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The assistant brings a baguette, and Dave offers me a piece, but I shake my head. “I want to preserve my appetite.”
“Good idea. You won’t leave the table hungry here.”
Giselle comes again with our main course.
“Roasted pigeon with a port wine reduction,” she says, “with seasonal vegetables and a gratin dauphinois.”
I want to ask what a gratin dauphinois is, but I just smile. The seasonal vegetables turn out to be roasted beets and carrots served with leafy kale. The gratin dauphinois is potatoes, and I do a quick search on my phone to find out that they’re layered with cream, garlic, salt, and pepper. The top is broiled to a gorgeous brown sheen.
The pigeon, on the other hand, is a perfectly bronzed bird with crispy golden-brown skin, about the same size as a Cornish game hen. The glossy port wine reduction cascades over the meat, mingling slightly with the side dishes.
“This is a feast for the eyes as well as the mouth,” I say, looking down at the art on my plate. “I’ve never had pigeon before.”
“Neither have I,” Dave says, “but I bet it tastes like chicken.”
I laugh. “I don’t know where to start. I don’t want to disturb any of it.”
Before I can think further, though, the sommelier arrives with our wine. “Chambolle-Musigny from Bourgogne.” He shows us the label. “That is what you know as Pinot Noir. Or Burgundy if you use the French name in English.”
Dave nods. “Merci.”
The sommelier expertly uncorks the wine and pours a small amount in Dave’s glass. Probably just as well. Although our family is in the wine industry, we produce mostly lower-priced table wines as opposed to the fine wines produced by Steel Vineyards.
Dave takes the glass, swirls the liquid, and then sticks his nose inside, just like I’ve seen my father do countless times. Then he takes a sip, swishing it around in his mouth. He swallows, and then seems to contemplate it for a moment.
“Excellent,” he says.
“Very good, monsieur.” The sommelier fills my glass and then Dave’s. He bows and leaves us.
Dave lifts his glass. “To a nice evening.”
“To a nice evening.” I clink my glass to his and take a sip.
The aroma of ripe red cherries mingles with the flavor of darker fruit. The tannins are mild, and the wine is slightly acidic, which means it will pair well with food.
“An excellent choice,” I say.
Dave smiles. “It’s delicious, but I can’t take credit. The sommelier chose it for me. I don’t have Uncle Ryan’s or Dale’s nose when it comes to wine.”
“It’s perfect.” And I mean it. Even if it sucks with the pigeon, which it won’t, this evening is already perfect in my book.
The meal is delicious—Dave was right, the pigeon tastes like dark chicken meat—and when Giselle comes with our cheese course, which includes more baguette drizzled with local honey, I can’t eat another bite.
“Try a little,” Dave says. “And then of course there’s dessert.”
“I’m not sure I have room.” But to appease him, I take a bite of brie on one of the baguette pieces. The honey melds into the creaminess of the cheese, and it’s wonderful. I end up trying the Roquefort as well, but I stay away from the chèvre. Not a goat cheese fan.
Dessert turns out to be Grand Marnier soufflé served hot from the oven with crème anglaise. The aroma alone opens up a tiny corner of my stomach. I’ve got to try this.
It’s decadent, with orange liqueur as the primary flavor, but egg yolks and vanilla flavor are also apparent, and the crème anglaise brings it all together. Giselle brings a digestif of Calvados, pear brandy from Normandy, that perfectly ends the meal.
I’m truly mesmerized, and my tummy is full of gastronomic delights by the time Dave pays the check—or l’addition, as they call it here.
The limo picks us up and drives us back to the Narcisse Blanc.
I float on air as we ascend in the elevator and then get to our respective rooms.
Dave stands next to me and takes my key card, opening my door.
