Two years ago right now, I was undergoing the spiritual reawakening that is French cuisine. To make matters cooler, I was on French soil. Even as the experience recast every fiber of my being, I steadfastly stayed away from the escargot, a French staple and a serious favorite among diners from Europe to Africa to Asia. Years ago, an American eatery had criminally undercooked my share, next stop was the ER and a quickie stomach pump, followed by a phantom taste of live land snail that refuses to subside every time I think about the ordeal.
But at some point, “y’gotta get back on the horse.” That’s what Bistro du Marche by Tapenade did when The Lot cinema and restaurant assumed its former Fay Avenue home in the summer of 2015 (before then, it existed for 17 years as simply Tapenade). Truth is, business at the Bistro has been in full swing the whole time, with the specter of escargot swirling about its appetizer menu.
On what amounted to a whim, I girded myself for impalement and sauntered in at lunch as though everything was going according to plan. I also had no earthly idea what I’d been missing all these years.
The Bistro’s king salmon entree will quell the most ardent seafood junkie’s withdrawal pangs—it was made for the white butter sauce in which it swims, and the baby spinach side expresses perfectly through both. When he sought to pair the eatery’s coastal flair with a signature dish, owner and France native Jean-Michel Diot knew exactly what he was doing. And don’t tell, but I had two glasses of the Paul Mas Chardonnay, bottled not too far from my locale two years ago.
And the escargot appetizer? What once was an object of fear and contempt had morphed into nothing less than the archetype of France’s reputation for culinary excellence. Maybe it was the garlic or the hazelnut seasoning or both, but amid them, my long-held tribulation would vanish into the noonday sun as surely as the hint of butter and herbs melted in my mouth. This eatery has won a string of Best awards in its time (including eight consecutive years’ nods for excellence from The Wine Spectator magazine); if the fates discern that escargot commands its own award category, Diot would be well advised to clear his mantle. Positively, colossally superb.
So ends a serious aversion to all things escargot and a refocus on other targets of upheaval,
including Bambi, a feisty little mare whose temperament was better suited to a glue factory than a meadow. The short story is she once threw me, whereupon I landed literally flat on my face, breaking my nose and both cheeks and causing my right jaw to be wired shut for the better part of 89 years. I haven’t been on horseback since, and if you really want to know, I think horses are the universal Satan incarnate (the ears are a dead giveaway).
But if I can climb one hurdle, I can climb another. These days, I cheerfully contemplate riding the devil’s minion anew, armed with the memory of my thoroughly outstanding meal at Bistro du Marche, its escargot the catalyst for spiritual renewal.
Bambi may have won the battle, but I’ll win the war.