Well, tonight we met Jacques Cagna, a really fine chef, at his rôtisserie en la Face. It's very, very impressive. And densely packed, in the textual sense, from Chagall posters on the walls to the pastilla (b'stilla) with guinea fowl, honeyed onions, and a very refined sauce in a delicate pastry crust. Not to mention the wild snails from Burgundy: no effete intellectual farm-raised snails for us! And a charming Brouilly.
Last night was Allard, and a plainly spectacular shoulder of lamb, followed by an even more spectacular apple tart that was carefully designed to be (a) delicious and (b) inform you, if you cook, that this particular tart had to have been prepared minutes before, just for you, because there's not enough thermal capacity in that thin crust to keep it this hot for more than a minute without turning it all to caramel and charcoal. Nice chats with our neighbor, too, who turned out to be Jane Smiley's proud uncle, and though a Cardinal fan had intelligent observations to make about the excellence of Don Kessinger. And a simple St. Estephe.
The Red Sox have clinched the wild card.
As the late Ken Coleman would say, "Mercy!"