Alas it was time for my vacation in France to end with the new year
in full bloom and my duties back in New York City calling. I had a
farewell dinner with my father at a little
bistro run by a very young chef. My father is a voracious reader of all
the Parisian publications and came upon a review of the burgeoning
restaurant Jadis. Various newspapers have lauded it as the best of its
kind in the fifteenth and possibly the city. The meal was very good in
a classic bistro fare sort of way though I feel it is a stretch to call
it one of the best in Paris let alone the very best. The food offered
was mostly updated classics and reinvented French conventions. The
cuisine could be called new wave French I suppose, archetypal though
innovative.
The food was mostly game oriented and incorporated every part of the animal from kidneys and entrails, to feet and brain. My father ended up being the bolder of the two of us, ordering two dishes that I loved tasting but would rarely order myself. He began with the pied d’agneau or lamb trotter. The round white bowl that appeared contained a strange looking soupy ragout with chunks of lamb foot meat, snails, button mushrooms, and sliced cardoons. It sounds more like a bizarre sorcerer’s potion but those were in fact the ingredients and they worked surprisingly well. The lamb trotter tasted like fatty pieces of roast leg of lamb and the saltiness of the sautéed snails matched well with the texture of the mushrooms. My father was overjoyed with the dish; naturally a big fan of organ meats given his French heritage. I tried two or three bites and would have gladly accepted my own serving.
I’ve always been an icing on the cake kind’a’gal. You know us: we
devour frosting, flee crumbling cake remains. And desserts with
powdered sugar and oozing jellies that all fall down inevitably on
clothes never seem worth the lbs. or the dry cleaning $$. So, when I
recently found myself headed to Austria to cover the Salzburg Global
Seminar: Cultural Institutions Without Walls, the last thing on my mind
was leaky pastries: culinary institutions without walls….that is, until
I was asked by Amy Ephron to, if I was in fact going to Austria, write
about the infamous Sacher Torte.
Jill was done. For three weeks I'd been force feeding her on a take-no-prisoners march through the restaurants of Italy. I had all but nailed her feet to the floor. And then four days in Rome – dio mio, Roma! If you don’t eat well in Rome, you’re an idiot. 
I know it sounds blasphemous but one of my favorite restaurants in
Paris is an Italian joint. Casa Bini lies just south of the Boulevard
Montparnasse in a two-story building housing the family of Mrs. Anna
Bini. The food is traditional Puglian with a large menu of classics and
house favorites that never change. The principal allure of the place is
the leaflet of daily specials. I have rarely encountered the same dish
twice and the specials always impress so much so that my family, and
most people I know in Paris, list Casa Bini as one of their favorites.
