La Camargue

The consequence of childish wrongdoing in my household was to be accused of having been left on our family's doorstep by gypsies, rather than having matriculated to our neighborhood under more favorably lineal obstetrical circumstances. Frankly, I'd never seen a gypsy in Wynnefield, but the concept was not unimaginable due to the fact that my young sister looked exactly like Bela Lugosi. Fortunately, as the years passed, she began to look more like a gargoyle and was able to get a job just, and I mean "just," outside the doors of the public library on the Parkway.

Even my sister would look marvelous in the softly lighted, glowing gypsyish surroundings at La Camargue. One enters upon long-backed cane-seated wooden chairs huddled about a grandfather clock and a huge copper cauldron. Above is an unusual red ceiling from which droop huge brown beams. Eight feet forward and to the right is a cupboard filled with liquor for service on the 12-foot mahogany bar before it. After the bar, whose only light comes from large-bellied shaded lamps, is the restaurant proper. The walls are constructed of aged brick on the left and of white stucco on the right. Three tall cylindrical pillars impose upon the middle seam of the dining area. Each column's topmost portion is adorned by wrought iron scones, whose tiny bulblights are reddened and mollified by crimson caps speckled with miniscule yellow circles. It's as if sunset is a minute off.

Every table (there are about 30) is draped in pink linen. A gracious grouping of daisies, velvet snapdragons, mums, carnations and baby's breath are contained in silver "Revere" bowls. A lighted candle stretches romantically above its brass underpinning upon each tablecloth, its flickering being mirrored in the silver tops of the salt and pepper shakers seemingly mesmerized and motionless in fawning desuetude. Iron roosters, stuffed grouse, antique wash basins and pictures of the southern region of France abound. The rug throughout is plush light purple.

One is seated to a bevy of activity. Angled slices of French bread are placed upon one's plate as are swirls of golden butter and a pot of crushed anchovies. Merely place a tiny moist swirl of creamy butter and a dab of anchovy over it onto the crisp bread. Place the spread upon one's tongue and wash down with the "house" Inglenook Navalle Chablis. You will be singing "Allons enfants de la patrie..." instantly.

Begin with escargots ($5.50). Six are served immersed in a sizzling broth full of chopped hazelnuts and garlic, within compartments of a brown crock. One uses a small neptune fork to stab the chubby gastropod mollusk. Swoosh the glistening body around in its pool until engorged, then raise it delicately two inches below eye level and exhale as it enters the mouth. Inhale through throat to coat the upper lining of one's palate with a mist of garlic steam; curl your tongue upward closing the jaw, forming a human aspirator. Try to chew...it's gone. Swallowing is involuntary, a reflex occasioned by explicit lust for the next escargot.

Another hors de'oeuvre, in season now, is Cold Asparagus. Emerald City has never been greener than these spears. Young shoots are displayed in a fan surrounded by a creamy orange puddle. The chef's ardor for the beauty of the dish is climaxed by the placement of a rose (made of tomato skin) mid-sauce. Freshness exudes from these edible plants, whose fragrance alludes to its membership in the lily family.

If you love soup, have a bowl of soupe de poisson. One need only aver its contents to be granted favorable summary judgment: lobster, rock fish, red snapper, whiting, leeks, carrots, saffron.

As for entrees, always determine the special of the evening. Dover Sole is shipped "just caught" to the restaurant twice a week. Frogs' legs, as dainty as any you've ever eaten, are born and bred in France. Scallops (with their roe streaking from adductor muscle) are flown in only if the European seas are calm, otherwise the valves are too sandy for consumption. Nothing has been frozen. Everything sparkles with spritely sauces. The Sole, for instance, is exquisitely enhanced by a sauce composed of shallots, champagne, fish stock, lobster, cream and a dash of lemon. Hearty, light classic French cuisine.

My favorite remains Carré d'Agneau aux Aromates, a rack of lamb for two ($32.00). The lamb is perfectly pink when ordered medium rare. Its tastes are various as the herbs de Provence make their way among one's tastebuds. Dijon mustard, finely chopped parsley and bread crumbs caress the hearts of lamb to form a slight but sensitive crust. With a vintage Gigondas from the Rhone Valley to sip upon, the meal becomes a festive full-bodied joy.

Marcel Brossette, La Camargue's owner and chef, will not allow you to retreat from dessert. "Eees no calorees," he will say, as your eyes devour a three-tiered cart resplendent with strawberry torte garnished by apricot glaze chocolate Amaretto cake, paris bresst, all baked and/or prepared upon the premises. (La Camargue purchased its next-door neighbor, Le Fournil, about six months ago; the baked goods and pastries are simply exceptional).

Courteous waiters and waitresses are dressed in tuxedo shirts and never miss an opportunity to be helpful, politely.

Monsieur Brossette was chef at Le Bec Fin from 1973 through 1976. His stories about tennis matches with Georges Perrier could make Arthur Ashe ashen. Since he likes to mingle among his patrons, you will no doubt be charmed by his presence at your table. "Calvados! Ees no alcohol. I geeve you 100 proof of zat!"

My sister uses it as a mouthwash.