First they famously dropped a star, now they are disappearing for good. After 40 years dishing out the best French cuisine on the East Coast (if not the nation), the Philadelphia institution makes plans to unplug the bain-marie next year.
Several years ago, I was in Philly on a business trip. I scheduled the 9:00 seating, then took the train and met an old friend at the station. (My train had caught fire in Vermont, delaying the journey just enough to make getting there a nail-biter.) He negotiated the city streets like a pro and we made the seating with but a moment to spare -- Le Bec-Fin was not known for flexible seating times. The service was as slow as the snails I ordered, so my friend helped me pass the time by pointing out a party of local politicos out to dinner with very beautiful women -- clearly not their wives. After that, we did what came natural while waiting: we drank heavily and adjourned several times to the patio (aka sidewalk) for cigarettes. By the time dessert came -- thanks to the combination of the liquor, six courses, and a long train ride -- I was barely able to stand.
The experience was everything I expected, but it served as a reminder of why I am at heart a gourmand, rather than a gourmet: The food was delicious and beautifully presented, but awfully precious, and the service bordered on obsequious. Every time came back from a smoke, my napkin had been perfectly origamied on my chair, and a server was behind me to slide the chair under my buttocks. It's too much.
A few weeks later, I met another friend at the solid, unpretentious Tewksbury Inn in the hunt club expanses of central New Jersey. The atmosphere was pleasant, but not refined -- it is a country inn, after all. But the frog legs dissolved on the tongue, the wine (a Paso Robles zin) was excellent, the onglet was the best I've had, and the bill was a fraction of what it had been at Le Bec-Fin. In all, simply a better experience. C'est la guerre.
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