E. just gave me the address of this fabulous online translation device. You will, of course, excuse the protracted joke which follows. It's something I wrote (in English, just in case this is unclear), had translated by aforementioned translator into French, and then re-translated back into English. Enjoy.

26th DEC 2000
Pierre saint - scintillatingly the white, ensconced without risk at the end of A cloistered the cul-de-sac in the generally abandoned central mall. Maintaining the last thing that we have need is another lesson in the undervaluation or the minimalism of ' Zen '. Saint Pierre manages (but only narrowly) to escape criticism on this account. Getups superfluity, a functional sensitivity modernist with lighting very full with spirit (which I will not damage while tracing here), and the floor of parquet floor of tan did not polish with a raised gloss, réminiscent these Scandinavian über-concessions of supply. It is not any attempt calculated to submit the report/ratio simply; it is a total negligence for any embellissement unspecified. It is anti-decoration, or perhaps to the top moreover more exactly, a-decoration, faithful to the original creed modernist - but always finishes looking at very smart and neat indeed.

To 7,15 we were the first customers. Executive head Emmanuel Stroobant, a Belgian convivial pushing the tufts ice-blondes on her head, accomodated us personally and given us to it finely to read attentively. "it smiles too much," Y. laughed with Darcy-like the disdain, as if it were the first sign déclinable of the evening. Personally, I think us could do everything with an attention little more personal and less prepared officiousness - if all does not have any reason, I will say to you.

The chart was very attractive, with a tasting of seven-course for $85, and of the seven varieties more still of the fats of liver on sale, more risibly the weak one of what was a salad of Caesar with let us croûtons of liver. The remainder of the menu was a traditional French conflation ordered and New-Japonisme art (the aileron of century to reproduce, and to recall is not to it however the new century) - very Toulouse-Lautrec, if you will excuse the impression. I always wondered whether the French and the Japanese do one appareillement by the way - old August and will bravura, last voce austere and of sotto. The Eastern inflections did not look at too importunate here (I spoke too early, naturally; they serve the eel green-tea-green-tea-smoked now) - a gloss of miso, the crab salad of snow - which made the place resemble a positive sanatorium after my trauma preceding of fusion.

It did not begin well. The bread, a turgid and ventilated phallus, a reproduction high pressure die casting by diminutive of a rod, was completely feeling reluctant. Our mouths only had fun enough by a breaded snail nested in the depression of a Chinese soup spoon filled with seasoned grass emulsion, and an indefinable settee comprising certain pie and aspic in the alternate layers.

The J, in the test at the Stroobant place, only could control the "membre Scandinavian band of rock ". I usefully suggested Michael learns how to rock. And then there were the usual jokes about the famous Belgians. Between we let us can only control three - and two of them were fictitious (Rene Magritte, Hercules Poirot and Tintin).

To start, I had desiccated fats of liver with the French toast caramelized and the cutters (sic) fork-crushed acid. I can not to recall how I have chosen that surplus other variations, but I know that I was not helped by "the assistance" (how they specifically asked to be addressed in the menu), a fey, rather young woman with the carefree hairdo which gave me a lesson not requested on balance contrapuntal in dishes of fat of liver - softness to the rough taste with round in addition to richness unctuous. At all events, it very nice and well-was conceived, unless I found my cutters to be completely intact; no obviousness of them having been not pummelled by any instrument unspecified.

The Y. had the pot of fat of liver with crawfish ravioli (at the origin the gyoza of frog thigh, but was to him in addition to menu), fighting to remain with flood on a flood of Japanese wild mushroom cream. It could as well have been mushroom ragoût furnished with pie and a pellet. Its only response to our blandishments was "excellent" clearly. The J confronted large, punt Japanese slate of yellow tuna of Tartar aileron and fresh sashimi of festoon with lawyer and the salad of wakame, the single concession of Stroobant with unalloyed the Japanese composition. It was in a French indisputable way in the presentation, however, with all the necessary size and drama - a feeler rather threatening of crawfish placed in a tuna hillock making a wild and strident arc which was more invahissant that is usually considered polished; the generous and "random" stews of the lawyer splodge and the alga slightly verdant, like the painting of impasto of Van Gogh' S, applied directly to the fabric.

"it looks at a little occupied," I averred.

"do not destroy it with your words," the evil squeaked J. In fact, it was completely of festival (it pink dark of rare tuna, in.liaison.with the duelles nuances of the green) and could have made perfect cynosure and riotous for the dinner of Christmas.

We had a very good sight of the kitchen. Stroobant acted like a surgeon who carried out each other operation on the liver of a duck, each one preceded by an advertisement of the identity by the patient (I want to say the subject). It was all the very sharp one, and completely frankly, private clinic - in particular in the literal direction. I would like to see it that the resuscitate has well wafer of cooked fats of liver.

After a intermezzo of mango sorbet and a little waiting, our principal dishes arrived, supported by a androgynoid of statuesque (which, us later discovered, times as bitch of door to a certain club). I slow- had roasted salmon trout ("a trout, not a salmon "- Stroobant) with mushroom of portobello, the crusty prosciutto and mirin-infused octopus. Resting in a bisque robust-seasoned and surrounded by A ratatouille-like the mixture of the food roots of root, it was completely superb, except that I could not find any octopus. Ah, idiot I. "you remember to eat something of crusty on trout?" Yes, bacon - oops, prosciutto - was little "not, there those finely-julienned of the bands, like fried shallots? It is your octopus." The menu was simply classist, or less very compromised. The humble veggies which constituted at least a third of the dish did not even justify a mention, but the invisible unfair suspicion of octopus "infused" (probably suggestive of a magic alchemical process) with exotic Japanese rice wine is scandalously announced. Cheap discrimination.

The J savoured "a medium-rare ox net wrapped out of bacon, of rubbed with rock salt, a galze of teriyaki, scented the oil of cilantro" and from the Dauphine of gratin, which seemed like a freebie with us - a little prolix for a beefsteak. The Y. ordered, rather blind, the net of Saint-Pierre with crushed almonds, the braised asparagus and the enoki spread in a soup of dashi. the "mackerel in the taste, John Dory in texture," it endangered (and completely exactly, too). Ask the assistance, I suggested, although I informed it that it could simply state the obviously obvious fact in oneself, "is a fish". I was right. Or at least, such were its first exact words. Only one tight time it indicated that Saint Pierre is John Dory, and also a place in France.

For the dessert, I took pudding sticking of date with sauce to caramel with butter - a remainder of old finely of fig sheet - which was a candy with little but always completely pleasant. The Y. took a receipt of family (suggestive of the exalted, hermetic secret configuration of the ingredients) - Belgian cake chocolate flourless of Grandma Stroobant with the raspberry purées which looked at little too innofensif. Little too likes a "brownie", in fact. There did not make any attempt defend the clothes industry, and remained stolid as always.

Burned frozen of cream of sweet chestnut of the J with vanilla bourbons (sic still) was a terrible nuance of gray-ochre. It tasted like what to be it claimed, but to be a little flask and moussey, and solved with the not identified particles. It had courage to call it disabled person, a pun of which I really laughed. But where those the "bourbons" odd-are called? Bourbon-infused candies? Probably the pieces, which, like my octopus, have pleasure to allure the dinner of beginner while playing where is Wally among the disorder of your dish.

The interesting cast iron of the "aide "is a definite attraction. Or distraction, if you are in this tilted way.