Spoon Theory

I have been poisoned.

That, Dear Reader, was my last coherent thought before passing out in the five-star restroom of Bistrot Le Coquillage.

(I pause here to remark that no one at that worthy establishment is to blame for the events that… well, read on!)

We haven’t had a good French place in town since L’escargot Beurré burned down. Those blissful, buttery bites were sooo good—but, honestly, how many ways are there to cook a snail? So I was aflutter with anticipation when Pierre (not his real name), our usual waiter from L’escargot, whispered word of the coming bistrot. 

We ran into him at the farmer’s market, as we studied a display of artisanal cheeses. He bounced up to us, aquiver with Gallic emotion.

“M’sieur! Madame!” he exclaimed, “’ave you ’eard? There is to be a new bistrot! I ’ave accepted the position of ’ead waiter! I will be expecting your visit, oui?”

You have probably experienced, if you’re anything of a gourmand, that restaurant workers circulate among the various establishments like frozen berries in a blender. 

For example: Antonio, your favorite chef at Nostra Cucina, disappears. His replacement, Flavio, is an excellent chef—but he doesn’t have the touch when it comes to seasoning the calamari batter just right. So you try out Mangiare Bene as soon as it opens, hoping against hope. You, almost resigned to sub-par seafood, order the “house” calamari fritti. Your expectations low, you await them with glum spirit.

The five golden rings arrive, exquisite in both texture and taste. In the subtle, sea-flavored, lemon-scented masterpiece, you recognize the art of… Antonio.

Such is the close-knit community of food lovers. We all know each other, don’t we?

Excuse the sidetrack. Back to the anticipatory fluttering.

Early on, I was advised on some crucial rules of restaurant reviewing:  

One: Go incognito. You don’t want the staff to make a special effort to impress, knowing you’re a food writer.

Two: Always attend with a small group. 

Three: Never visit a new establishment on opening night. 

Rule three: Gave Bistrot Le Coquillage a full two weeks to set their pace. 

Rule two: Recruited my husband and an eclectic group of foodie friends. 

Rule one: Requested one of them to reserve a table in his name. 

And off we went; eight eager epicures expecting extraordinary edibles. 

(Pardon—couldn’t resist!)

The bistrot occupies the old bus depot downtown. Don’t let that put you off; it has been transformed. Not a whiff of motor oil to be smelt. 

The exterior has been freshly painted in a warm, peachy shade, and draped with miniature twinkly lights. Very inviting!

We stepped through the rustic oaken door into a bustling, intimate interior packed with patrons. The air was infused with an exquisite symphony of aromas.

There was a buzz of conversation, the clink of cutlery, and the familiar voice of Pierre. 

“Ah!” He clasped his hands together, beaming a smile so bright we could almost feel the warmth. “Welcome! You will not, I promise you, be disappointed!”

I won’t linger on my description of the interior. Clean, cozy, tasteful. Celadon green table linens overlaid with cheery toppers in a pretty Provençal pattern. Quality art prints featuring the French countryside. More twinkly lights strung along the ceiling alcove. Altogether charming.

But our focus is the food!

What could be a better start than a fresh-baked baguette, still warm from the oven? Denny, the busboy (who used to work at Chloe’s Creamery and Sandwich Shop before its unfortunate demise) brought a board and knife. Pierre followed, carrying a swaddled bundle of pure gustatory joy, which he sliced up right under our noses. (Oh dear—I’m not sure that’s the right image. But I’ll leave it in.) 

Side note: Fresh baguettes must be served with imported European butter. And Bistrot Le Coquillage does just that. 

Now, down to business. Dear Reader, put on your deerstalker and get out your notebook. Let’s see if you can follow the clues in the bill of fare, and solve a mystery. 

The menu is not overburdened with selections, but there’s something suitable for every guest. We chose a variety of dishes to share:

To begin, a salad of field greens featuring crumbly aged chèvre, dried currants, and nasturtium petals. It was lightly dressed, with a citrusy finish. I suspected the presence of bergamot, which could be a risky ingredient—in the sense that it’s a polarizing flavor. I happen to love it. 

