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A cliche
in itself, Le Petit Pontoise might seem like a tourist trap,
except that there are few tourists inside. The restaurant
seems a clarion call for nostalgic Parisians who tire of the
New-Yorkization of their restaurants: the chatty waiters,
the low-fat entrees. This bistro's not afraid to lard it on.
Le Petit
Pontoise has tiny tables, lacy window curtains, and a dusty
charm, sort of like a preserved-in-amber '50s restaurant.
The wine list on the blackboards is not extensive, but it
reflects a nicely idiosyncratic tour of France with small
producers among the bigger names.
Among
the other reasons you should go? The foie gras and preserved
figs, a slice from a terrine that's as rich, creamy, and luscious
as any we've tasted in a long time. It's studded with pink
peppercorns and sea salt-simple, elegant, unforgettable. Forget
the ethics of force-feeding geese, the whacky diatribes of
California legislators intent on saving the fowl from us.
It's years before all this PC horror, sometime in the last
century. Sometime when you could eat food with no redeeming
social value and still enjoy it.
Follow
the foie gras up with the roast chicken. Butter's been shoved
under the skin; the bird's been roasted in incinerating heat
until the skin is brown but the meat still moist. It's served
with whipped potatoes-or better, whipped cream with just enough
potato to hold it together on the plate. Again, indulge. Forget
your cardiologist's call to better eating. So you shave a
few years off the end. You weren't doing anything special
your 89th year anyway.
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