Mom Says:It is said that La Table du Lancaster offers fine dining that is intimate, understated and contemporary. Naturally, no one actually ever says that it’s easy.
Agent Octavian sat staring at Zora the kittee entrepreneuse, until she chuckled.
“O! Mon ami, yu arrr so quiet! It is sutch a plaisir to be weeth someone whu eez not alwaez barrkeeng all the tim!”
The spell was broken. “Barkin?” said Octavian. “Yu gots doggeez werkin fer yu?”
“Mais oui. RRRR an D peeplez, an testrrrz, an tranzlaytorrrs, of cors… Many doggee peeples. An they arr all sooo enthooziastique! Waggeeng their tailz, an barkeeng, all dae looong.”
“Huh. That mus becom annoyin aftr a whil.”
“C’est vrai! But eenugf about me! How hav yu ben, Octaviannn?”
“O, yu noe. Can’t complayn. Biznis is helthee an I’m gettin a chans to see the werld.”
A young waiter approached with two martini glasses on his tray. “Mademoiselle, Monsieur, the manager expresses his welcome with a complimentary Catnip Royale, eh?” He placed the drinks on the table. “Would you like to consider the menu now, or wait a while?”
Zora nodded aristocratically. “Latayr for the entrée, garçon. Merci.”
Octavian watched the red-vested man stroll away. “Nys Inglish. Is he ‘Merikan, do yu thingk?”
“Probablee Canadien, a Quebecois.”
“Ah!” said Octavian, wishing he’d studied geography that was closer to home. He took a sip from the straw in his martini. “O mai! That ‘Nip is fresh! Ar they growin it in their gardin out bak or somthin?”
Zora purred. “Not qwyt! Eet coms frrom Chateau de Fourrure, thee Neepyard of mon ami, Christophe. Yu lik?”
Octavian sipped again, more carefully and then sniffed the sprig of catnip. His eyes watered a little, though he knew that some of this reaction had to do with the vodka in the drink. He sat back in his chair and curled his plumy black tail around his feet.
“Hmm. It hav hints of lavndr, wift som of that woody smell, but not the heavee kind we gets in the Stayts. I wud almos call it leafee… But ther also seem lik froot ovrtonz, yu noe, that froot wift the funnee naym I nevr remembember… An an undrton of chickpeaz.”
Zora’s eyes widened. “I am—I meen, yu arr—Yu surpryz me, Octaviannn. I hav herd that ‘Merikans do not hav the noz for telleeng the trrru qwalliteez of fine ‘Nip, but yu…”
But Octavian was concentrating, his eyes half closed. “Whut the doggee is that froot? Starts wift an A. Avokodo?”
“Yu meens apricot?”
“That’s it! Thank yu. Mai nex gess wud hav ben arugula, yu noe, an I’m pertee shur that not a froot at all!”
“Er, yes…” She flicked her tail and the red-vested waiter materialized beside them. “Garcon, wud yu tell us whut Chef Meeeshel has for us tonigt?”
The young man warmed to his task. Without taking the pad out of his pocket, he recited, “Our menu tonight at La Table du Lancaster, purposely brief, is organized by theme, based on products chosen by Chef Michel for their intensity, freshness, and slightly sour notes. As the base to these works of the master-chef’s art, for Le Menu pour les Chats, we also offer the choice, tonight, between the chef’s special quail and the
tronçons de sole de petit bateau cuit au plat, purée d’artichauts camus et autres crus jus de cuisson réduit, caviar Beluga.”
“So hard to desyd,” murmured Zora
But Octavian was on a roll. “Ah quail… I hav herd egsellint thins of la caille française. I shall hav the quail. Ask yer Chef Meeshel to mayk it sparkul wift the wit of the tomato– the burst of lemon–the tang extraordinaire of the ‘Nip buds--”
The waiter was scribbling busily. Zora purred loudly. “I shall hav whut he’s haveeng, s’il vous plait.”
