Sunday, February 15th / Cafe Cluny 12th and W 4th St. / 9:00pm
I've never given much thought to what I would have as--given I could choose--my last meal in life. I probably haven't thought about it, because if I did, my brain would most likely implode on itself, extinguishing me in an ironic twist of fate, hungry and madder than a 'coon in daylight that I had been robbed of my last meal whilst, and as a result of, contemplating it. As I would lay gripping my head in a pathetic and whimpering last ditch attempt to save myself from, well, myself, it would not necessarily be my life that would flash before me; rather, it would be food. Glorious, satisfying, life-sustaining, mind-altering, soul-awakening food. If I were in a movie, the shot would go from me on the ground, sobbing, pleading for one last meal to a photo montage of food while a perky song played in the background, perhaps from ole' Sinatra's era reminding me and--more importantly--the audience that my life hasn't been half bad, since--shoot--I've tasted some mighty fine flavors in my lifetime: shells and cheese, cinnamon rolls from Calico County, Mimi's rolls, mashed potatoes, peanut butter and jelly, HOT DOGS, brownies from a box, Mom's chocolate chip cookies, anything with cheese, anything with sugar... Yep, looking back on life in terms of meals can make even your last seconds on Earth sort of tolerable (unless you are on fire, trapped underwater, in a crashing plane, underneath a falling building or in immediate danger of a tragic death). Aaaaand CUT.
Back to the last meal thing. I DO have a point. If I had to choose a last meal from the smorgasborg of food I've had in the last week, it would be an easier decision than the Academy had to make for best movie this year (Slumdog, duh) : the Coq au Vin from Cafe Cluny.
First off, I had been here once before (Pumpkin Ravioli) months ago and loved, LOVED it, so I had an inkling I would be, once again, utterly pleased. The cafe is so French with its tucked away location in the West Village, its white aproned, white tee shirted staff, and its incredible menu of no-fuss French eats that I really, really wanted to waltz in speaking
la langue. Both Seth and I were squirming in our seats to order
un verre de rouge instead of a glass of red (Lord, English sounds so dirty and barbaric next to the musical harmony of French dictation) but we decided to restrain ourselves so as not to embarrass our friends (and probably ourselves, too). Also, tiny setback: the waiter (pretty sure none of them) didn't speak French. He was probably from Jersey, but he was cute nonetheless and when I pretended real hard, he looked French and sounded it too... okay maybe that's stretching it too far, but, hey, when you wish upon a star your dreams come true, don't they? Don't they, Jiminy?
We four had a tough time deciding seeing as though every single meal epitomized the perfection of French food. Steak frites, coq au vin, poulet provencal, roast lamb--it was a merry-go-round of the most fun dishes ever. I finally--after an in depth discussion with our Franco-Jersey waiter--heard the beckoning calls of the Coq au Vin and gave in to pleasure pressure. You know that feeling, when your mouth starts to salivate despite your brain telling you that the
salade mixte would be healthier (it IS fashion week after all, muffin-tops) but you can't, you just can't, deny yourself what could be the best Coq au Vin in the city? I gave in, the food-a-luffagus I am. Just in case it was my last meal, I wasn't going to chance it with a limp salad.
I won't put it in the comment box because I know they probably want to stay as French as possible, but in my head and in this post, I am going to unofficially re-name the Coq au Vin the Coq au Yumminess. No arguments. I know this compromises the French-ness of it and I LOVE the French--I hope I get reborn as one--but I feel as though my title does it more justice. There are tons of Coq au Vins out there. I wouldn't be surprised if TGI Friday's had one, so I must, for the love of chicken, distinguish this fine meal at least in writing.
My first taste of the Coq au Yumminess was of course, the juice: the defining foundation of all Coq au Vins. I ravenously tore off a bit of fresh bread from the basket and delicately soaked up just the right amount of Coq au Yumminess bathing juice. The smell reached my nose before the dripping bread touched my lips. The fragrance was a sweet, summery prelude to the orchestra of flavor that erupted in my mouth. The odor of wine, roast chicken, butter and French country side piqued my olfactory senses as if the smell was the secret passage word to opening my mouth. In came crusty bread softened under the spell of warm liquid ambrosia. The juice tasted just as it smelled but with a more powerful punch, though not as rich as the main event: the chicken. The chicken was roasted to perfection--was Jacques Pepin in the kitchen tonight?--and every bite of chicken, juice and mushroom brought me one bite closer to absolute paradise. I think if this had been my last meal--if I had been mauled by a Yorkie or flattened by a yellow cab later that night--I wouldn't have felt a thing thanks to the enlightening wonder of that Coq au Yumminess. That chicken wrapped it's juicy roasted wings--well, breast--around me and gave me more love than could one hundred arrows from Cupid's bow, a club full of male models and a couple shots of Tequila.
What can possibly follow the Coq au Yumminess? Can anything surpass the glory of perfectly roasted poultry bathing lavishly in a warm bath of bubbling flavor, tradition and national confidence? The answer is yes, my friends. There is one such dish that could and almost must follow such divine savory pleasure : divine sugary pleasure.
My rule of thumb for dessert is that if the meal was fantastic, the dessert probably is, too. If you still aren't sure, a quick look at the dessert menu should help. If the choices are something like Mega-Boxed Brownie Sundae topped with Shortening or Big Ass Piece of Chocolate Cake with a Side of Freezer Burned Ice Cream, then your judgement should steer you clear of a post-dinner dish. If, however, the choices have all the delicate grace of a creamy torte au chocolate, then by all means, indulge. Remeber, fresh ingredients + hobbit sized portions = less trouble in the adipose tissue department. I completely threw the whole "dessert leads to weight gain" thing out the window once our desserts--yes, we all four ordered our own--arrived. I also don't remember anyone's dessert save Seth's which I will now rename as the Brown Sugar Pecan Sensation Station. It was like pecan pie, but where there is normally gooey pecan pie goo there was melt in your mouth brown sugary magnificence spiked with artisinal butter from Switzerland's prettiest cows. The tart, too, was so graham crackery good, it was like the graham crackers had been grown tenderly on a graham cracker tree with all the freshness of a juicy fruit at its peak. Together, crust and brown sugar-pecan mixture created an effortless crunch in the mouth, the sort of crunch where you don't have to try too hard because after the first bite everything crumbles happily into miniscule brown sugary morsels, probably shaped like hearts or stars or unicorns. Yum yum yum. That's about all I can say in retrospect (in addition to the novella I've written above).
In conclusion, I cannot find words to give appropriate justice to the Coq au Yumminess or the Brown Sugar Pecan Sensation Staion except to say that I think, for the time being, I've found the
joie de vivre, which is why I would find it a fitting end to my life. As the buttery brown sugariness of the dessert would crumble under my last bite of life, I think I could die peacefully knowing that I had found paradise long before it had found me.
