10/27/2004. Lunch heaven

You may imagine me as an habituée of Paris' finest restaurants. In fact, until yesterday, I had never been to one of this city's really great (top 10) spots. Part of the reason is that Denis and I are hardly ever in Paris on a Friday or Saturday evening. Thursday evenings are "family night out" with his sons (which cost-wise rules out a Great Restaurant). And the other evenings, Denis works too late for dining out to be an option.

So I was excited by an impulsive decision to celebrate my friend Karen's return to Paris (after a long and harrowing absence) with a lunch entre femmes at Les Ambassadeurs, the restaurant of the Hôtel de Crillon, one of Paris' most classic old hotels in the Place de la Concorde. The idea was Karen's, who assured me that the experience would be fabulous. "Besides, they know me there," she added. I told Karen I'd treat, but she had to make the reservation, since she was known by the personnel.

I must admit to a certain skepticism about restaurants in grand hotels, no matter how good their reputation. I'm always afraid I'll be served an overpriced, stuffy, heavy, uncreative menu. My lunch at Les Ambassadeurs gave me a radical attitude adjustment. I arrived before Karen at the sumptuous palace that is the Crillon and was ushered courteously to a comfortable seat on down-filled, velvet cushions. When Karen arrived a few minutes later, she was warmly welcomed and we were seated in the dining room.

I looked about with a small thrill, thinking that if you were to imagine me dining in Paris' finest restaurants, you couldn't imagine better than this beautiful room. With walls of peachy marble, beautiful gilded trim and ornamentation, gracefully tall windows, and delicate frescoes on its high ceiling, the Crillon dining room is quintessential classic French luxury. It's a very satisfying experience to dine in that room because it so fulfills your expectations--your imaginy concept--of what such a dining room would be like.

Karen and I sipped flutes of champagne while we looked at the menu. It didn't take long to decide that the prix fixe menu at 70 euros was the way to go. Before anything officially on the menu arrived, we were brought little pots of butter flavored with minced cêpes--the woodsy, perfumed wild mushrooms that are in season now, accompanied by small, thin, toasted split baguettes. Notice I said the butter was accompanied by the bread--and not the reverse--because there was enough butter to slather on approximately 40 pieces of bread.

Next, the head waiter sashayed past our table with a beautiful, small wooden crate inscribed in Italian, which he opened to reveal the jewels inside: gnarled tubers the color of milk chocolate whose musky perfume was perceptible even at a distance. They were impossibly huge white truffles from Italy. I asked to be able to inhale their fragrance, and practically swooned with pleasure.

Now, let the menu begin. But wait--the first dish we were served wasn't even on the menu. (Fine French restaurants will often bring you one or more courses that are not listed on the menu, to suprise and delight their clients, as well as to show the generosity of the house.) A mini martini glass arrived filled with cubes of foie gras smothered in a foamy foie gras emulsion. The warmth of the emulsion had brought the cubes of foie gras just to the melting point, so that they disintegrated into unctuous sweetness as they hit your tongue.

Karen and I were still moaning in pleasure when the real first course arrived, listed as caviar osciètre, nage corsée, langoustines. This turned out to be succulent succulent langoustines wrapped in a crispy twisted pastry, garnished with leaves of Chinese black cabbage, with a little pot of intense creamy, langoustine essence alongside. On top of the nage was a bulging crown of tiny, glistening, deep olive green pearls--the osciètre caviar. These I crushed between tongue and palate, releasing their briny perfume along with a sense of rapture in my food-loving soul.

Next were fresh sea scallops, which have just come into season, on a toast round, garnished with a chiffonade of cabbage and...(drum roll)...topped with some generous slivers of white truffle, a generous flourish of the chef in response to our truffle-inspired moans.

Following that difficult-to-follow act, a succulent rectangle of bar (French sea bass) under a delicate crust of minced fresh walnuts. Alongside was a little pot of seared cêpes with parsley. The waiter delicately spooned some intensely flavorful jus de cêpes around the fish before wishing us bonne continuation.

All of this we washed down with a Mercurey 1er cru "La Mission" 2000 Ch”teau de Chamirey, whose crisp, refreshing perfume was the perfect counterpoint. Finally, dessert was presented with a flourish. A fantasy consisting of a airy cylindrical cage of meringe--itself a feat of culinary engineering--housing a vacherin of raspberries, rose, and litchi--the triumvirate of flavors made famous by Pierre Hermé's signature macaron. As if all that were not enough, with coffee came plates of tiny macaroons, beignets, and pistachio petits fours, and chocolates. After coffee came an incredible frozen mint to refresh our palates and bring us back down to earth.

During dessert, we were visited by the architect of our pleasure, Chef Jean-François Piège. This talented young chef has recently assumed the helm of this former realm of Christian Constant, and under his hand, the restaurant hasn't missed a beat.

Three and a half hours later, we staggered out into the autumn sunshine of the Champs Elysées, blinking at the fact that the world still existed after our interlude in paradise.

Hôtel de Crillon, 10, Place de la Concorde, Paris 75008, Tel. 01 44 71 16 16.

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