Le Caprice
One of my more annoying qualities is my insistence that putting the word “le” in front of every phrase makes it better. A survey of recent e-mails to friends proves this unfortunate habit:
How was le restaurant? Are you going to le brunch? Where is le doctor’s office? I’m going to le gym to work of le fat from le ass.
I’d like to think it oddly charming, but I’m not one to lie to myself. Anyway, it’s no surprise that every recent jaunt down 5th Avenue had me peeking curiously into the windows of Le Caprice, the newly opened dining room in the Pierre hotel. Adam Platt recently reviewed it in New York Magazine, and since if there’s anything I like better than the word “le,” it’s NY Mag, I figured it was a sign from above: I had to check out Le Caprice.
Now, I can’t commit myself to a full review, because, full disclosure here: I just had one two two-and-a-half glasses of wine, some lovely multi-grain bread and a bowl of celeriac soup. But then you don’t read me for unbiased reviews, do you? (Goodness, I hope not. If so, I sincerely apologize.)
I really just want to talk about the soup. Maybe it was the fact that the temperature outside was a mere 22 degrees, but the first spoonful of hot, creamy celery root was just what a cold soul such as myself needed on a chilly afternoon. I don’t typically enjoy root vegetable-based soups, as they never seem to achieve that velvety smoothness that all potages aspire to. More often than not, they end up being chunky and rustic, which is okay, I guess. (It’s really not.) But this soup! This one must have been passed through one thousand chinoises! And you know what else? It was perfectly seasoned. I generally try to avoid saying things like that because I generally try to avoid sounding like a pretentious asshole, but it was really a special salt job. The soup came with roasted chestnuts and just when I was beginning to feel petulant over the lack of them in my bowl, my spoon retrieved the plumpest, toastiest chestnut a celeriac soup had ever seen. And there were more – chunky, meaty little bits, just waiting to be discovered.
Not particularly wanting anything else at that point in time, I declined a second course and let a second pour of Sancerre tumble its way into my glass.
I can’t tell you anything about the steak tartare or champagne risotto (though I’d like to be able to, someday), but what I can say at this point is that on a brutally cold afternoon on the Upper East Side, there is little place more warming than Le Caprice. Le Wonderful.