Love Songs



Frank Bompadre
Bows at Francoluigi's
Crooner FRANK BOMPADRE last night (4 September) knocked out a love song to his wife Deeanna at Francoluigi's, 13th and Tasker in South Philly. As for resto, five stars. 

Core Values

R.W 'Johnny' Apple Jr. All Items That  Fit Right and Light Johnny Apple on Travel Packing By Richard Carreño [Writers Clearinghouse News Service] R.W. Apple Jr., the late correspondent for The New York Times, was best known for his globe trotting as the paper's roving reporter. Yes, there was such a job, and there was no one better suited for than 'Johnny' Apple, as he was known. 'Roving reporter' meant to Apple writing about anything he was interested in. The arts, culture, and travel adventures were his forte. Later, as his experience grew, supplemented by growing girth, Apple also became a wonderful food and restaurant critic, and the author of several guides on the subjects.

Restaurant Warning: Stay Away

Dissed in France
by Marseille Maitre

The following is a letter I wrote to Jeanne Laffitte regarding my encounter at her restaurant Les Arcenaulx, and arts, literary, and dining complex, at 25 cours Estiennes d'Orves. This is the FIRST time I've been dissed by an onery Frenchman for simply being American. This is also the first time I've refrained in giving a restaurant any credit via the 'star' system. Les Arcenault insteads gets five Freedom Fries.

Subject: Poor Service

PHILADELPHIA | 13 September 2011

Dear Ms Laffitte,

I had an unfortunate, disappointing experience at your restaurant on 7 September, thanks to your maitre d'hotel, a thin, wiry individual with white hair, a sharp tongue, and a short temper. The incident was aggravated in that my partner was also needlessly made to suffer.

At first, all went well, and as would be expected since Aux Arcenaulx came highly recommended from French friends here in Philadelphia. We had also hoped to visit your wonderful bookshop. But we were too late that day for that, and we were leaving Marseille in the morning.

Les Arcenault: Don't Go!

At the restaurant, we were seated promptly and then waited, waited -- and waited. We noticed that others were being served, in a well-paced manner. Finally, more than thirty minutes later, catching the eye of your maitre d'hotel, I asked in French whether he was READY to take our order.

'Boof,' he puffed, pointing inside to the busy inside dining room. 'Don't you see we are busy, Monsieur,' he barked.

He turned to walk away, but I grabbed his attention. 'Well,' I said, 'we're ready to order, and we'd like to. Now.'

'Alors,' he responded, 'I am NEVER ready.'

At this, we walked out.

I still hope to visit the your bookshop when I return in Marseille in January. As for the restaurant, I think I'll skip that 'pleasure.'

Yours sincerely,                           

Richard CARRENO,
News Editor
Writers Clearinghouse

Daily Bread

Counting Calories a la Francaise

By Daniele Thomas Easton

[Writers Clearinghouse News Service]
For French gourmets, some words always manage to conjure images of the good food of days gone by. Call a jam "confiture mamie," or a spread "dame tartine" and the trick is played!


Nostalgia laced with a genetic sense of attachment to quality food will lead French diners to flock
to cafes offering "dame tartine" smothered with "confiture bonne-maman"!

I had this same pleasant reaction when I learned that the Pain Quotidien would open a new bakery cum restaurant in Centre City.

My memories go back a long way both in time and in space: In Paris, I used to stop at Le Pain Quotidien for my morning coffee and croissant on Rue Montorgueil, or would join in at the communal table for a hearty lunch at another facility on Rue des Archives.


After spending three months in France, my first breakfast upon my recent return to Philadelphia had to be at the new Pain Quotidien on Walnut Street.


Going there (several times now) has been like seeing a classic movie, remembered only in black and white and ... being given the opportunity to see not only color, but to enjoy the additional pleasure of aromas wafting through the restaurant.

Some memories immediately flashed back: the visual and relaxing comfort of a restaurant here wood furnishings predominate. Wood tables, chairs, counters, armoires, floors. A light wood typical of North Europe. The communal table of unusual dimensions is made from the floorboards of old trains. Coffee served in bowls similar to those my grandmother would use. Except that she was not offering the wide selection of hot drinks, latte, espresso and the like of the Pain Quotidien.

