Ortolan

There are moments in life where you have to take a chance. Jump into the chasm of darkness where snakes may be.

No, I'm not talking about gambling or love. I'm talking food.

My Sweetie took me to Ortolan the other night for the most amazing gastronomical experience I have ever had. The "ortolan" is a small bird much like the bobolink. Believe me, if the little ortolan had eaten at Christophe Eme's Ortolan, it would be dead by now, its eyes bulging with excess, but with a happy little smile on its expiring face.

It was a birthday celebration, a quiet one, and, I thought, only she and I knew about that. Except that strange and wonderful things kept happening.

I did not spot owner Jeri Ryan as hostess, knowing that she was probably working late on Shark in order to beat the writer's strike as well as her increasing waistline (she's pregnant by husband Eme'). But next-best-thing Christophe, genius that he is, kept looking in on us.

This happened for about the first four (out of ten) courses. We chose the chef's menu, which are small plates - mere tastings, on the most part - of the most wonderful food and imaginable pairings thinkable. M. Eme' would say to us: " (French) (French) ....smoked with charcoal and (French)." I couldn't understand most of what he said, as I leaned in closer on the butter-colored leather lounge, but it was charmant just the same. And he would come back several times, and start by saying, "Me again..."

He offered us oysters. I demurred, and he told me he would give me all things tomato. At least I think that's what he said. Sure enough, it was heirloom tomato five ways: consomme', coulis, carpaccio, emulsion, and parfait. Very red. Very small. Very tasty.

We would finish one course, wait about 15 minutes or so in lazy conversation, and the next course would arrive. We tasted our one glass of champagne, knowing that we didn't want to confuse this feast with too much alcohol, and I was very much glad we had decided on that early on.

My favorites? Ah, where to start. Let's start with the course I did not care for as much. I say "as much" because I still ate them. There were a few I did not finish, however. The duck. I think it's safe to now say I do not like duck -- and yet, gosh, I loved the duck confit, rolled together with rhubarb in a cigarette, mixed with the peach. I did not care for the crayfish, but I could still appreciate its succulence, and the clever way the spaghetti was rolled around it. And I did like the watercress cream in a pool beside it.

What did I like. Ahhh. Every course came with its own silverware, mostly with more than I needed. On its own specially designed plates, very functional, usually on platforms for display. Presentation is so much a part of the pleasure here. Even if you didn't want it, you could admire it.

The first thing they brought us was the soup. The soup was in test tubes. Two, in test tube holders, just like in a lab. Not on the menu, but brought to us to enjoy. Two soups in each tube. One had cauliflower soup, very smooth, and the other pumpkin. Smooth.

I don't like fish. What a laugh....the smoked sea bass with turnip was very special. The roast scallop with ricotta ravioli (with fig and blood orange reduction) a revelation.

I have never had foie gras -- truffles -- until now. With a quince gelee, an apple compote. It tasted like the best dessert I've ever had.

But the best was something I had never tried, would never try, until now. And if I had seen it beforehand and had time to ponder, I might not have taken the step. "Egg and caviar cooked in hot ash." Big black rock, cut open to reveal a cracked egg filled with whipped cream, vanilla, and a touch of caviar. You eat past that cool delight to discover the hot, freshly cooked yolk of the egg. I can't describe the way my taste buds finally came to attention.

At the end of dinner, the dessert courses started. First, the herbed goat cheese with olive oil. Then the apple thingie: Sweetie described it as a deconstructed caramel apple. And so it was ... sliced apples, salty caramel ice cream, crumble. Then the chocolate torte and coffee ice cream.

And then we started to breathe. But....not yet.

We looked around and nobody else was getting the same treatment. Sure, the French sommelier would visit tables and chat up his wines, but no chef visits. We finally figured out that Sweetie must've tipped them off when she first called.

And what really clued us in was the last thing: a display of chocolates with "happy birthday" written on marzipan poster board. The chocolates had long plastic toothpicks with which to enjoy them. One small candle begged to be blown out as I made a wish. I did.

I had wished for "chocolate." I got so much more.