Five restaurants. Anywhere in the world. No language barrier. No bill to pay. No danger of spotting my tie or gaining weight. Sounds irresistible, but making the choices is not an easy task for someone who recently ferreted out five good places to dine in Roanoke, Va. Yesterday Roanoke, today the world!
My route will take me to Lyon, France; the Piedmont region of Italy; Hong Kong; and Santa Fe. And to show that getting there can be half the fun, I`ll begin with a meal on the Concorde flying from New York to Paris.
The Concorde. Don`t faint! I`m not promising the meal of a lifetime. It might not even be the best meal available aloft. But sometimes even a food freak has to put things in perspective.
Crossing the Atlantic on an overnight flight is one of the most disagreeable trips I know. Accomplishing the same goal during the course of a perfectly pleasant French lunch is a treat that doesn`t need to be subjected to a Michelin star rating. There`s plenty of wine, the serving staff is friendly and courteous and if you`ve a conversationally inclined seatmate, you`ll begin to believe God really did intend man to fly.
Somewhere between Mach 1 and Mach 2, I`ll let a little vintage Taittinger Comtes de Champagne roll around on my tongue, think about how Superman, too, flew ”faster than a speeding bullet” and turn my attention to the smoked trout and lobster claw canapes that have arrived to whet my appetite. Next, bien sur, a generous portion of caviar-the grains are a little soft, but it`s the real thing.
Now into a typical French menu: crisp composed salad (the plastic cup filled with dressing is a minus), tender beef filet rounds with a limpid Madeira sauce speckled with truffle flakes, tiny green beans and a glass of Chateau Lynch Bages, a tray of cheeses with tiny name tags on each and a dessert charlotte that blends chestnuts and whiskey. Cognac with coffee? Why not?
Service is less leisurely now because the dining room is tilting downward at a rather steep angle. Soon after the table is cleared, we`re on the ground. I have no jet lag, no appetite. The excesses of lunch have made me sleepy, which is just as well because it`s midnight in Paris.
Lyon. While gourmets adore dining in Paris, gourmands are much happier in masculine Lyon, a city that proudly proclaims its site at the confluence of three rivers: the Rhone, the Saone and the Beaujolais. For a true trencherman, this is the Hall of Fame-Cooperstown, N.Y., and Canton, Ohio, rolled into one. The best products, the best chefs, the best eaters in France all are here.
Time presses, so I`ll go down for lunch from Paris on the TGV, the world`s fastest train, and return that afternoon. Arrival at noon and a casual stroll through the city or along the Rhone toward City Hall lead me to tiny rue Pleney and the antique facade of Leon de Lyon. No restaurant here, and perhaps in all France, better blends modern culinary genius and a respect for tradition.
The 1st floor, low and dimly lit, could be a museum reproduction of a dowdy but comfortable 19th Century Lyon cafe. But the customers, many of them certified antiques with noses the color of Beaujolais, are real. Upstairs, where I`ll dine, the room is brighter, sprightlier but not in the least intimidating. The silver is heavy and comfortably worn. Waiters are uniformed bistro-style, in shirts, ties and black aprons.
The menu is a marvel. It was created by chef Jean-Paul Lacombe, who took over the kitchen at 25, following the death of his father. One section is dedicated to the rich and heavy traditional fare of Lyon. The rest is as up to date and a la minute as the shiny modern kitchen behind the restaurant`s ancient facade.
I`m here to worship, not to nibble, so I`ll start with a salad of spinach, warm foie gras and duck breast, then move on to a small portion of scallops and leeks bathed in a butter sauce. Next I`ll turn back the clock and order steamed truffled sausage, a signature dish of the restaurant and the city, which comes with fragrant lentils and potatoes. So far, the restaurant`s house Beaujolais, served in a pitcher, has been perfect as an accompaniment. But the great vineyards of Burgundy are not far distant, so to complement a selection of local cheeses, I`ll indulge myself with a well-aged bottle of Bonnes Mares. For dessert, the assiette de desserts d`autrefois, assorted classic desserts.
Now, strong coffee and a sigh of relief that I`ve left time to walk off lunch in the hilly old section of Lyon before boarding my train.
Alba. I`m driving a couple of hours southwest of Milan at a specific time of year, the fall, for a specific reason. This charming and surprisingly sophisticated town is the center of northern Italy`s white-truffle industry and the region`s best vineyards. In addition to grapes and truffles, the Langhe hills near Alba also nourish that fabled wild mushroom, the porcini. No people should be so blessed. Yet since they are, someone should share their blessings.
