They are giddy. Drunk on knowledge. High on the conceit of what they are trying to do. Finest dining, here in Fort Point — modern yet lavish, refined and formal and beyond expensive. You are in their sights, and Menton’s minions are coming for you. From the right! A woman armed with more information about the wine she will pour than anyone would ever need to know. She is grinning. She is talking perfume and acid and soil and philosophy. She is pouring liquid, golden, into your glass.
The sweet smell of excess
When adventurous diners wish upon a star, Barbara Lynch has plenty of answers at Menton
From the left! A man with a dish of delicate white porcelain, covered by a domed lid. Attached at his hip like Gemini, twin in intent, another man with fingers out like pincers. He removes the lid. They watch, smiles twitching the corners of their lips, as you bend forward to look at what he hath revealed. Tiny, delicate, edible jewelry, landscape artistry in miniature. It is a round of rock crab salad with caviar, grapefruit, and almonds. It’s a balm, as refreshing as a cool cloth on the forehead.
They keep coming, the courses and the servers. You can’t have too many of either, it would appear.
A Maine scallop, glowing round and plump like a pearl. Hello, luscious. It sits beside ravioli stuffed with fava leaf. Truffles are flung about here and there like rose petals at a wedding. It’s a celebration of something, all right. Land and sea. Taste and texture. Spring and cleansing. So good.
Lobster salad, austere, coral rounds all in a row. On top, little piles of white sturgeon caviar and tarragon. Beneath, a line of artichoke shaved into delicate, tender slivers.
Foie gras terrine, anything but austere, a slab of richness punctuated by sweet wine gelee. Squiggles of rhubarb gel cavort exuberantly across the plate, doing backbends over bits of almond.
Lovely spring, a pea veloute the color of Kermit, poured from on high at the table. It pools around a melange of candy colors, courtesy of nature. Tiny pink radishes, bright carrots, asparagus tips, elfin mushrooms. The season’s sugar, spiced with wisps of curry yogurt.
Fat langoustines with blunt pink tails, wrapped in shredded phyllo dough. Turbot poached and served with sauce Veronique, beside white grapes wrapped in pleasingly bitter braised endive. Quail seated with its legs crossed and confited, breast puffed out around a filling of foie gras: proud little bird. Dinner here is part medieval banquet, part Relais & Châteaux.
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