I smelled with relish my hands after breakfast: this is some olfactory test of mine, my own Proustian madeleine, after eating a French croissant (made with butter only!). Try it, the aroma of fresh butter will impregnate your hands for a while.... I went again for lunch at the communal table, in a happy mix of young workers, students, mothers with kids, and shoppers ready for a break. Remember Tiffany's is across the street. Outside others, snacking at the tables, were soaking the first rays of sunshine.

The food, salads,tartines, quiches, were fresh, tasty and creatively presented. An added bonus, the calorie indication! So American. Never in France had I ever read any calorie count on the menu, but savouring a goat cheese arugula salad with pine nuts and parmesan with the knowledge it is only 580 calories eradicates any hesitation before ordering an extra dessert!


Add an espresso, please. Only five calories!

Don Francisco National Treasure

 Without Mobiles and Table Napkins,
Chile Eases into New Age

By Richard Carreño
[Writers Clearinghouse News Service]
Santiago, Chile
Nobel Prize-winning poet Pablo Neruda.
Author Isabel Allende.
Chilean and South American 'liberatador' Bernardo O'Higgins.
President and freedom fighter Salavador Allende.
President and labour champion Eduardo Frei.
Michelle Bachelet, the first democraticaly-elected female president in South America.

That was then.

In the new Chile, South America's and the world's southern-most country (and, yes, pepper-shaped), the biggest name on the national stage today is none other than native-born Mario Luis Kreutzberger. Mario, who?

To world-wide Hispanic television audiences, that would be, of course, mega-personality 'Don Francisco,' the loud-mouth, blow-hard host of El Sabado Gigante, the hugely popular weekly TV variety show that blankets Latin America from its Miami-based production home like a mushy Ricky Martin singing tour.

The show? Think I-Love-Lucy-'Honey,-I'm-Home-humour combined with curvaceous, pulchritudinous young women in tight frocks. And the somewhat tawdry, salacious over-the-hill El Don as leering jefe-in-chief. But Chilean? Who knew?

For me, not until earlier this month when my mountain-climbing son Justin (he was en route to an Argentine peak) and I visted, on a late spring sojourn, this capital city, Santiago de Chile; Valparaiso, the country's historic Pacific port city; and Vina del Mar, a Pacific beach resort easily likened to the best of Cote d'Azur playlands. (Mid-day temperatures hovered in the 80s). I had always pegged the paunchy 70-year-old El Don as Mexican, as Dominican, even as Cuban, at best. But hardly someone who would mirror the European beau ideal tipo who personifies the suave Chilean caballero.

'Chil-lay,' a land that stretches rubber band thin from Peru in the north to Cape Horn in the south, is, as they say, a study in contrasts. And shares an eerie unanimity. Its citizens, united by a semi-official national slogan, 'Chile. Un Solo Corazon' ('Chile. A Single Heart'), practice a kind navel-gazing solipsism that's almost an art form. Never mind the national obsession with fast food. (More on these topics later).

In all, consider this place a modern, 21st-century enigma: A country hamstrung by a curious history of banana republic turbulence and the physic powers of geographic isolation. (By land, the Andes virtually landlock the country).

Mostly, Chile is a nation that the rest of world hardly ever sees -- unless there's an occasional mining disaster (even the recent month-long epic hardly made a dent in international perceptions or understanding); the unfortunate trope of a strong-man dictator overthrowing democracy (the late General Augusto Pinochet and his military thugs deposing President Allende in 1973); or the infrequent recognition of its literary stature by a faraway country such as Sweden (Neruda's laureate in 1971).

Still, Chile is also a place which prides itself on its strong Spanish colonial patrimony and deep European roots. Immigrants, many from Germany, France, and Italy, flowed into the country in the 19th century when Valparaiso was South America's chief Pacific port city. European Jews came later -- in the diaspora fostered by fears of Nazi terror.

Local arts are also flourishing, including opera, theatre, and symphony, all offered at the Teatro Municipal, and all, oddly, short of world-class stature. Polo, as is the case in neighbouring Argentina, also has a strong following.