Begin the day by watching furtive peasants and clever merchants negotiate at a truffle auction. Then, toward midday, take the wonderfully scenic drive into the hills past the vineyards of Barbaresco and Barolo toward a dot on the map called La Morra. There is no town, but-surprise-there is a restaurant, Belvedere. I`m here for lunch because the daytime view from its gravel terrace is a magnificent panorama of rolling, wooded hills, many topped by castles or the ruins of castles. No modern edifice intrudes. You could be stepping into a 17th Century engraving.
Belvedere`s interior comes as a surprise. It is large and not very pretty. In fact, there may be 200 or more persons there, brought by tour buses, for a country feast. But the vista I`ve just left and what I`ll see on my plate more than compensate for the banal decor.
I`ll order the truffles sliced over pasta (Chef Bovio`s agnolotti have been nominated for sainthood), risotto or raw beef and then almost get a nosebleed sniffing their lusty fragrance. I`ll hope the chef has made a stew of game or is roasting some game birds (game`s in season, as well as truffles) and find a way to order some porcini anointed with olive oil and garlic. Along the way, I`ll sip my way up a ladder of wine glory-from dolcetto to barbera to barbaresco to barolo (known as the ”king” of Italian red wines)-all made within a few miles of the restaurant.
Somehow there will be room for a portion of hazelnut torte. Then, in a haze of contentment, I`ll return to the terrace and contemplate renouncing urban life forever.
Hong Kong. Of course, this fabulous city is a famous place to shop. But over, under and between the retail stores-and on the streets outside them-one is constantly assaulted by the sight and smell of food. As with Lyon, Hong Kong is blessed with wonderful fresh ingredients, talented chefs and a population for whom dining out is a way of life. One needn`t eat Chinese in this cosmospolitan city, but what a loss not to. One needn`t eat seafood, but unless an allergy prevents it, how foolish not to. In no great city on Earth will the fish be fresher or the variety greater.
For my ultimate meal here I won`t settle into the lavish splendor of one of the crown colony`s luxury restaurants. Instead I`m going to make a 45-minute daytime trek from the center of Kowloon by subway, taxi and water taxi to the east end of the harbor. My destination is Lei Yue Mun, a collection of humble restaurants and food stalls built over the water.
I`ll stop in front of Loong Moon Seafood, the restaurant at the head of the walkway where the water taxi ties up. The posted menu lists more than 30 different fish, and most of them are swimming in tanks on either side of the entrance and along the walkway. You can go into the restaurant and order or, much more fun, shop for your own meal as sidewalk vendors vie for your patronage. Competition is crisp, so all you need do is point.
My choices are prawns, abalone, scallops, dragonfish, lobster and crab, all of which will be delivered immediately to the restaurant`s kitchen and cooked simply in several courses. With fish this fresh, simplicity is a form of homage. Steamed or briefly stir-fried and flavored with scallions, shredded ginger or presented on a bed of spinach, the fish and shellfish are pristine, delicate, exquisite.
Outside, once my appetite has been subdued, waits a feast for the eyes:
the vibrant scenery of Hong Kong harbor and its floating city of junks.
Santa Fe. This city and surrounding countryside are filled with relics and remnants of earlier cultures and colors that pulse in your memory like neon. To appreciate them, and to fully experience the bright, clear New Mexico light and air, is a full-day experience. For once, a quick bite for sustenance is all I want.
At night, though, as the light fades and the temperature plummets, I am going to climb a broad flight of stairs from Water Street to the Coyote Cafe, an infant restaurant that offers some of the most exciting food served anywhere in the United States.
The owner, Mark Miller, is in the forefront of a group of daring young chefs whose innovations have transformed the image of American restaurants. An anthropologist by training, he is a scholar of this region`s history and indigenous foods. He`s also blessed with a keen sense of art and design and brings a restless intensity to his work in the kitchen.
All these qualities show in the high, airy dining room. Its focal point is a broad ledge placed over the open kitchen and long sweep of bar. The ledge supports a fabulous desert scene that features fascinating animal sculptures. The bar is more than a piece of the decor. It produces some great cocktails. In summer, music may be wafting in from the rooftop patio.
The menu is extensive and constantly evolving. Portions are large. Prices are moderate. If Miller is available, I`ll ask him to plan a tasting meal. With luck, it might include Pacific oysters with poblano pesto; shellfish-filled raviolis with a creamy, mild red-pepper sauce; magnificent crabcakes with green-chile chutney; chile rellenos filled with smoked corn and mushrooms; marinated pork grilled over pecan wood; and a luscious flan made with goat`s milk.
Miller knows how to turn the spice thermometer way up, but overall the Coyote Cafe serves very subtle fare. Not heavy, never greasy, it is-like Santa Fe itself-complex and vastly sophisticated.
On the way out, I`ll make a reservation for the next night, take an appreciative look at the marvelous-looking folk-art mariachi band over the entranceway and wonder if, when I reach the great beyond, I can ask to play a gig here.
