Restaurants

French Utopia

Continued from page 1

The Sofitel is a French-owned hotel, she explains, which has a prix fixe lunch for $15. "There is always a nice appetizer, like a terrine," she says, "and they have lovely entrées -- it was bouillabaisse the last time I was there. The service is excellent. There is another cafe in the hotel called Chez Colette, where you can get a croque-monsieur [French grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich] or something light. I am always on the lookout for more, because I need French chefs to teach our cooking classes," she says.

"You said you get guest lecturers, too. What do they talk about?" I ask.

"Well, Polly Platt was here recently; she's a cross-cultural trainer and the author of French or Foe, a book about the culture gap between the French and Americans."

"So give me an example of the differences between us."

"Well, she tells a great story about EuroDisney. They evidently had a terrible time trying to get their French employees to smile. Polly Platt said that's because French people think you're dumb if you smile too much."

This makes me laugh, but I'm not sure why. "Maybe that's why the French like Texas," I guess. "Cowboys don't smile a lot."

"Yes, that's right. The French are very fond of Texas and cowboys."

"I think the feeling is mutual. I have some wine-geek friends in Austin who wear black on Cinco de Mayo because that's the day that Texas lowered the French flag and raised the Mexican one."

"That's funny," Joan says.

"Who does your wine-tasting classes?"

"Bear Dalton from Spec's -- he's great. You can look up our schedule for cooking classes and wine tastings at www.afde hou.org. Bear Dalton is also going to be leading a wine tour of France this spring that Spec's is sponsoring, and I am going along as the translator. The Houston Alliance also does a spring workshop in the Riviera every year, which I lead; it's a nice trip and a great intensive French lesson."

"What a nice job you have," I say with a stupid smile.

"Yours isn't bad either," she says.

I am about to explain the travails of a food writer when a wine-poached, chocolate-covered pear standing upright amid ornately swirled stripes of white wine-flavored cream and dark chocolate sauce is delivered to the table. The juicy fruit cuts easily with a fork, and I dunk big pieces into the sauces and race them to my mouth before they can drip.

Okay, I have to admit, at the moment it is a pretty good job.

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