Among these strengths, the Museo de Bellas Artes is a stunning disappointment. Though housed in an elegant early 20th-century beaux arts building, the museum's collection is thin and badly curated. (A current exhibit of photographs is, in a de facto way, even 'curated' by the German government. The show, by German photographers, has been mounted by Goethe House, a government cultural agency. How lazy is that?)

Santiago, with a head count of about 5 million, a whopping third of Chile's total population, can tout affluent self-confidence, architectural vigour, and historical grandeur. Since its founding in 1541 by Conquistador Pedro de Valdiva, Santiago has grown from a outpost of Spanish conquest to the dynamic high-rise city of today. Meantime, aligned with Buenos Aires, Argentina, it has become the regional transportation hub of this part of the southern hemisphere.

The city's public transportation system, marked by a sprawling bus and subway system, is arguably Latin America's best. Its rubber-wheeled subway, or Metro, is the continent's largest in number of daily passengers (2.4-million) and in the size of its network -- and it rivals any similar system worldwide.

Getting around is equally safe, efficient, and cheap (an adult one-way Metro fare is about $1), and its 101 stations easily access top spots for visitors (the Moneda, the presidential palace where Salvadore Allende shot himself rather than surrender to Pinochet); the Plaza de Armas, the chief urban square; Santa Lucia, spectacular urban gardens overlooking the city; and the Biblioteca National which, unlike the Museo de Bellas Artes, gets it right.

Innovation is also a hallmark. Metro cars are not self-contained tubes, divided by sliding doors connecting car to car. Rather than this industry standard, the norm in North America and Europe, carriages are open-ended through the total length of the train length, on average about 10 cars. However shameless, even Metro's advertising has flare: Some entire trains are shrink-wrapped. The train I caught on several occasions was the Coca-Cola special. Even all interior ads were for Coke.

Stations, many decorated with art, are spotless.

Not surprising, in that all public spaces in Santiago are groomed, pruned, and immaculate. The city even deploys street cleaners whose duties include chipping away gum embedded in pavements.

For Americans, life in Chile provides an added bonus: Chile is one of the few countries where the American greenback is strong, about 500 pesos to the dollar. The result, even for a skint writer like myself, is that, in Chile, I'm a 'millionaire.'


Yet, despite all of Chile's virtues, there is also something sadly evocative about a national character that embraces the buffoonish Don Francisco, a caricature in himself, as a national model. Francisco is a pervasive advertising fixture, barking everything from a mobile phone company, to a home products chain, to the maker of feminine products. Most telling is Don Francisco's role as the host of the nation's annual televised telethon on behalf of handicapped children. His face is plastered on posters throughout the country, ostensibly promoting the 'teleton.'


No doubt, Francisco's role -- something like that of Jerry Lewis and his Labor Day telethon in the United States -- is a selfless act. But there's also a kind of huckerism associated with the teleton. Even an unseemly festive air surrounding it, as was the case for 48 hours earlier this month, when Francisco and other personalities tugged at the national heartstrings as they sang, danced, and pleaded for donations. Even President Sebastian Pinera, a US dollar billionaire, showed up. He gave a speech. "If not now, when? If not us, who?' (For real. He said that).

The teleton is almost a national obsession, underscoring what I and others I spoke with agreed is a kind of inwardness shared by the nation at large. For two days, Christmas was trumped. A pending strike by Metro workers was thrust off the front pages. Never mind international news. Other than for sports, overseas events get little coverage. CNN is Chile based. Fox is Chile based. During teleton days, both networks were all Don Francisco all the time.

'Chileans are very self-centred,' an Australian educator, in Chile for almost two years, told me. 'To them, Chile isn't part of South America. There's Chile and there's South America.'

In small measures and in significant ways, Chileans -- despite their seeming refinement -- seem to be a people myopic to a larger world. Though diverse in ethnic and racial makeup, hardly any native -- even in the capital of Santiago and in a tourist town like Vina del Mar -- speaks English. My hotel concierge was hard-pressed to do 'Good Morning,' much less offer directions in any comprehensible form of English. Picture Indiana with palm trees.


As remarkable, during my week-long stay, I spotted only about a half-dozen native English-speakers. Maybe. Though I had many conversations and interviews, I had only one in English, with that Australian educator, who I had simply bumped into at a Starbucks near my hotel.

