Thursday, August 9, 2007


We finally made it to this Seattle institution, this long-standing French restaurant where the chef in the hat hangs his hat. As many of you know, we only visit this caliper of restaurant when someone else is footing the bill, and this was no exception.

It was a warm, spring night. Madison Park is a neighborhood that feels much the way it sounds (amusay of onomatopeia, anyone?). Leafy trees overhang expansive stretches of expensive sidewalk. Well-heeled folks always seem to be lingering about the boutique windows. But on this occasion, after parking the car, things went awry. I had only just begun to tickle the cobblestones with my own euroboots when one of my culinary school students came barreling out the side door of the restaurant - the kitchen door - in his whites and apron, clutching a handful of cash. He nearly mowed me down. Wearing your apron outside the kitchen is sacrilege, and he looked doubly embarrassed to see me outside of school. I didn't say anything though, since clearly the chef was sending him out just prior to service to buy some more of whatever he had just ruined in the kitchen. I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him.

Things only got worse from there. He evidently returned to the kitchen and told the chef, who instantly stamped us as VIP guests. I really hate when that happens, especially at this kind of establishment. I scarcely had time to order a predinner cocktail - hey, Negroni, don't choo know me? - when the captain dropped a platter full of chef de cuisine Adam's charcuturie at our table. He's no slouch when it comes to salumi, and he knows his way around both country-style and straight forcemeats as well, as was evinced by his terrines.

After that we were forced to endure larger than normal portions of better than usual cuts of meat, fish, game and offal- lobster, foie gras, lamb, steak, and a cieling full of stars (a cielo?) as I slid languidly down the leg of my chair and beneath the table, where by the time the meal had ended I found myself curled up into a little ball, happily using a dining companion's size 12 wing tip for a pillow.

Seriously, folks. Rover's executes French food at a high level. The sauces are clean and not over-reduced. The service is unobtrusive and not too high-mannered. For that, as well as for the overall beneficence of our hosts, I was eternally grateful to be alive.

1 comment:

savvy savorer said...

You know I am so jealous that you went to Rover's. I am going to go there soon, at all costs!

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