nobody seemed hurried. Scott jumped from station to station as his
mood dictated: fish, sauté, garde-manger, even pastry. In his absence,
waiters wordlessly stepped in and did the expediting and plate finishing,
with imperceptible change in product. (Waiters shouldn't touch food. Did
I say that? Wrong again.)