Four Courses For $39? Now That’s A Value

The following restaurant review is pure fiction, based in no way whatsoever on a recent visit to a fancy French restaurant in a certain large city where my wife and I celebrated our 20th anniversary:

As we stood at the discreet entrance to Le Fromage du Goat, we could not help but notice an atmosphere of quiet elegance.

Soft classical music, which I immediately recognized as Mozart, or possibly John Tesh Live at Red Rocks, burbled in the background. The walls were covered with tasteful objets d’art, including a neon piece installed over one door, titled, “Exit.”

A hand-lettered sign said “Jackets required for gentlemen” and I breathed a sigh of relief because I had remembered my Mariners’ jacket by Starter.

We had of course made reservations in advance, a must at Le Fromage du Goat because they rarely bother to open otherwise. The host greeted us with deference, touching his hand briefly to his forelock, and ushered us to a window table.

My companion and I marveled over the unexcelled panorama of the city.

“Look,” said my companion, “the freeway!”

“Yes,” I said. “And if you wait a minute the train tracks will come into view. This restaurant, I believe, revolves.”

The train tracks never showed up. My companion thought I was mistaken (“full of it,” was her construction), although I maintain that the restaurant simply revolves very, very slowly, in keeping with Le Fromage du Goat’s air of elegant understatement.

After a brief perusal of the cellar’s offering, I ordered a muscular little Robert Mondavi Cabernet, which to my surprise turned out to be a bottle of wine.

Yet I was far from disappointed.

“Get her a bottle, too!” I said, indicating my lovely dining companion.

Our host raised a discreet eyebrow and scuttled off to the cellar.

We were struck by two things about the menu. First, it was extremely well-written, using such words as “canard” and “squab.” Second, it contained no prices.

“Excuse me,” I said to the host. “There are no prices on this menu.”

“It is a prix fixe dinner,” said the host.

“Yes, of course it is, but there are no prices,” I said.

“It is a fixed priced dinner, four courses for $39,” said our host, pouring Mondavi from each hand.

”$39 each?” I asked, laughing heartily.

“Yes,” said our host, occasioning laughter all around.

As we waited for the first course to arrive, we marveled over what a bargain we were getting.

“We are getting two French dinners for $78,” I said, “but the thing is, soup and salad is included.”

At least, I thought it was. The menu listed all four courses, but I wasn’t completely sure I had translated them correctly from the original Californian. For instance, when the first course arrived it turned out to be an elegant confit of poblano chiles and raspberries, when somehow I had been under the impression that it would be “Buffalo chicken wings.”

The next course, to my delight, turned out to be soup or at least a liquid-ish substance served in a bowl. I questioned the host at great length about its exact composition. Here is what he said, as close as I can translate: “Young baby pumpkins, Osterized.”

In other words, it was a triumph.

Next came the entree. We were allowed to choose from four entrees and I chose the king salmon baked in a crust of romaine lettuce.

“And super-size it!” I said, much to my own hilarity.

My companion ordered the butterflied “compleaux de Orleans flambardeaux” which turned out to be exactly what she hoped it would be, a fried butterfly.

She pronounced it “tender.”

Then, to our astonishment, came the salad course, after the entree. Apparently in exotic lands like France, the salad is served at the end of the meal. Actually, many of us in this country do the same thing when we finish our Big Mac and then eat those pieces of lettuce and onion that have fallen into the styrofoam carton.

This was no ordinary salad, however. It contained exotic woodland greens, which had been harvested that very afternoon in Provence. The dressing was so good that I asked our host what it was, and his reply was, as close as I can render it, “palleux des noimmons,” which I took to mean “Paul Newman.”

We would have ordered one of the exquisite desserts from the dessert cart, but about this time our host informed us that our VISA card had exceeded its limit.

So we settled for a tearful “adieu” to Le Fromage du Goat. I give it four stars. I would have given it five if it had revolved just a tiny bit faster.

, DataTimes