Next, wild chanterelle soup in a clear garlicky broth, garnished with thyme leaves and shaved fennel. Denny stepped up once more, offering a twist or three of cracked pepper so fresh it made my olfactory glands tingle! 

We chose two sides: a simple dish of sauteed leeks, and a more complex one of roasted root vegetables whipped up with crème fraiche. 

If you’ve never tried chicken Chasseur (Hunter’s chicken), here’s your opportunity. Tender poulet, stewed with tomatoes and tarragon, it is French comfort food. As is ham and bean cassoulet. The bistrot enhances their version of cassoulet with pork skin and duck fat. Flavorful and filling!

But the pinnacle of this meal was a gratin of sea scallops. Pan seared in clarified butter, they were presented in bubbling, cheesy cream sauce scattered with fried sage leaves and breadcrumbs. The aroma was indescribable, and a little unsettling. 

Wanting to savor the decadence, I cut a tender morsel in two and popped a portion into my mouth. Saliva welled up in my throat as I chewed. The scallops were cooked to perfection; the sauce was superb—and this was the wrong kind of salivating.

The murmur of voices receded, and my brain felt foggy. I grabbed my water goblet with a shaking hand and took a quick gulp. 

I squirmed in my chair. I was really beginning to feel unwell.  

Pushing my plate away, I stood up. The other scallop sat untouched.

“Excuse me…”

I headed to the back, squeezing past the tightly packed tables. My hearing was muffled, and my vision blurry. I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the restroom in time.

Surely the feeling had come on too soon to be caused by contaminated food… no one else seemed to feel sick… Was I coming down with a virus? 

I pushed the door open, stumbled into the ladies’ room, and proceeded to be violently ill.

I was alone in the room, retching and vomiting until I felt the room begin to spin.

Professional food critics are a dying breed, but I don’t want to die this way!

And as the dark curtain descended, I knew—

I have been poisoned.

~~~

What a commotion I caused! 

Dear Reader, I opened my eyes to find strangers hovering over me. They wore navy blue… uniforms? Two men and a woman. Paramedics?… Where was I?

It turned out that I was still in the ladies’ room of Bistrot Le Coquillage, stretched out on the celadon settee. 

From there, the team took me to the hospital. I was hydrated, questioned, examined, and tested. My husband and our friends were grilled.

“Well,” said Dr. Lozano at last, “we think we know the cause.”

Dear Reader, can you guess?

Was it listeria in the greens? The wrong kind of mushroom in the soup? But—remember, the attack came on rather suddenly, and no one else got sick…

“You have developed tropomysin sensitivity.”

I was shocked! I can no longer eat shellfish, or at least bivalve mollusks, which contain an allergenic type of the protein. There is no treatment, just avoidance. 

What a tragedy for a food writer!

It could be worse though. Apparently, my body has just decided that particular protein is an enemy, to be rejected immediately. I don’t experience anaphylaxis, just very unladylike emesis.

But enough of that.

~~~

I believe in second chances. So, after some weeks, we made arrangements to revisit Bistrot Le Coquillage. (Though its very namesake has become my nemesis, the fine establishment has plenty of other delightsome dishes.)

This time, I broke all available rules. 

“This is Sadie Darnell. I’d like to make reservations for two… Yes, I’m that Sadie Darnell.”

Pierre greeted us with open arms. He actually hugged me.

“Ah, Madame! ’ow good to see you again, looking well!” 

He presented the menu, and then asked, “Would you like to ’ear tonight’s specials?”

We nodded.

“We ’ave two choices. There is grilled lamb chop with garlic confit and sauce persillade. And there is…” Pierre stopped. His face drained of color, and he looked at me with mournful eyes. “Ah… I cannot recommend to you the second special, Madame!”

We both chose the lamb. If you are fortunate enough to visit on a night when lamb is offered, you must try it! The bright, almost sharp parsley flavor is a perfect counterpoint to the richness of lamb and roasted garlic.

Oh, and—when you do go, be sure to save room for a few petit pastries to end your meal. They’re to die for! ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️⭐️

©️ 2023 Sadie Darnell for The Daily Dish