I can’t say enough about this little spot of heaven in the Bois de Boulogne but I will at least give it the ol’ college try – and back in those days that meant anything could happen and usually did. I vaguely remember those days when I was burrowed deep in the stacks feeling the love of learning. Well maybe I’m thinking of something entirely different. But back to the restaurant, I was glad I had wisely ordered a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck because as soon as it was presented table-side and served beautifully chilled, Sylvie was off and running – first talking about the apartment and the new staff they hired to help with her daily workload of buttering fresh croissants and getting dressed for lunch;  I was already on my second glass of Piper and beginning to die a little more gently.  Sylvie, I believe, likes to feel she can  confide in me, as a friend, of course (not always a place I like to be with women, for obvious reasons) but this time she was worried about Ray’s continuing late nights at the office, long distance phone calls at all hours of the night, unexpected client meetings but not at the office. It was all just too strange for her, she who had her arms fully around Raymond, his schedules, his petites habitudes, his life in other words all neatly controlled. They were married and it made complete sense to me – that’s what I wanted to believe. I poured Sylvie a second glass and myself another praying for the waiter to show up and thank God he did. I told you I liked this restaurant they hear you think.

Le Chef vous suggère and he started with the entrées which ran the gamut from foie gras to coquille Saint-Jacques. Sylvie, after asking twenty questions, decided on the Noix de coquilles Saint-Jacques which came marinated à cru, langues d’oursins, mousseline d’artichaut, lait à l’anis. No, she changed her mind and went with the Crab Supreme and avocado with Aquitaine’s caviar. I gave the waiter a moment while I paused for effect, obviously agonizing over such a weighty decision – almost as if I was deciding the fate of the Republique. Actually I was torn between the foie gras and the macaroni farcis au céleri rave, foie gras et truffes noires gratinés au parmesan but deciding that today it was going to be Foie gras de canard mi-fumé cuit à la vapeur, bouillon mousseux de racines aux herbes à curry. And on she chatted.

Noticing the champagne bottle was beginning its slow rise from the bottom of the ice bucket, I wisely ordered a ’06 Puligny-Montrachet A.C. Joseph Drouhin.  The main course was equally diverse and as challenging. As I noted previously, the Chef at La Grande Cascade has made a name for himself, a gastronomic reputation  if you will, so this is definitely the place to be seen, that is if you have Euros coming out of your ears and some plastic  that can take a licking and still keep on ticking. Mine can’t and probably never will. It will be bread and water after this meal. But all for a good cause. 

There were so many tantalizing items on the menu from red tuna encrusted in salt, pepper, sesame seeds and coriander, roasted pigeon supreme with lettuce-peas, natural juice to smoked steamed salmon steak on a minestrone of artichokes in pale green seaweed sauce or  a miniature tourte of wild duck in a sauce poivrade. I know you can feel my pain. Sylvie settled for red tuna and I the salmon steak which proved to be just right, or maybe just perfect.  I know that a few restaurants ago I decided to swear off deserts; this was most likely in a moment of weakness when I had gone one desert too far. But things are different now, I’m back in the saddle and it’s not polite to let a lady eat alone. Sylvie had fresh strawberries Chantilly au confit de coquelicot de Nemours while I, ever your humble servant, settled for a chocolate mousse.

Before leaving, I inquired from Sylvie what I could do, if anything to help. I knew next to nothing about Raymond’s business dealings other than what I’d read in the Tribune. That’s pretty much all true. Admittedly  it struck me odd how some of my old friends seemed to tumble into this sphere of  strangely overlapping interests. Case in point my lunch with Rusty and his search for a story led him to me and by default to Raymond;  Max had commented on the Raymond story which was becoming something of a cause célèbre, in an off-handed manner  suggesting to me that my old friend perhaps knew more that he was letting on; and quite frankly, I was fully expecting Sergey in London to check-in with me with his crisis and really add to my confusion and disruption when all I really wanted was to cook and lead a simple uncomplicated life. Sylvie looked at me with those eyes (oh boy here it comes) and answered “would you just see what you can find out for me please?” Right with sugar on it too sweetie.

After having me promise that I would come over for cocktails, Sylvie planted a peck on either cheek then gently rubbed out the lipstick trace turned and left. I inquired quickly if should tell Raymond about our lunch. She turned “why of course mon cher ami, why not?” She smiled as if sensing my predicament. For a few moments longer I watched her walk away leaving just a faint trail of perfume behind. I headed through the Bois de Boulogne, in the opposite direction, deep in thought and not terribly happy with the turn of events.