Montmartre

Why is it that French men, largely reviled for their country's military ineptitude, tight jeans, and amour-de-fromage, are exceedingly more generous in attention-giving, particularly to a party of an amateur food critic and her sidekick friend, than a whole host of American men?

Over offal and slugs last week, Dotti and I at Montmartre discussed the merits of a town where two grown women and our assorted acquaintances associate ourselves with silly men who pause relationships for "marathon-training," men who leverage three types of communication systems in a three-hour time period to relay one message, and men whom we can't figure out if they adore or hate us.

Further, it is a puzzle to me how more than 80 restaurants in, it is only the restaurant owners and managers--working class men of all persuasions--and one creepy but bold biker who have the correct manly attributes to even consider engaging a woman dining alone or gasp, with a close friend. I eke out nexuses of food and love, but DC naturally offers little to link the two beyond providing a list of 100 good restaurants that someone liked along the way.

Nevertheless, Dotti and I were welcomed with French hospitality at Eastern Market's Montmartre, a beautiful upscale bistro. I enjoyed, quite easily, a Ricard at the bar. As proof of my paragraph above, as one of the owners prepared unknowingly my drink, he asked what I wanted to drink. I said that was it, he understood it was my drink he was making, then he poured a bit more on top. There's no bitterness here, just a broad-brush repudiation for a city that cultivates such silly men beyond those who staff restaurants. If I were doing a top 100 list of business sectors, restaurateurs would have to be #1.


Our waiter took our drinks to the table (like a gentleman and good host) and we commenced our wine drinking and conversing. Our waiter, French-style as well, deferred to us to set the pace and order when we had sufficiently gossiped our most important gossip.


To begin, I had the most exquisite escargots--the mind-numbingly buttery-garlic variety--such that I've not had since that first taste my freshman year of high school. Dotti can attest that I couldn't keep myself from shaking and shuddering in delight.


I also ordered the pâté, a solidly tender tranche, with cornichons, salad, and a sliced and toasted piece of bread. Pâté to me conjures up sophisticated fairy tale picnics or something a huntsman in a Hans Christian Anderson story pulls out of a satchel for his afternoon lunch. Or something I really enjoyed that night with fresh, warm bread.


Dotti ordered the skirt steak, a rare and tender concoction with a soy sauce and accompanied root vegetable and asparagus side. With red wine, it was magnifique.


I told my waiter, who couldn't decide whether to recommend the scallops or bronzino, to surprise me. He brought the scallops, crusty, plump, and tender with a bed of spinach, grapes, and pine nuts.


To sweeten our resignation, we had delicious desserts. Dotti had a blackberry and raspberry tart. I had l'Ile Flottante, the dessert I ordered the first time I went to Montmartre back in 2004.


















At least we'll always have Paris.