So in his will Nicholas (of whom you've heard tell) arranged
a posthumous dinner at No. 9 Park for his nearest and dearest,
featuring kidneys (he died of complications of renal disease).
This was administered by Lee (of whom you've heard tell), and
of course I wasn't invited. Well, my friend Bonnie felt the
injustice of this, so after she was tipped $200 over her fee
by the mother of some student she'd accompanied for a recording,
she proposed to do a dinner for the two of us there, partly to
assuage my hurt feelings and partly because she'd never been
there. We had put this off for a while, and I was heading off
again in a couple days, so she brought this up again, and I
called her bluff by saying what are you doing Friday night?
To which she said, nothing, and I said that I'd get hold of
the restaurant (not really expecting anything). Turns out that
they had openings at opening time, 5, and towards closing time,
too late. We could of course also eat at the bar first come first
served, but that didn't seem quite the right vibe, so, okay, 5 it
was. We didn't eat much during the day and went with heightened
hopes and expectations and appetites.

It wasn't raining, so we economized by taking the subway, allowing
40 minutes for a trip that once was advertised as "8 minutes to
Park Street" but now with the congestion and all usually takes 20,
sometimes more. The MBTA fooled us by getting us there in 8 minutes,
giving us half an hour extra. We spent part of it looking at the
map and commenting on how things had changed in the 50 years since
my arrival or the 60-odd since hers, until one too many helpful
soul asked us if we were lost, so we gave up on that pastime. Then
around to Park Street Church (gone quite fundamentalist since I'd
last been there decades ago) and the Old Granary Burying Ground and
then around the block past the old Houghton Mifflin and the State
House and finally to the restaurant, where we had to wait another
5 or 10 before the doors opened, which they did right on time.

There are two main dining areas aside from the bar, the serious
low-lit classic one where I would sit with Beth and this brighter
one behind the bar area where I used to sit with Nicholas when he
was at his tweedy worst (in the 3-piece suit he got the main dining
room). We got the slightly declasse room, which is pleasant enough
anyway. An order of tap water was cheerfully provided, followed by
pumpkin-sage rolls, a seasonal abomination that was actually not
objectionable except for some sand (presumably hitchhiking on the
sage), which was irritating. To be properly thankful, there was not
much sage or pumpkin until partway through the second chunk of it,
the bread hitherto being a lower-salt and thus slightly sweet dinner
roll, nicely pully and perfectly tender inside but brown to the max
outside. Good unsalted butter with a little dish of coarse salt for
sprinkling if one wanted.

I'd hoped for my aperitif of Trimbach Muscat d'Alsace 15 to carry
over to the first course, but it turned out not all that muscatty or
aromatic, rather minerally - good for a tipple but not adding anything
to the table with food; might have gone with a vegetarian starter or
buttered seafood in a pinch.

The suggested pairing with Bonnie's appetizer was the Louis Roederer
Carte Blanche 15 (demi-sec), a very clean somewhat off-dry Champagne
that embodies what demi-sec is supposed to be rather than what it
most often appears as nowadays (soda pop). I decided to switch to
this with my dish, as it would stand up better.

As she'd never been here before, I ordered Bonnie the signature prune-
stuffed gnocchi with vin santo, foie gras emulsion, and foie gras; this
was as expected (rich, cute, slightly sweet, the gnocchi soft like a
pillow, the prune poached in sweet wine and very delicious; foie gras,
which she'd also never had before, was foie gras), and her reaction to
it was also as expected (swoons).

I had seared foie gras with chestnuts, sweet potato, demiglace, and a
peculiar duck confit crepe. I'd intended to start with seafood, but it
wouldn't have fit in with the rest of the meal. Maybe I made the wrong
choice (Lilli and I had had lots of better foie gras in France earlier
this year). This was interestingly crusted black on the outside but
endearingly foie grasy on the inside. Most likely it had been dredged
in a sugar-salt mix, mostly sugar, and then hyperseared on a hyperhot
pan, thus solving the problem of the foie melting too much. It was,
in contrast to the 100 to 125 gram servings one is accustomed to in
France, 50 grams if that. The bulk of the plate was a very plain
crepe with not-cured-enough confit, which needed all the help that
the chestnut jus could give it. This last was a good ordinary demiglace
sauce with nearly raw chestnuts in it. Sweet potato slices added
additional filler and did not detract. So: an imperfect but creditable
plate, and not the best choice.
tb
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