"Last night the chicken for dinner was so bland. It was a saltimbocca-type deal -- stuffed chicken.Then there was bland pasta. I want to make it properly," said Brigitte this evening.
Last evening I was out of sorts . . . don't make any public enquiries, but I didn't want to go to this gathering, hosted by a "traiteur" friend -- in French that means caterer, but in English we always want to come by our qualifications with . . . umm . . . qualifications. The word "traitor" is not very far away . . .
So I got into no small trouble, but in retrospect, it was probably one of the rare sound decisions I've made lately.
Rarely do the words "food" and "crime" make their acquaintances, but from what Brigitte told me, a crime was committed with food last night.
It's called blandness. Take for example, my rant on Feuilles de Menthe.
We went to a place called Cinq Epices about three days later because Brigitte had a major desire for Vietnamese, but the soups between them were exercises in cooking opposites.
Ever been to North Korea? Didn't think so. But the soup at Feuilles de Menthe tasted like the gruel served a prisoner in an eight by ten, not something that cost $7 at a trendy Vietnamese joint. By contrast, the Cinq Epices, at around $2.00, was absolutely brimming with spice and freshness.
Umm, I guess the word I'm seeking here is BOLD. Don't skimp on the garlic. Don't skimp on the butter. Not the peppers. Not the salt. GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER! If you have an Indian restaurant, cook like you're cooking for Indians.
Anyway, Brigitte is going to try and take that tasteless meal as an inspiration (from a caterer, no less!) and redo it so that it becomes tasteworthy.
Update to follow at 11.