Et Voila

Et Voila. In my minimal-French-speaking mind that means a variety of spoken and shrugged things: "don't you get it?", "you should get it," "you should have gotten it a long time ago and we're still talking about it," and "I get it." Dinners with Sue are often filled with the latter definition on both sides and waves of dishes pass our lips and we continue to animatedly talk and empathize in our similar single girl experiences, of which there are increasingly more. These voilas, I imagine, gave the old couples around us an interesting earful. Mais oui.

Et Voila is an authentically French restaurant on MacArthur Boulevard in the Palisades, just up the street from Kotobuki (miraculously, despite having been in the same area last week, I still got lost going home). I got there an hour early, had a Ricard (no further explanation to the bartender was needed, despite me pronouncing it the American way), and admired the dining room from the bar.

Sue came and we settled at our table, among a very French-arrayed restaurant: one, thin alleyway down the restaurant with people strategizing their movements to accommodate others' walks to the bathroom, coat removal, and mussels delivery.

I ordered a reasonably priced glass of Bordeaux and the pâté de campagne (a simple one sans oxtail tonight) accompanied by choux fleur au vinaigre (cauliflower in vinegar), with cornichons (adorable pickles), and a green salad. The bread, however, had an aggressively exploding crust if I broke it too fast, which necessitated me taking some care assembling bite sized vehicles for pâté.

Sue got the French onion soup. She won: cheese trumps gelatinous meat products, although mine was tasty when coupled with two pickled items.

Before ordering the main dish, as we were talking too much to take time to decide before ordering appetizers, I thought I should put my French education to work. I broke out the rusty "excuse me, may I ask you a question" entreaty in French to our mignon French waiter before my common "between these two items, which would you recommend" line. I maintain that all servers and bartenders should have an opinion on which items on the menu are better than others, irrespective of what my particular tastes are. He said nearly without hesitation I should get the chou farci (stuffed cabbage), which I felt compelled to get as it was my favorite between-classes dish in Paris. The vegetables were not too heavy for the springier weather but the dark gravy-ish sauce was unnecessary and clouded the taste of the vegetables, beef, and cabbage. I could have done without the pasta too.

Sue got some of the tastiest, thyme-iest, garlicky-est mussels I've ever smelled or tasted in a generously deep bowl, with perfectly fried frites.

We were really holding out for dessert and ordered the Banana Splits of the French and Belgian dessert worlds, respectively: une gaufre and des profiteroles. The first was a Belgian waffle with a rhubarb confit. It wasn't too sweet and we both agreed fruit is never as good as chocolate, especially on waffles. But the edges were crisp and it was airy.

I have a nostalgic appreciation of profiteroles, my first French dessert ever at my first French meal ever after my first ever plate of escargots in Madame Pate's high school French class. It was a much better lesson in French culture than my other memorable activity, recording a song from Les Miserables, which we replayed in class. Our singing was eclipsed by Madame Pate's sobbing from the exquisite joy the song brought her.

Anyway, the pastry was light, the chocolate was legitimate and flavorful and the ice cream proportionate to its housing arrangements.

I guess Paris is a movable feast.