Friday, July 15, 2016

This Is Where You Sit...

This is where you sit when you don't have reservations at the chic omelette cafe in St. Malo.

You sit at the table in the parking lot.  But we were happy to have a table! The night before, we had gone for dinner to this same highly-rated cafe, and Tony had made a faux pas in his otherwise impeccable (above-tourist) French! As the congenial maitre-de led us to our table, he explained the kitchen had just closed and we could only order dessert, sweet crepes, or tea. Happy to be there, we nodded our heads with happy smiles. A few minutes later, when we ordered an omelette and a savory crepe, we brought the house down with apologies--and we were the ones who made the mistake. We had to make a quick course correction to have the pleasure of dining at Bergamote. What did we do for dinner?

We ordered dessert! The lemon tart and a sweet crepe. Both were magnificent.

As we left the restaurant, the maitre-de still apologizing, he handed us a bag of scones.

"We'll be back!' we cried out.

And we were, but this time, as we walked in for lunch, we once again flustered the maitre-de.

"Monsieur, Madame, I am so sorry, but I won't be able to serve you again as you do not have a reservation!"

Not again... I thought.

"Unless...unless you come back in thirty minutes; I could seat you then...unless, unless...you don't mind sitting," and he pointed to the table in the parking lot. With great apologies he ushered us out next to the dented fiat.

But we were so happy! To finely be dining at the highly rated Bergamote. Never mind it was about to rain, never mind we had to put on our sweat shirts, never mind the scenery nor the wind. We were indeed happy, and our persistence paid off:

Yummmmm. A four cheese omelet, edges perfectly crisped, and a savory crepe. A delicious salad. Beautiful presentation. Who noticed the car?

The only problem from having lunched at Bergamote, didn't arise until our trip was over and we sat in our kitchen wondering what we might eat for dinner, while lamenting the state of our practically bare fridge, our country of residence, and our lack of French cooking skills. Tony stepped up to the plate and asked, "How about an omelette?"

Ahhhhh. Memories of my last omelette slid down the back of my throat and onto my palette. With grim hope, I answered, "Sure.

Tony went to his iPad and spent a considerable amount of time e-learning the secrets to making a great omelette. After he deepened the line between his eyes by a sixteenth of an inch, he rose for the occasion: cooking a French omelette. He immersed his eggs in warm water. He brought out the little glass mixing bowl. He held the whisk at the right angle and continued to furrow his brows. He buttered, he checked the temperature, he poured.

And he presented.
 Honestly, I'm not one to complain, but...

Our daughter, who had not just returned from France having had a Bergamote dining experience, was moved by watching the whole sacred experience and must have thought the omelette satisfactory, as she called the next morning for her father's tips. She was quite pleased with her omelette too.