I can't say I swooned over my sole meunière at Le Crocodile with as much joyous abandon as Meryl Streep, who plays Julia Child in the upcoming gastro-flick Julie & Julia. I will confess, though, that I hadn't been so girlishly excited about visiting a restaurant in a very long time.
Last week, we warmed up to the classics by way of The Teahouse. Dinner was, well, okay. But after viewing an advance press screening of Nora Ephron's charming comedy about Ms. Child's professional culinary beginnings in 1950s France, I immediately started craving some serious, old-school French cooking.
So where does one go for lobster thermidor and garlic-sautéed frog's legs? In Vancouver, your best bet is Le Crocodile, where owner and executive chef Michel Jacob has been sweating over the same cream sauces for the past 25 years.
A record-breaking heat wave wasn't exactly the most enticing backdrop for such rich cuisine. But once I had donned a chic sundress - Le Crocodile is a proudly traditional establishment that inspires you to dress properly and behave accordingly - I found myself rather giddy about the idea of dining at this revered local institution with half-curtained windows, formal service and enormous flower displays. The promise of air conditioning didn't hurt either.
To kick-start the evening? A dry gin martini ($10), Ms. Child's aperitif of choice, naturally. Besides, the predominantly French wine list, stacked with vintage bottles that range in the thousands of dollars, was too intimidating to navigate without the sommelier's assistance. After a friendly consultation, we decided to splurge on a lushly robust Gevrey-Chambertin Domaine Taupenot-Merme 2003 ($135) from Burgundy.
Then we sank our teeth into a custardy lobster, shrimp and leek tart, a complimentary amuse-bouche in pastry so soft and buttery it could have coaxed Ms. Child from her grave.
There are some who consider Mr. Jacob's cuisine classique stodgy. In fact, I remember talking to a renowned chef not very long ago who was shocked to discover that Le Crocodile still had roasted bone marrow on the menu.
That said, Le Crocodile has remained steadily busy throughout the recession without any advertising or publicity. (Sixty covers on a business-paralyzing fireworks night is nothing to sniff at.)
And the unflaggingly constant Mr. Jacob, who can still be found in his kitchen every night the restaurant is open, couldn't give a hoot what anyone, beyond his regular clientele, thinks. "Consistency is the No. 1 reason we've stayed open so long," he once explained. "People ask me, 'Do you ever get bored?' For me, it's a compliment. People who are not strong in their cooking will change everyday. It's much tougher to cook the same foods."
Ignoring the infectious rhythm of Talking Heads' Psycho Killer looping through my brain (which is retooled as a crustacean-slaying theme song in Julie & Julia to great comic effect), I ripped into a bubbling half-roasted lobster thermidor served in its shell ($22.50).
The claw was intact and came with a silver cracker, which seems somewhat messy for a fine-dining restaurant, even with the lemon-infused finger bowl provided. (Ms. Child recommended removing the claw meat and tossing it with that from the tail in a béchamel sauce topped with parmesan cheese browned under a broiler.) Nor was the green matter as finely sieved as it could have been.
But after a little poking (the knuckles had already been loosened), the unadulterated flesh did provide a sweetly firm counterpoint to the briny casserole in the body. And who's to know what the dish is really supposed to taste like? This labour-intensive concoction hasn't graced many menus since the 1970s. (I've only eaten it once before, in Los Cabos, Mexico, of all places.)
