The Road to Dahlia Bakery

(An Interlude)

Being thought (unjustly, I am certain) by some to be something of a curmudgeon myself, I recently found myself irresistably drawn to the famously irascible Ethan Stowell's new restaurant, Tavolata in Belltown.

As Tavolata's location is close to that of the Dahlia Bakery, I elected to take a leisurely Friday lunch and investigate both this reportedly exceptional new dining spot and Tom Douglas' "spruced up" éclairs.

Those among you who are familiar with Tavolata have doubtless spotted the first flaw in my seemingly perfect plan. Tavolata, as it turns out, does not serve lunch.

I discovered this fact when I entered (later than I had intended) shortly before 2:00 to see some sort of gathering of the employees back in the kitchen area, a lonely host standing at the front podium, and nary a diner to be seen. I say host, rather than maitre d', as Tavolata seems at first impression to lean rather more toward trendy dining than fine dining.

On the off chance that this suspiciously fashionably-dressed gentleman might in fact have some knowledge of quality food, I elected to ask his recommendation concerning the nearest location where one might obtain a late lunch actually worth eating.

He recommended Flying Fish, only a short block away and posessed of a reputation that had already brought it to my attention. Feeling somewhat mollified, I departed into the gathering rain in search of this well-established and widely-lauded establishment.

Finding it was simplicity itself. I had in fact parked virtually across the street from Flying Fish than to Tavolata. I made the requisite crossing and entered the restaurant, and thus began the next brief episode in my little lunchtime drama.

It was now approximately 2:05 PM, and as I quickly discovered, Flying Fish ceases serving lunch at 2:00. However, this fact was just as well, as I found the intense scent of sesame oil and soy sauce permeating the atmosphere of the place to be rather incompatible with my desire for fine European fare.

I presented my predicament to the host overseeing my latest failed attempt to dine. He considered for a moment, and proceded to direct me to Le Pichet, "just a few blocks" down the road.

"A few blocks" in this context turned out to mean three long blocks; perhaps a quarter mile; and the rain, wind, and cold did nothing to raise my spirits.

I arrived at Le Pichet, however, to find it a quiet, pleasant little French Bistro. Finally things were starting to look up.

By now it was 2:30, and though lunch was no longer available, Le Pichet has a quite passable all day menu ("Le Casse Croûte"). "Casse Croûte" (literally "breaking into the crust") might be translated as "snack." Anyone translating it thus would of course be demonstrating an appalling amount of ignorance, for le casse croûte is a true meal-between-meals. Imagine British High Tea, only with food actually worthy of consumption.

The name casse croûte was also particularly appropriate given that the first item on the menu is "Pain et Beurre" for $2.50.

Yes, you read that correctly. They charge two dollars and fifty cents for bread and butter. The gall! The sheer effrontery! The chutzpah!

Naturally, I simply had to order some.

The menu describes it as “Half baguette, butter, confiture”, but it seems that they were out of both baguettes and confiture, as I received instead slices of a remarkably hard-crusted (solid, tough, and crunchy rather than crispy), very rustic bread which was definitely not to my taste. The butter, however, was excellent.

I had also ordered the tartines with pâté and the "Rillons de porc et ses betteraves rôties".

The tartines were served on (somewhat thinner) slices of the same bread, and the rustic pâté (coarse grained, light on the foie gras) complemented the bread beautifully. I could see that the bread with butter I had eaten moments before was in fact intended for use in this application. Seeing it in its proper context, I came to appreciate the better qualities of the bread.

In all, the tartines made quite a pleasant, traditional snack, right down to the cornichons which were neither more nor less than one would expect.

The rillons de porc, though, were remarkable. Rillons de porc, for those who have never encountered them, are prepared in much the same way as duck confit. Thick chunks of pork belly are cooked at low temperature in their own fat until they become lovely, crunchy little nuggets of salty goodness. They are quite similar to pork rinds, only denser, and far more flavorful.

As I said, the rillons de porc were remarkable (crunchy but not hard, with just the right amount of saltiness). The beets atop which they lay, however; the beets adorned with capers, parsley, and crème fraîche? These were indeed outstanding.

Fresh, tender slices of beets, their sweetness enhanced by the crème fraîche and perfectly balanced by the piquancy of the capers... This was my first true culinary find of the day.

Sadly, it was to be my last, as I shall relate in the promised "Part II" of the Dahlia Bakery saga.