Worse, newspapers and magazines on newsstands are all Chilean.

By now it's a cliche that everyone reads news on the Internet. Yet, there's something unsettling, especially for a newspaper reader of my -- er, older -- generation, about being in a huge capital city (in many ways so otherwise cosmopolitan) with the public reading habits of Akron, Ohio.

Until Santiago, I'd yet to be any Western capital where the International Herald-Tribune wasn't on offer. Moreover, this homey journalistic orientation didn't just exclude Anglophone publications. As far as I could tell, even Argentine and Spanish periodicals don't see daylight.

What this means for political discussion and rivalry in the marketplace of ideas is less than sanguine. I found only one political satire weekly, The Clinic, on newsstands. (It was named sardonically, in English, after The Clinic, a English rehab institution which was Pinochet's home away from home while the British government diddled with his deportation status).

In fact, 20 years on since the rebirth of democracy here, there still seems to be low-grade tolerance of, if not for the overt apparatus of an authoritarian state, at least for some of its trappings. The brown-uniformed Carabineros of Chile, the national police force that had been a bedrock element in the Pinochet junta, still provide an uncomfortable -- even a menacing --presence, something akin to that intangible, creepy feeling that Franco's Guardia Civil used to exude in Spain.

It's not surprising, given the country's singularly mono-linguistic emphasis, that governmental and commercial efforts to accommodate a polyglot tourism base range from slim to none. The main tourism office is located in upmarket eastern barrio, Providencia. (Something like Beverly Hills, with pedestrians). No tourist materials are in sight, however. One requests maps, etc. A satellite, yes, satellite, office, located downtown at the Plaza de Armas, doesn't even stock the maps. A tour I wanted to join had been canceled.

Moreover, it took almost three days of poking about before I found a shop offering time-honoured tourist gear. (A 'I Love Chile' t-shirt and the like).

It took me less than a day to realise that something was horribly wrong when I waded through the mid-day throngs around the Plaza de Armas. Young women were actually talking to each other. Businessmen actually seemed to go to lunch appointments to converse. In other words, also welcome to a world where the mobile phone still has not conquered all.

I never did find anything approaching a decent shopping street, a Fifth Avenue or Walnut Street, say, anywhere in centre city. (There is a Brooks Brothers branch in a mall in Las Condes, a swank neighbourhood of gated communities and villas on the city's eastern outskirts).

What's even more remarkable in a city of 5 million - and a Latin one, as well -- is that restaurants are hard to find. Proper restaurants. With tablecloths. Offering three-course meals. Virtually all restos are fast-food joints, ranging from McDonalds, to home-grown variants like The Coffee Factory, to fast-food dives that just so happen to have waiters. (Piccolo Italia was one of these).

Highlighting Chilean dining is another peculiarity -- no linen napkins. All restaurants -- that is, all restaurants -- provide only paper servilletas, the size of cocktail napkins. If you're like me, figure on about 10 of these for a typical meal. Or, as some foreigners are said to do, bring your own 'linen' napkin when eating out.

I can disspell the truth of one Chilean habit, the country's alledged addiction to instant coffee, particularly the Nescafe brand. I read this 'fact,' in a reputable, widely-circulated guide, while inflight from Panama, and I was instantly levitated from my stupor. 'When ordering coffee,' we first-time visitors were told, 'order the real thing by emphasising, "cafe, cafe" Otherwise, you'll probably be served wind up with Nescafe.'

True, I spent most of my coffee-drinking time at my nearby Starbucks (free WiFi). But even on my excursions to local cafeterias, mostly around the Plaza de Armas, I got the real deal. The exception: My four-star hotel, where my continental breakfast delivered by room service each morning featured Nescafe. (By the way, the hotel's WiFi cost a price-gouging $17 per day. Whither, Starbucks).
I finally figured it out. The Chileans don't really care. They didn't care whether I was a happy camper, or not. And they don't really care if you or any other norte americano tourist eventually shows up.

I should've known that as soon as I touched down at Santiago's Arturo Merino Benitz International Airport. Even before passport control and customs, I was steered to darkened area off to little-used area where I had to pay the tax, a $142 entrance fee. Cash, in dollars, would do nicely, I was told.

