As longtime This Old Chef readers know, last December, on our annual crazy trip to L.A. to cook for rich people, we discovered a truly wonderful restaurant - barbrix...
http://www.thisoldchef.com/blog.html/my_new_la_hangout__barbrix/
...when our best friend, screenwriter and chef Deb Stenard, took us there for a Boxing Day dinner after a third long day in the kitchen.
Lovely space, friendly staff, delicious food.
This year, we dared disappointment and went back...
Same lovely space, same friendly, knowledgeable staff, and food that certainly equaled and, in some cases, surpassed, the year before.
But, Dear Readers, what happened next is what separates the men from the boys... the wheat from the chaff... the... you get my drift.
I had ordered grilled Scottish salmon on a celeriac purée. The salmon was perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned. The celeriac was luscious and silky. There were wild mushrooms and asparagus.
I was in heaven.
But.
There was a green... something... atop the fish. I tasted it. I couldn't tell what it was. That's not a good sign. Sauce, yes... but what? Our server passed by to check on us, and I asked her what it was. She told me it was a charred onion beurre blanc. And, as nicely as I could, I told her I couldn't taste anything at all.
I made it clear how much I love the restaurant and everything else about the salmon dish... that I really wasn't complaining, just pointing out that there was no point to the sauce. She thanked me, and went away.
Within three or four minutes, Vincent Cluzet, one of the managers, and a charming, sexy one at that, was at my side, asking questions. We chatted for a few minutes and, over my protests, he asked my permission to try something to repair the sauce.
A few brief moments elapsed, and he reappeared with a ramekin of sauce. I tasted it.
It sang.
I tasted the onions and the herbs and the butter. Vincent knew that all this sauce needed was seasoning... and he was right! I poured a bit onto my salmon, and what had been a lovely course became a superlative one. The one tiny flaw in the evening had been repaired. Perfectly.
Our love for this place and the folks who put such passion and care into their work redoubled. He didn't need to do this. I mean, we eat there once a year!
But that, Dear Readers, is the kind of care that makes a restaurant great. Yes, I said great. Even though in many respects this is a simple tapas-style place, the care taken by every member of the team makes dining there a great experience.
And because of Vincent's care and attention, everyone who ordered the Scottish salmon after me that night would have the perfect sauce to accompany it.
Bravo, barbrix! That's how you run a restaurant.