Dining Out: La Villa des Abbesses

Today is my birthday, but my editor insists that’s no excuse for skipping my restaurant review duties.

We happen to be in Montmartre this evening, so wander down Rue des Abbesses towards the cemetery till the ladies’ attention is caught by an elegant little corner bistro, with one or two empty tables inside. It is a hot evening, and everyone else has chosen to dine outside on the sidewalk to enjoy the air – despite the lack of external air conditioning, the constant parade of white vans pulling up at the kerp, and a broken water hydrant gushing across the pavement.

But the maitre d’ finds us a little corner inside with what, in New Zealand, we might call indoor-outdoor flow. A standing fan inside keeps us cool; French doors opening on to the street behind us ensure we cannot forget we’re in Paris.

The Gingham Cowgirl and I cannot resist ordering a couple of icy gin and tonics to accompany our cigarettes as we peruse the menus, despite having been advised that the French frown on such colonial behaviour. Agent Jade Scorpion is better behaved.

That said, the entrees arrive before the drinks anyway. After months of raving about my search for the perfect gazpacho, I spot one on the blackboard. Gazpacho, you understand, is raw vegetables for those who don’t eat their greens. A smooth cold soup made of little more than raw tomatoes, cucumber and capsicum, some stale breadcrumbs for texture, and a bit of vinegar to give it some bite. And here it is, on the board, the chef’s special.

There’s no contest: I order the Scallop St-Jacques with avocado tartare.

The ladies, after all my nagging, both order the gazpacho. And, it must be said, everyone’s a winner baby. My scallops are sweet, and the avocado is the best I’ve tasted for, say, about nine months. Coincidentally, about the same length of time since I left New Zealand. The gazpacho is very, very good, probably the highlight of the meal, though I cannot regard my quest for the “perfect” gazpacho as having reached its end. Funny thing is, I think I have already found the Holy Grail of gazpachos – the very first one I tasted, the one I have been trying to replicate ever since – but I’m damned if I remember where that was.

Mains, and the Gingham Cowgirl orders herself a steak, medium-rare of course, which came to the table looking like the chef had slapped it around the ears of the kitchen hand. The French don’t do pretty-looking cuts of meat. But so tender was it, that I scarcely needed the steak knife to cut myself a taste.

Having been mulling over eating Algerian for a few days, given that there seem to be one or two Algerians in France and they must know something about North African spices, I go for a lamb and pepper tagine. Which is, again, very good. It is dark, and rich, and it’s sometimes difficult to tell the lamb pieces from the mushrooms, the way both just melt on the tip of the tongue. It is a winter dish, entirely the wrong thing to eat on such a hot evening, but it is good.

But if the restaurant wished to serve Agent Jade Scorpion’s tandoori chicken with iceberg lettuce, instead of rice wrapped in vine leaves, then the waiter should probably have said something when she ordered.

And questions must, I’m afraid, be raised around the wine match. A bottle of Taittinger champagne is not intended to accompany a beef or lamb main. But I cannot hold the sommelier responsible for the selection – that was the Gingham Cowgirl’s entirely. It’s our party, we’ll cry if we want to.

Dinner was rounded off with crème brulee, for me, which like Amelie I gleefully broke with the rounded back of my teaspoon; and a delicate fromage blanc with berries for the Gingham Cowgirl. Agent Jade Scorpion limited herself to an espresso, and as we made our way out into the still warm night to walk our dinner off, I almost wished I’d shown similar restraint.

Almost, but not quite.

Food: * * * *
Wine: * * * * *
Service: * * (It's a French bistro!)
Ambience: * * * *
Location: * * * * *
Value for money: Ask the Gingham Cowgirl, she won’t tell me.