Eat Me

Sunday night there was no question of my not finding parking. I was meeting a friend at Café Jacqueline because she had told me about this funny place run by a woman who open only from 5 to 10 p.m. Wednesday through Sunday.

I thought: She's open only Wednesday through Sunday? A slightly difficult place to get into, hers. A place where the patron has to jump through a few scheduling hoops, otherwise known as planning ahead. If it were a clothing shop, things aren't off-the-rack and they aren't couture; they're somewhere in between. They're French-like; informal and structured.

So there was no question of my finding parking in parking-space-free North Beach. Parking in North Beach is, well, full of folly--but I was determined. I really REALLY wanted to taste one of these souffles.

So after some driving around and asking around, I found a public parking lot manned--did I luck out--by a guy who allowed me to give him a personal check even though it was a Cash Only operation. He checked my I.D.

My friend was waiting inside, and she had changed tops from earlier. I figured she was dressing up for the bounty of air that was to be soon set before us.

The restaurant serves only souffles for the main course. We were there for a dessert souffle, so we ordered a Grand Marnier.

The waiter set it down very quietly. The two of us looked at it in all its puffy beauty. it reminded me of a toque. The top was straight as a sheer ledge, and snowy with powdered sugar. Resting on the plate were two long spoons, the kind you use for iced tea.

We scooped right in. It didn't take us long to reach the bottom. It was my last meal in San Francisco for a little while at least, and as far as I'm concerned, it's an excellent reason to return.

Westville: I forgot.

When I first saw Westville, I wrote it off mentally as too gimmicky. Oh, there's another one of those Wholesome Heartland places in the Big City. It will be serving comfort food galore, and the thing is, I highly doubt it will be better than the Grange Hall (now the Blue Mill Tavern once again, although nothing like the old Blue Mill, where I used to hang out in its divey days).

But chance brought me and a friend to Westville for a late dinner, and I saw that it did have some things going for it. For one, it offers a lot of side dishes, which, for a grazer like me, is a boon. I like making entire suppers out of side dishes; call it the displacement approach.

That night was not an all-side-dish dinner night, thought. I ordered the whole trout; it was a little salty but quite edible. The green beans surprised me; they were perfectly cooked—a little soft, a little snappy. From what I could tell, the chef hadn't done the cold-water plunge, either. Ever noticed how difficult it is to get green beans just right?

While we were eating, a group of guys were whooping it up at the next table. They were good-natured, and unfrat-like, and singing goofily to parts of the music. I don't know if they were drunk or young or both, but I didn't much mind their antics. It was more homey and amusing than it was obnoxious, at least at 11:30 at night.

Unlikely that anybody who eats at Michael's would eat at Westville.

Agata & Valentina, on the Upper East Side, opened a restaurant recently. One would think, given the caliber of the store's goods, that the place would serve some good food.

The food I had a few days ago ranged from Very Ordinary to Bad. I started with a quite passable lentil soup, and moved on to a gloppy mess of spaghetti with crab meat. It was the special, and the crab was from Maine (they said). Because I was ordering at A&V, I gave the main dish a chance, even though it had a cream sauce. I was thinking, Oh, maybe it's a twist on an inspired fettucini alfredo, with a fruit of the sea. I was thinking, My special will help me ignore this terrible music.

(Some days I'll do anything to get close to Maine.)

And so: an unlucky streak with Italian restaurants continues. I guess there's always West Village Pizza (12th Street, off Sixth Avenue) . . . .

What is it with the Italian restaurants in this city? Can't they be a little more symphonic? My three most recent meals (all one-time visits) proved the following:

Excellent foccaccia bread to be found at Osteria del Circo—and dry-dry-dry wild boar stew, and a tacky Happy Valentine's Day sign projected on a picture wall. Should I mention the bass-heavy music? If this is the Maccioni's idea of a circus, I suggest they hop to tending stew. Still, excellent focaccia bread. The panna cotta was good, too. (120 West 55th Street)

Good, plain pasta is to be had at Lupa Osteria Romana (170 Thompson Street). Truly al dente.

Col Legno (231 East 9th Street) serves excellent tiramisù (this cancelled my disappointment in the overcooked tagliatelle). I have no idea what they did to the savoiardi but I think they should do it some more. And the cocoa dusting was right. Col Legno also does something wonderful with white beans but the tiramisù is a standout.

Via Quadronno (25 East 73rd Street) has an excellent risotto Milanese, and they make these bread fingers that are delicious (and pack them in foil-lined bags for take-away.) Some of the wines are their own. The acoustics, unfortunately, are such that tables next to each other are in the same audio pocket. And the lighting is a little twerta; I can't explain. Or rather, I won't right now.

Thing is, wouldn't it be nice to have all these things going right in the same restaurant? One place, one meal, one symphonic experience on my tongue? Have I ever had one? Maybe . . . . I think the closest I ever came was at The Quilted Giraffe and at Lutèce. Yes: not Italian.

The bad news is that those meals were served long, long ago. But they were so very good, I've never forgotten them. At least I know I've dined, even if I never do it again.

Next time: How Westville surprised me a little.

Hammond's Candies makes caramel-dipped and chocolate-dipped marshmallows that are too good to be true. Excellent taste, excellent give. Maybe actors can practice kissing with them.

The Val Kilmer of candies.

I found them at Owen's, in Grand Central, 95 cents. You can also have Hammond's send a bag from Denver ($15.25, for the caramel-dipped) . Unless you're going to Denver.