Does everyone pay? Not exactly. I could see why the Albanians might be targeted. It was a harmless gesture; they wouldn't be chartering planeloads anytime soon. Americans? Of course. Goes without saying. But Canadians! What in God's name had the Canadians done to bring down the wrath of the Chilean people?

Museum Mile

On and Off Philly's Museum Row

By Richard Carreno

[Writers Clearinghouse News Service]

Stephen Starr --

At the Philadelphia Museum of Art
New * resto opens
The Philadelphia Museum of Art's restaurant has been rechristened Granite Hill, and is now open for lunch and dinner. The restaurant, formerly operated by the gargantuan New York-based caterer, Restaurant Associates, is now part of the local chain run by resto mogul Stephen Starr. On offer are 'modern twists on classic bistro fare.'
Pistoletto gets solo show
More than 100 paintings and sculptures by Italian artist Michelangelo Pistoletto will be featured in the artist's first solo show in the United States in more than 20 years. The exhibition, 'From One to Man, 1956-1974,' debuts 2 November. Pistoletto was 'at the center of sweeping change in postwar Italy, and his influence persists today as one of Europe's most innovative contemporary artists.'
Thomas Eakins in LA
If you've already seen Thomas Eakins newly refurbished The Gross Clinic, and are looking for a different thematic twist from the artist, a trip to Los Angeles might be in order. Pictures by 19th century Philadelphia artist, emphasizing the Eakins' keen interest in physical sport, will be on display through 24 October at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. The show is titled 'Manly Pursuits: The Sporting Images of Thomas Eakins.' Of course, at home, the PMA also boasts many pictures along these lines in its permanent Easkins collection, the largest anywhere.

At the Academy of Natural Sciences
Philly's Best Museum?
The Academy has been voted the Philadelphia region's 'best' museum in beauty poll run by something called the 'Philly Hot List.' A total of 93,217 votes were cast, according to Philly Hot List, with Museum Mile's Academy garnering top spot. No vote breakdown was announced. Runners-up in popularity, in slots two to five, were the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archeology in University City, the Mutter Museum at The College of Physicians of Philadelphia in Center City, the Glencairn Museum in Huntington Valley, and, in fifth place, the Wagner Free Institute in North Philadelphia, near the Temple University campus.

At the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts

Art-at-Lunch Lecture Series Announced

PAFA's very popular noon-time lecture series will feature almost a dozen art talks this fall through December. A talk on Andy Warhol, 'The Artist of and his Critics,' will be held next, 20 October. Talks in the series, free to the public, are held every Wednesday.

At the Tyler School of Art

Tyler sponsors performance at PMA

A performance by Russian-born artist Yevgeniy Fiks, titled a 'Communist Tour of the Philadelphia Museum of Art' and which includes a tour of some of the PMA's permanent collection, will be conducted Friday, 15 October, in a program sponsored by Tyler, Temple University's art school. Those wishing to attend the performance should meet at 5:30 pm in Gallery 161 (Resnick Rotunda), at the entrance of the Modern and Contemporary Art Galleries. Fiks, who now lives in New York, will make connections with modern artists represented in the museum collections and 20th century Communism. The tour is open to the public and is free after paying the museum's admission fee. Admission is free to Tyler students with identification.

At the Institute of Contemporary Art

'Whenever Wednesday' sponsors 'travelog'

The ICA's ongoing 'Whenever Wednesday' program will kick off a 'staycation' lecture series of travelogs on art centers throughout the world. The first lecture, at 6:30 pm on 20 October, will be offered by Virginija Januskeviciute, a curator at the Contemporary Art Centre in Vilnius, Lithuania. Also featured in the series will be arts venues in Singapore, Beirut, Paris, and in Santiago. Admission is free to all.

At the National Constitution Center

New Journalism Prize Sponsored

The NCC, in conjunction with the Peter Jennings Project for Journalists and the Constitution, will sponsor a new eponymous journalism prize that honors the late television reporter and ABC news anchor. The Jennings prize, which carries a $5,000 award, will be given to a journalist whose work 'illuminates the Constitution's centrality to American identity and life,' according to NCC spokesperson Ashley Berke. The prize will be awarded annually. The deadline for entries for the 2011 prize is 1 November. The winner will be announced in March during a Jennings project program that will conducted at the NCC.

