The Entrance
Mar 17, 2009 2:21:55 GMT -5
Post by Nadir on Mar 17, 2009 2:21:55 GMT -5
*When one stood in the small but gracious foyer of Chez Alexandre and handed their outer garments to be placed in the coat-room, the warm elegance of the restaurant quickly wrought a subtle spell.
Faint strains of a melancholy berceuse drifted throughout the restaurant, the sound both beneath and above the clatter of crystal, silver and bone china, the murmur of voices and trilling of laughter. Now and again, on some evenings, a woman might stand beside the piano and sing along, her voice deeper than the conventional ingénues the operas boasted, with a husk like the cigar smoke that wreathed about the arched ceilings and hung above men's heads in a haze.
The lighting was low enough to provide a sense of intimacy and comfort without seeming a mite too dim; the tall, white candles neither flaring nor dousing themselves in any untoward draught, but glowing steadily, perhaps winking impishly as a lady dressed for the evening glided by or a smoothly-moving waiter whisked past bearing champagne in a silver bucket of crushed ice, domed platters and tureens piping tantalizing curls of heated scent into the air.
A variety of mouth-watering aromas would accost any observer, ranging from the delicate sweetness of fruits, desserts, to the bold bitterness of coffees and teas, to the heady lusciousness of a wide selection of fine wines and liquers, to the rich spices of the plats principals, entrées and hors d'oeuvres, seasoned to perfection by an expert hand and overseen by the sharp eye of the owner of the establishment.
Nadir Khan had found a passion, once more. None, perhaps, was more surprised than he to find it was cooking; and yet he was drawn to the myriad ways and forms of the culinary process...nothing failed to enthrall him as he studied further what Epicurean heights could be reached.
It almost tormented him.
He had agonized over his obsession and cursed himself for his weakness until the idea had come to him--to open a restaurant. At last, a somewhat respectable outlet for his passion presented itself in a form he could understand as a businessman. He had always paid for what he wanted, and it was not long before he had found a suitable location within the heart of Paris.
A fashionable district, neither too near nor too far from the more theatrical neighbourhoods of the city, allowing his aristocratic patrons to mingle with what they saw as the avante-garde: the artistes who could afford the tasteful and timeless luxury he offered and give the blue-bloods an exciting glimpse of la vie Boheme without having to dirty their boots or stain their reputations.
It was as much the refreshing company of the place as the intoxicating food--done after the French fashion, of course, but with a unique and exotic flair after the heart of its owner and the land of his birth--that kept people coming back to Chez Alexandre.
Nadir watched it all, and half-smiled to himself. Some critics might call it a flash in the pan, a nine-days-wonder, but they were wrong. When people began to find the food or atmosphere a bore, it was as simple as changing the sauce or seasoning in a single dish. A new sensation to savour, a new taste to try, a new delicacy to devour, a new sin to satiate...
They would keep coming back.*
((*collapses*
...compiling a prospective menu in Notepad, looking over recipes on Google. Drooling and exhausted.
Feel free to set up your own threads here at Chez Alexandre if you'll be dining here. Only mind that you don't make trouble or the manager will get the owner who will come and speak to your personally.))
Faint strains of a melancholy berceuse drifted throughout the restaurant, the sound both beneath and above the clatter of crystal, silver and bone china, the murmur of voices and trilling of laughter. Now and again, on some evenings, a woman might stand beside the piano and sing along, her voice deeper than the conventional ingénues the operas boasted, with a husk like the cigar smoke that wreathed about the arched ceilings and hung above men's heads in a haze.
The lighting was low enough to provide a sense of intimacy and comfort without seeming a mite too dim; the tall, white candles neither flaring nor dousing themselves in any untoward draught, but glowing steadily, perhaps winking impishly as a lady dressed for the evening glided by or a smoothly-moving waiter whisked past bearing champagne in a silver bucket of crushed ice, domed platters and tureens piping tantalizing curls of heated scent into the air.
A variety of mouth-watering aromas would accost any observer, ranging from the delicate sweetness of fruits, desserts, to the bold bitterness of coffees and teas, to the heady lusciousness of a wide selection of fine wines and liquers, to the rich spices of the plats principals, entrées and hors d'oeuvres, seasoned to perfection by an expert hand and overseen by the sharp eye of the owner of the establishment.
Nadir Khan had found a passion, once more. None, perhaps, was more surprised than he to find it was cooking; and yet he was drawn to the myriad ways and forms of the culinary process...nothing failed to enthrall him as he studied further what Epicurean heights could be reached.
It almost tormented him.
He had agonized over his obsession and cursed himself for his weakness until the idea had come to him--to open a restaurant. At last, a somewhat respectable outlet for his passion presented itself in a form he could understand as a businessman. He had always paid for what he wanted, and it was not long before he had found a suitable location within the heart of Paris.
A fashionable district, neither too near nor too far from the more theatrical neighbourhoods of the city, allowing his aristocratic patrons to mingle with what they saw as the avante-garde: the artistes who could afford the tasteful and timeless luxury he offered and give the blue-bloods an exciting glimpse of la vie Boheme without having to dirty their boots or stain their reputations.
It was as much the refreshing company of the place as the intoxicating food--done after the French fashion, of course, but with a unique and exotic flair after the heart of its owner and the land of his birth--that kept people coming back to Chez Alexandre.
Nadir watched it all, and half-smiled to himself. Some critics might call it a flash in the pan, a nine-days-wonder, but they were wrong. When people began to find the food or atmosphere a bore, it was as simple as changing the sauce or seasoning in a single dish. A new sensation to savour, a new taste to try, a new delicacy to devour, a new sin to satiate...
They would keep coming back.*
((*collapses*
...compiling a prospective menu in Notepad, looking over recipes on Google. Drooling and exhausted.
Feel free to set up your own threads here at Chez Alexandre if you'll be dining here. Only mind that you don't make trouble or the manager will get the owner who will come and speak to your personally.))