Central

Thankfully the next slated restaurant is a seafood joint, because the amounts of butter and fried pork I'm consuming are at unsustainable levels. Last night, I went to Central, a restaurant run by French chef Michel Richard. Years ago, I spurned it with derision because it served "faux" gras, which I assumed was a typo and at a French restaurant, I found that to be insupportable. Apparently it was a conscious choice on the part of a French restaurant to not serve foie gras, which I could consider even more offensive that force-feeding geese.

Anyway, Central is on the list and since it's French, it had an irresistible pull, anti-gavage stance or not. It was charming, mostly because it combined the best of both American and French dining. The atmosphere was intimate and convivial, but had enough space between tables to be private, was well-lit to encourage boisterousness, had a nearly-open kitchen to make dining interactive and featured comforts from French cuisine (charcuterie, gougères, tarts) and American cuisine (meatloaf, burgers, macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, and banana splits (keep reading)). I tried ordering Ricard at the bar (I got there a bit early) and after a little explanation, got a Pernod. The drink itself was sort of irrelevant because the beauty of the bar was the tilted mirror above it where you could have a drink and see the entire dining room.

We went to the table and surveyed the wine list, which was surprisingly light on French wines. That turned out to be fine too, because I was in the dining room and could both see better being there and use the mirror to supplement my people-watching.

We started with a cheese plate, featuring a random selection of goat, gouda, camembert, bleu and a mystery one on the far right. They were delicious, creamy when necessary, and served at the right temperature.

We also got an order of gougères. I'll say I preferred them at Adour, which may not be a rousing endorsement since I didn't even know what they were called then. But these were still delicious and had a popover consistency.

Being a creature of habit/exaggerated French tendencies, I got the salade frisée with lardons and a poached egg. It was a mad swirl of frisée, lardons (French bacon bits) and one shy poached egg in the middle of it all waiting for its moment to shine.

Before:

After:

Then I had steak tartare for the second time in my life.

You knew it was coming, but below is a picture from the first time (the archives are well-organized, even if the photographer has little reliable skill):

Both were exquisite when I abandoned myself to savoring its slightly unnerving consistency.

True to form, French and French-inspired restaurants have impressed me recently in the taste and presentation of dessert. Since there were three of us, we logically ordered three. Christine's clever idea was that I use my real camera and she did you a service, dear reader.

We started with Michel's Napoleon, which was stellar. I find Napoleons get stale quickly (and are nevertheless served) and oftentimes their creamy interior is little better than the filling of cream cheese danishes on a conference room table after lunch. The layers weren't repeatedly alternated, which allowed for a more thorough tasting of the individual components: the gossamery, flaky crust and the substantive cream. Don't believe me?

Next, we had Michel's chocolate bar with vanilla ice cream. True to its reputation, it tasted like a souped up and sophisticated Kit Kat bar.

I ordered the banana split. It was even better than it looks.

Above was vanilla and chocolate ice cream, with strawberry sorbet in the middle. On the bottom were two thin slices of banana covered with whipped cream, pineapple bits, chocolate covered rice puffs, and strawberry sauce, between two pools of caramel and chocolate. Who's foie is the gras now?