Fly on the Wall

Wined-up and Logged in

By Don Merlot

Junto Staff Writer Bio

The other day I had this sudden urge to read my first wine logs. The thought just came out of nowhere; I was talking to an old friend, and I opened an early log.  It was a very pleasant experience going back to the epiphany, my conversion to the liquid labour of St. Denis, the Saint of French wine.

 It was also a trip that took me back to 1970. I diligently recorded my first tasting of wine and included my first trip to Paris. Back then I worked for Whirlpool Corporation and we introduced new processes of making ice.  My trip was with two colleagues, old-hands at European travel, Curt and Martin; francophiles who were going to show me Paris. On my mind was the old Eddie Cantor song: " You cannot keep them down on the farm once you show them gay Paree…."

Incidentally, I hadn't looked at these notes in 30 years.

When I started my career, my boss Ralph Carreno, another oenophile at the time, had told me to start a log of the wines I drank back in 1969. It started with one note book that eventually grew to four note books. I kept notes and  labels, and documented the date I tasted. I broke my entries down into what I knew then: Burgundy France, Bordeaux France, whites from around the world and reds from around the world. Ralph gave mesome  wine books, and I read any books on wine from the public library in St. Joseph, Michigan, the town in western Michigan where my company was headquartered.

Today my system has evolved to wine templates, and I track them as a daily journal.

Ralph, my first corporate mentor, had an early teaching theory that started with wine. He would tell me, 'Alonzito, if I sent you to France for two weeks, you could come back and write a book; if I sent you for two months to France you would come back and complete 10 pages; and if I sent you over there for two years, you would come back confused.'

My first Atlantic crossing was to France for 10 days. I quickly learned that US businesses watch the money you spend  -- their money -- very carefully. My colleagues had instructions on what to eat and drink and not to excess. Each member of our party already decided what wines and food were the best so I just sat there and enjoyed myself. As I looked at the wines we savored and the food we consumed, recorded in my logs,  I chuckled. In today's business world of 2010 we could never pass these on our current expense account system.

We had a Sancerre with Coquille St. Jacques and a soufflé au grand marnière at the Méditerranée Restaurant in behind the L' Opéra.  Believe it or not, that meal cost us under 100FF, service compris. (The exchange was 4FF to one USD).

When I looked at my notes, what startled me was my description of the Sancerre. It was a Loire Valley wine made from the Sauvignon Blanc. Martin loved it, and in those days it was  'tout Paris!' My record indicated that it was love at first sight, er, sip. Sancerre has always been my favourite white wine.

I wrote: "This is my favourite white wine – Sancerre Clos de la Poussie – 1969."  (So far on this trip).

"I had tasted several Pouilly Fumé already that were rated ahead, but to me I found this wine intriguing and a good memory of Paris."

That night I began my 'affaire' with Sauvignon Blanc. My wife didn't need to know..

My red wine experience was similar. We had the steak au poivre avec pommes frites and a Beaujolais Grand Cru -– St. Amour in a resto called Bouquets on the Champs Elysée near our hotel and the Metro stop. Gamay is the great varietals of Beaujolais. It was here that I learned from my mates that in Paris cafes one drinks the table wines of Paris and not the great Bordeaux and or Burgundies that should be reserved for the right occasion. Popular was the "pichets" of red or white.

Beaujolais in 1970 was the preferred wine of the Parisian bistro and restaurateurs. It was not a fad, but a trend to have the Beaujolais or Beaujolais-Villages, and, on special days, the Cru Beaujolais.

Ralph always emphasized looking for differences and not the similarities. I left Paris liking Sancerre and not the Pouilly Fumé, which is still higher rated. Yet, to my taste -- mon goût -- I prefer Sancerre and 40 years later I still like it. As far as red wine is concerned, Beaujolais was perfect for the expense account. It was not yet discovered outside of France.

So when discovering what one likes in wine, you have to learn to trust your taste and not someone else's. Over the years, I have had several great marriages of Sancerre and seafood. And I could have written a book after my first visit, but before I did I went back a second, and third, and fourth time to Paris.

