Réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre

A friend from home put me in touch with her aunt and uncle in Paris, Kate & Pierre-Yves, and I did not hesitate when they invited me to join them for dinner on December 31st.  “Just a small dinner,” Kate said.  “Nothing much, but you’re more than welcome to join us, and you shouldn’t be alone on New Year’s Eve.”  There were six of us, including Florence & Nicolas, who live in the apartment downstairs, and Jean-Pierre, an old friend.  Florence and Nicolas are both enthusiastic chefs, as is Kate. Pierre-Yves explained it thus: “Ils cuisinent.  Je mange et je bois.”  “Me, too.” I said.  

The evening unfolded like a play written by Julia Child.  Everything we ate was made from scratch by the three chefs, except for the ‘#3 special’ oysters on the half-shell, which came from the ocean, and were shucked by someone else.  We started in the living room, sitting by the fire, drinking whiskey and champagne, and snacking on three appetizers: toothpicks of roasted prunes and bacon, small triangles of pastry stuffed with black sausage and apple, and a tray of shot glasses containing puréed fennel and a  slice of Manchego.  

Next came the oysters, brought in from the terrace on a bed of ice and seaweed.  As he opened a bottle of white wine, Pierre-Yves recounted demonstrating his devotion to Kate by defiling an oyster with cocktail sauce to meet the expectations of her Texan father.  He also explained the different types of oysters, saying that the ones we were eating were the highest grade of the best type.  Indeed, it was hard to imagine any oysters tasting better.

Before decamping to the dining room there was a pause, Nicolas and Florence disappearing downstairs to their apartment to ready the first course.  The rest of us chatted in the living room before Kate ushered us to the table, and then the soup arrived.  Nicolas came through the front door with a tray holding six steaming bowls, and they were passed around.  According to Florence the soup had only two ingredients: topinambour and seared foie gras, though Nicolas cracked under questioning and confessed to adding a little olive oil.  It was my first encounter with the Jerusalem artichoke, and I think we’ll be seeing each other again.

For the main course there was roasted beef tenderloin, potatoes, yams, snow peas, bread, and red wines from from Spain, Argentina, and France.  I tried out an electronic pepper grinder made by Peugeot that shines a light on your food as it grinds the pepper, an effect I found creepy.  Next came a green salad and assortment of cheeses, followed by a chocolate cake made by Kate, served with fresh raspberries and cream.  Someone handed me a digital camera showing pictures of the same group eating dinner at a restaurant in the south of France just a few days before.  I felt like I was being recruited into some kind of gastronomic cult.  What they didn’t know is that I would have gone quietly.  Primed by the champagne, whiskey, and wine, I was ready for the Kool-Aid.

After dinner we moved back to the living room, Pierre-Yves pouring glasses of cognac and Nicolas opening more champagne.  Thirty minutes before midnight everyone started sending text messages to check on their kids, and phone calls  came in from siblings overseas.  The carpet was rolled away and Pierre-Yves and Florence danced, encouraging the rest of us to join in.  The whole scene was presided over by Judy & Mabel, Kate & Pierre-Yves’ two miniature Dachshund puppies, who stayed up past their bedtime to ring in the new year.