There is food and then there is creativity, sex, love and sublime cosmic fusion on a plate. I had the latter on Saturday evening. Oh man! Wow and double wow. It’s not that often one goes out for a meal that leaves one waxing lyrical about the culinary creativity of the chef. But this man worked magic.
The restaurant, Bon Appetit is in Simonstown – remember, I took you there at the beginning of the year. Now I’ve wanted to go to Bon Appetit for a while but given we don’t eat out much (courtesy of my multiple food intolerances and dicky digestive system) we just haven’t got round to it. But Saturday being Valentine’s Day and my system being stronger than it has been in a while, I figured it was time to chuck caution to the wind and indulge. It's been far too long since I've done the gourmet thing.
Bon Appetit’s menu is unashamedly French - the chef being a native of Brittany – and Michelin trained at that. And I love French food – good, proper, real French food in the grand tradition – and this food was that and more - and in a setting that was relaxed and friendly. Talk about melding unexpected flavours, talk about an explosion of taste which somehow, despite its intensity, rolls subtly around your tongue filling your mouth with an experience that goes way beyond “just food”. This was a combination of ingredients that was orgasmic. There is simply no other way to describe it. Like I said, cosmic fusion, sex on a plate. And that’s without even mentioning the presentation.
I started with an Assiete of Marinated Oysters – oh yes, let your tongue drool over that – served with a chardonnay and lemon granité and Portuguese sardines and red peppers in a filo pastry. Each oyster was marinated differently, one included passion fruit and tequila, another had hints of sesame seeds, another was soused with vodka and, I think, balsamic vinegar. Before you think that the flavour of the oyster was killed in all that, think again – the tastes exploded in my mouth and atop them all, singing like a prima donna, was the oyster. Oh yum.
D had a camembert baked in a filo pastry with an apricot confit served with a beetroot and balsamic ice cream. Hmm-mmm. Light, delicate, deep, moreish. Want some?
So, are you guys drooling yet? No? Shame on you!
So to mains… I swear if your laptop or keyboard is not awash in saliva by the end of this post then either I’m a very poor writer and/or you have no culinary imagination!
My main course was the Parmetier de Confit de Canard – shredded duck confit, tender and melting, blended with just a soupçon of foie gras, served between layers of the creamiest potato mousseline with a port jus. As for the presentation, sublime – a work of art in itself. It was daunting to actually stick my fork in and enjoy the food, which left me cooing and oohing like a woman well on her way to an ecstatic heaven via culinary erotica.
D had braised pork tenderloins with a concassée of apple and raisins and crispy crunch crackling – the flavours all married so well and meltingly delicious - a gentle, lyrical symphony of taste.
And then there was dessert. The Vanilla Goddess left all things vanillarish to D who had light-as-air profiteroles with three bean vanilla ice-cream and chocolate sauce, while I had Apple a la Pomme (apple of the apple…) - an individual apple tart, sort of a mini tarte tatin, served with Granny Smith sorbet and cider-schnapps jelly. Just the right level of tartness and freshness after the duck.
What can I say… we went to paradise and I’m not sure when we came back again. All I know is this – I’m going back!
As I said to the waiter, “I think I might just need to nip into the kitchen to tell the chef I want to have his babies.” I don’t think the front of house manager, the chef’s wife, took that too kindly. Still, I’d run out of superlatives by that stage and sometimes you just have to say it like it is!
And then there was the perfect Out of Africa moment. As I was sitting at our window table mooning over the food, I noticed a large grey dog loping along the pavement. The oddest thing was that it appeared to have a smaller dog on its back. As it passed the twinkly fairy lights in the window it struck me… Not a dog but a baboon and its baby! I ask you. Where else other than in Cape Town would you be seated in a gourmet restaurant while a baboon and child strolled past – presumably on her way to the pub to collect her husband – yes I’m sure - given the way she winked at me as she passed by. Well, come on, it’s not that unlikely, is it? When you eat food that is created by sheer magic, why should reality not blend with unreality to transport you to an entirely other sort of realism…? After all, who really knows where illusion ends and begins - and with food like this, does one really care?