I also learned later that when you have those lovely white filets of Dover Sole and Loup with cream sauce you go with Chardonnay, which is much more delicate and blends well. And the Burgundian red counter part Pinot Noir goes with a roasted beef or lamb – -and  the wine with more tannin to blend in with the fat is the Syrah's and the Cabernet Sauvignon.

Paris, of course, has changed since my first visit., But, as the saying goes, everything changes, and nothing changes. As in the Old World and in the New World, there is very good Sauvignon Blanc coming from New Zealand, Chile and Washington state. Fresh, crisp, lemony, matched with seafood. Voila, a marriage made in heaven.

On the red side, Gamay never made it in the New World as the more inexpensive Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot have become popular. Australia has sophisticated Shiraz's and blends. Gamay has a thin skin and does not have the tannin of Merlot or Pinot Noir to age.

So now I look back and know why I like Sancerre. A tale I had forgotten. I like Beaujolais and respect light Merlot and Cabernet.

I have crossed referenced my legend with that of friends and I am happy to say that my taste did not change as I aged.

I say "chapeau" to me and my Whirlpool mates who started me down the right path -- in the vineyard  of wine.

(Don Merlot, when not writing about food and drink, is known as Ron Alonzo. He lives in Florida).

Quail Could've Been Crispier

Our Critic Raves About Bibou

By Liliane L. Clever
Junto Staff Writer Bio

I made it to Bibou!  Ever since Craig LaBan in the Inky gave this French resto three resounding bells back in August, it's been on my get-to list.  But it was one thing after another.  From scheduling conflicts to bouts of the seasonal flu, it looked like Mission Impossible. Finally did it, and in style!

My dining partner and I a big bash at Bibou for a friend's surprise birthday party last week.  Her husband organized a private affair so we had the whole place to ourselves. Well, the whole place is actually rather small. You can almost picture your own dining room. Warm and cozy, a venue that was perfect for an intimate dinner with good friends on a very snowy evening.

Bibou is owned and managed by a young French couple Pierre and Charlotte Calmels.  Pierre is the executive chef, and Charlotte 'runs the front,' as they say.  Charlotte is engaging and friendly, but also quite efficient. Dinner was promptly served as soon as we were all seated.

What we encountered was one of Chef Pierre's eight-course tasting menus.  We started with:
Hot mushroom and barley soup, veal boudin blanc fricassee
Guinea Hen ballotine, golden beet salad
Sauteed scallop, Brussel sprouts and dried cranberries in a Bergamot emulsion
Seared grouper, cauliflower puree, Cippolini onions, shaved baby carrots in a  tomato emulsion
At this point we took a break.  My friend's husband made a toast and gave a little speech. The speech had a good friends/good fare theme which could not have been more appropriate.  We were all in a super mood.

The staff waited politely and patiently before serving us the remaining courses:
 Roasted stuffed quail with Basmati rice, sautéed arugula, quail jus
L.I. duck breast, braised fennels with almonds, black trumpet fricassee, duck sauce
A plate of cheese (assiette de fromages), and a made-for-the-occasion birthday cake completed the meal.  The cake was light and fluffy and just sweet enough.

Coffee and tea were served with homemade vanilla meringues.

The meal was absolutely delicious, with each course well executed and a great presentation.

My only criticism is that the quail was not hot and crispy enough. This may have been due to the mid-dinner speech, rather than due to kitchen timing.

The service was excellent and very discreet. Even though the evening seemed to go on, and it was snowing outside, at no point did we feel any pressure to rush and be on our way.

Bibou is a BYOB, which for us is always a huge plus. My friend's husband is a wine aficionado, and he had carefully picked a different wine to pair with each course.

Chef Pierre came out of the kitchen so we had a chance to thank and congratulate him. The whole affair was a complete success and an absolute feast.

We walked home in the snow back to Old City. The walk felt great and did us good after all the food and wine.

It was almost midnight when we reached home. I hadn't realized it was that late. 

I remembered to power on my phone. There was a message from my office manager telling me that the office was closed the next day, and that I should work from home. A comforting idea, and the perfect end to a perfect evening.

