Saturday, February 6, 2010. Fifty-Nine. La Provence. I could easily have let this birthday slip by uncelebrated. Nothing about the number fifty-nine engenders importance. It's not a multiple of anything. It begins my sixtieth year, but that note really belongs to this time next year. And on top of that any thoughts I may have had about the day were eclipsed by my usual panic about getting ready for the cruise that leaves tomorrow.
Mary Ann believes all birthdays (especially her own) are major occasions. We had to do something. She knows that a proper celebration for me would be dinner in a restaurant I love. That would be, among all the typical attributes of a great place to eat, one where the Marys would also be happy. I learned that lesson at Milestone Fifty, when Mary Ann and the kids swore that they would let me have the grand feast I wanted at Arnaud's. They started whining after the second of the eight courses. I chose to just keep enjoying myself, but they were just as determined to make things miserable. You can't win that game.
The ruling factor today would be what Mary Leigh will allow. She spent the night across the lake last night, and with her still over there the possibility of having dinner in the population center came up. But she ran out of things to do, and out of clothes. So the North Shore it was.
I advanced La Provence as a possibility. We talked ML into it--they do have a filet mignon, after all. The final hurdle was jumped when Just Joyce--the maitre d', bartender, poet laureate and mother hen of La Provence--answered the phone when I called for a reservation. She said they were booked up except for someone like me on my birthday.
It was a cold night. La Provence has one door separating outside from inside, although the vestibule helps block wintry blasts. Our table was right in front of the fireplace, though, so only wisps of chill made it to our abode. All very comfy.
I started with gnocchi with wild mushrooms and guanciale (smoked hog's jowls, indistinguishable from bacon). Ideal for a winter night. Mary Ann tried the soupe de pistou, a standard offering on the rustic table d'hote menu here. It's a vegetable soup with pork belly and a floater of French pesto. She loved it.
Mary Leigh saw that La Provence has grilled oysters. They are very good. But all she wants out of grilled oysters is the garlic butter. I told her that the thing to get was the escargots, hold the slugs. The chef passed by at that moment, and we asked him if such a thing could be arranged. Of course it could, he said. So out came a crock of hot garlic and herb butter, which my daughter enjoyed with the restaurant's homemade bread.
The most intriguing main course was a one-night-only dish involving rabbit, long a house specialty. Here we had rabbit loin rolled up to look like sausages, with a stuffing of rabbit confit, bread crumbs, and herbs. It was surrounded by winter root vegetable and wet down with rabbit demi, with a nest of caramelized greens atop it all. This was all in complete harmony with the season, the theme of the restaurant, the setting, my tastes, and everything else.
Mary Ann found trout with crabmeat and shrimp on the menu. That's a combination she can't seem to resist. It was unusual in being rolled--a presentation we don't often see these days. I have an aversion to rolled fish born of my never having had a good version of it in my life. I can't explain why serving it that way instead of flat on the plate should make such a difference, but it always has to me. She said it was terrific, though.
Mary Leigh may have had the most conventional dish of the night, but it was surely the most beautiful. Whether this was intended or not, the filet came out in the shape of a heart. A perfect cylinder of gratin dauphinoise potatoes came with it, along with a bunch of beautiful mushrooms she didn't touch.
Joyce wrote not one but two poems for the occasion. She came by with a little cake and a burning candle for me to blow out. My wish was that all three of the ladies at my table would remain parts of my life until my birthday falls on Mardi Gras in 2035.
We had other desserts. Mary Leigh saw a molten chocolate cake with ice cream, and could not resist. Joyce strongly urged me to try the beignets with praline ice cream. The doughnuts came out in a little wicker basket, too many to finish, hot and light. The check was $225, underpayment for the pleasures of this night.
The fire kept blazing. Everyone was nice to me. We discussed whether the call from Jude I received in the afternoon had been instigated by a call to him from Mary Ann, reminding him that it's my day. Nobody believed me when I said that if he hadn't called--if he'd forgotten it was my birthday--I would also have forgotten to expect the call from him. We're guys, and we understand such things.
La Provence. Lacombe: 25020 US 190 985-626-7662. Mediterranean French.
