So, we rested, and rested. I was tired. We took showers and we watched TV - Pawn Stars or something like it, the Olympics? Then we went and sat out in one of the cabanas and had a predinner drink. We were lazy and chillin. Finally, we decided to go to dinner - late for us - maybe 6:30 or 7:30. Usually when we go out of town we go to dinner with the blue hairs.
So we walked to downtown, which was maybe a mile and a half. I have to admit, that's the farthest I had walked in a long time. So we got to the area, and we just started looking at places and then looking at menus if we were interested. I had seen some article in one of those local magazines about Zin, and I liked the menu. The FP didn't seem to like the dining rooms - because there was no patio area.
So we decided on Pomme Frite. I was lukewarm about the place. Something about the font on the menu bugged me. It was like a very familiar font that did not scream french belgian bistro to me. I know that's crazy. I realize I must have had some head trauma when I was little because some things just don't fit in my mind, and it's unacceptable. I'm not a perfectionist, it's just some things aren't right. But anyway, we were looking at the menu, and it was hard for me to concentrate on the descriptions because I hated the font. So this wiseguy waiter comes out and asks, "are you coming in?" Like what the fuck, it's a french menu. So the FP liked that. So we went in. We sat out on the patio, of course, where mostly everyone was sitting. I was first, so I got to snag the corner seat. We both have this spatial clausterphobia issue. So the FP had to sit with his back to this chick sitting at the table in front of us. But I suggested we move the table back some, so he wouldn't whine the whole dinner about being crammed in.
So we were looking at the menu, and the wise guy comes up to us. He looks around, and he says, he's busy, so, can I start youse with drinks? I don't know if he said youse, but it seems like he shoulda. So the FP went with a french malbec. French food, familiar grape, not the cheapest 2 or 3, not the most expensive. It was good. So we went over the menu. There were some choices to make, like an appetizer of mussels and clams or a big pot of mussels. But pretty much, the FP took the man's role and kinda made decisions. I guess cause of the influence of the wiseguy maitre d.
So, naturally, we got escargot. This was my pick. I haven't had these things in ages.
I will always remember in culinary school this dinner we did for Classical French Cuisine class. One of our instructors - the FP called her Chef Big Poop because he always said how she probably took big nasty shits - declined the escargot course. She said she was sick of eating them for so many years that she didn't want them. Way to be supportive! Anyway, these escargot were tender and yummy, but the sauce sucked! Our guess was that they were using some butter blend. It wasn't sweet and creamy like butter, it was separated and oily. The garlic and parsley were there, that buttery goodness, absent.
The mussels and clams. Same gripe. The mussels and clams tasted good, plump, juicy, the sauce was winey in a good way, but that butter or whatever it was made me not need to finish every drop of sauce. And there was like dried thyme and oregano or sage in it too. Dried herbs!
Steak frites. We got our steak first. So for a bit, we were wondering if our fries were coming. But they did. The steak was very nicely cooked. It was the baseball cut - some tender part of the top sirloin. The haricot verts were perfect. Nice and garlicky, still had a little texture to them. The green peppercorn sauce had that fake butter in it again. So then the fries came. The FP was disappointed - frozen fries. He always goes on his high horse about places that don't do handcut fries. Because in his opinion, why would you do frozen at a nice place? I don't know why.
So we took a while to finish our wine. We speculated on the ownership of the place. A french belgian chef? Who maybe is old and stuck in his ways... but the butter. So maybe a belgian owner who employed a mexican kitchen staff to follow recipes with cheaper ingredients. The technique was there, the quality of some of the food fell short. I'm not going to chopstick the place, but if we go back to Palm Springs, I'm not too keen to return to Pomme Frite.