I am not sure how Bibou would rate on the Michelin scale.  For one, it doesn't have a liquor license, and, two, the décor is too modest. But this is Philadelphia, and in that context, Craig LaBan's three bells are well deserved.

We have plans to go back to Bibou in the near future for a less extravagant meal. We want to try one of the Sunday dinners. 

Bibou is located at 1009 South 8^th Street, between Carpenter Street and Washington Avenue.  Sunday four-course dinners are $45 per person. Otherwise dinners run betwee $24 and $33. Starters come in between $9 and $15. Bibou is cash only.

New York: Patis Restaurant

Junto Photos: Richard Carreno

Dining Without the Noise (At Lunch Only!)

I spoke yesterday with maitre d'hotel of Patis, 9 Ninth Avenue, New York, after my visit to the Highline park. (It's nearby the south end of the Highline in the West Village). The restaurant was eerily quiet -- none of the clanging din, shouting, and general cacophony usually associated with these Frenchie bistros. Parc, in Rittenhouse Square, is Exhibit A. (Parc's mega decibel level recently turned a friend, David Traub, and I away. We wanted to actually, like, talk). How come it's so relatively quiet at Patis?, I asked. 'Qui, Qui,' the head guy responded, actually speaking in English. Fairly quiet, he noted. But, at night, wear the ear plugs. The problem, he explained, is common to all replica French restos -- tile, especially unbaffled tile. Sounds just keep ricocheting off the tiles, never being absorbed by the elements. Ping, ping, ping, ad nauseum. So much much for talking.

-- RDC

Mace's Crossing

Quite Cross By Liliane Clever Junto Staff Writer I love onion soup. So on a recent evening, when a friend suggested we have onion soup at Mace's Crossing, I was all for it. Mace's Crossing is a bar/restaurant (pub?) located in a cute, small two-story brick building defiantly nestled against high rises at 17th and Cherry. My first impression, when we entered, was that it looked a bit run down. Not wanting to spoil the fun, I did not say anything. The restaurant inside is even smaller than it appears from the outside. The first floor was kind of busy, so we decided to go upstairs for a quieter table with a view next to the windows. We climbed the steep narrow carpet covered stairs which have seen better days. The upstairs dining room was completely empty, and the waitress appeared startled to see us. She let us pick a corner table by the windows. We checked that they were serving onion soup, and asked to see the wine list. The waitress pointed to a small card on the table. The card featured a very limited list of wine and beers with no prices. We asked about the possibility of getting a bottle of wine, but changed our mind when the waitress became frazzled. We settled for two glasses of Yellow Tail white instead. And, yes, we ordered the onion soup with French bread and butter on the side. At the mere mention of French bread, the waitress became almost frantic. "We do not have any French bread. Just the bread that is in the soup." By then, it was obvious that we had over estimated what Mace's Crossing had to offer. So, we settled for 'rolls' and butter instead. The onion soups came almost instantly - - not necessary a good sign – along with one long roll of bread each and butter in small plastic containers. The soup, topped with a thin layer of melted cheese, was extremely watery and fairly tasteless. The rolls had been fresh on a different day. My friend and I were in a good mood and determined to enjoy ourselves. So, when the waitress asked us if everything was OK, we said 'Yes', for lack of anything else to say. She left, looking relieved. No other customer ever joined us. We had the place to ourselves and could carry on our lively conversation. By the time we ordered coffee, I wanted decaf but they did not have any. I knew at that point that Mace's Crossing was definitely OFF my list of places to go or recommend. On our way out, we passed by the upstairs kitchen, and I made sure to avert my eyes. It was too late anyway. I could only wish that the next 24 hours would not become problematic. Outside, a group of prospective customers, Germans I think, were looking at the menu and asked us about the place. We told them to stay away from the onion soup. The next day, I decided to run a Google search on Mace's Crossing to see what kind of reviews they had been given. Overall, the reviews were unfavorable, and some were downright nasty. The only consistent point was that the bartender was really cool. Come to think of it, he greeted us with a big smile when we came in. But we decided to go upstairs and dealt the frightened waitress instead. Not sure what is going on here. Maybe she is simply tired of having to wait on unsatisfied customers.