PASSIONATE RATIONS

Making our way back to Harvard Square from Chez Henri, we decided, upon our friends’ recommendation, to stop at the bar at Sandrine’s, a little French bistro just off of Harvard Yard (named for Chef Raymond Ost’s daughter).

It’s décor is much more sedate than Chez Henri, in the sense of color scheme.  Here, taupe, camel, dusty roses and blues, and ivory make for a serene scene.

The bistro features a little marble-topped bar just inside the front door.   We ensconced ourselves there.

To my delight, we soon realized that, not only were we able to watch all the action of the bartender, but, since the bar and the pastry station were adjoining, we also were able to watch the pastry chef in action.  It wasn’t long until we were engaging both in assorted banter.

Because I’m fascinated by food and its creators, I asked how the pastry chef had come to be there, carmelizing crème brûlée and drizzling chocolate.  Her answer reminded me why I need to break out more from my introverted comfort zone and just talk to people.

Turns out, she had arrived at Sandrine’s by a somewhat circuitous route that involved first obtaining a degree in rocket science.  I’m not sure why people always reference such unusual things to me when I’m a little tipsy and, therefore, unable to adequately follow up.  I wondered the next day whether I had heard right, but, indeed, she had said “rocket science.”  She had gotten as far as working in the field and had come to the realization that maybe rocket science wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.  She spoke to her college advisor, mentioned an interest in cooking and he, apparently, knew of a restaurant that would let her try out her crazy dream for a day.  At the end of that day, she was hooked and they offered her a job.  She subsequently went on to cooking school.  Obviously, she’s smart–smart enough to know you should do what you love.  And when you think about it, you can easily see how knowledge of rocket science could help in the kitchen.

She was gracious enough to allow us to pepper her with questions, and even allowed us each a candied kumquat after I inquired about them.   Now that’s service with a smile.

The bartender, too, was a hoot.  When I asked him what he recommended for drinks, he introduced me to a little martini-esque concoction he had invented consisting of gin, basil, and various other ingredients that now escape me.   So tasty and refreshing, I had two.

As you may imagine, the rest of the evening was a bit of a blur, interspersed with particular frames of great clarity, as when another woman joined us at the bar.  She was older than we, distinguished looking, gray salting her hair.  She was eating dinner and we learned she often did so there, being friends with the chef.  Calling herself a “food historian” we spoke about food and its merits.   It’s only this that I regret about the evening–that I can’t remember more of this part of it.  I’ll blame the bartender.

I remember eating something (I think it was one of the Alsatian flatbreads they feature), and I’m sure it was good, but you’ll have to refer to my buddies for more details on that.   There’s no doubt, however, that I’d happily return to try it (and other things) again.

With another designated driver.