I’ve always longed to taste French cuisine.
There’s such romance about it in books and movies, and such depth in French music, such perfected passion in everything French that I’m sure I long ago deduced that such lovers of elegance and finery and enticement must surely have infused all of such ways into their cooking, too.
My favorite way to eat was romantically-inspired: a torn baguette and some cheese, served on a plate with fresh fruit and olives or other nibbles. My first, and still favorite, alcoholic beverage was Cognac, warmed and sipped from a snifter – having read of it in some long-forgotten book. My favorite music is French, especially from the ‘50s and ‘60s: I adore the painful melodies sung richly by Jacques Brel and the lilting parodies rolled off the tongue of Georges Brassens; my favorite author is Victor Hugo, whose stories reach deeply into the greys of life, of right-and-wrong; and my favorite films are French: wave-like rhythms full of life and love in Claude Lelouch’s beautifully-crafted tales and in the warm camaraderie of Brel and his compatriots in L’aventure, c’est l’aventure.
I’ve dreamed of déjeuner in the fields outside Paris, of lost roads amidst old vineyards, of rich wines the likes of which my palate has never tasted.
And have never been to France, had never tasted authentic French cuisine.
Upon my return to Atlanta, my mother advised a visit to a French restaurant on Clairmont where she and my father enjoyed an anniversary dinner a few years ago. I was surprised: what true Southerner could have a taste for French food when the South is known for simplicity and good, honest fare? Skeptical yet curious to test my beliefs, I saved the idea for another time.
We found the square, concrete building easily, just across from the exit off of I-85 S. My friend, wishing to take me for a nice lunch, knew of Violette but had never eaten there; I was surprised to find a French restaurant in such a modern – yet plain – building. Stepping inside, I was enchanted by high ceilings and a lovely, long bar running the length of the foyer, beautiful and opulent, even if not ornate. We were greeted with a genuine smile by a tall, handsome gentleman; I immediately felt spoiled and wealthy, appropriate and appreciated for my vintage caramel-colored suede pencil skirt and matching caramel suede ankle boots by Michael Kors.
The dining room was nearly filled with pretty people pleasantly conversing in quiet, happy tones that somehow didn’t overwhelm the ambience despite the possibility in a room with high ceilings and no music. We were seated perfectly in a quiet corner near the front where I felt comfortably private enough to enjoy the company of my companion while still observing the goings-on of the room.
It was so lush, though sparsely decorated: the dark-wood tables and chairs contrasted beautifully with grey walls, floor-to-ceiling windows filled the room with sunlight and French doors enticingly displayed a long, planked patio and small wooded patch that begged a glass of white wine and warmer weather.
I ordered a sparkling rosé to begin, sipped it while we nibbled fresh pumpernickel rolls and sweet cream butter. I mused over our waiter, a well-mannered middle-aged gentleman with a distinctively French accent: could he really be from France, or was he originally Moroccan or from some French-colonized island? His quiet, polite way impressed me, and I wondered how long he’d been in the city.
Our lunch came before long; I enjoyed Polenta avec Crêpe Tulipe, a ruffled, toasted-crepe bowl of roasted-tomato ragout decorated with two triangles of olive-and-goat-cheese polenta paired with a glass of Bordeaux across from my friend’s Boeuf Bourguignon and Cabernet. The polenta was regrettably stale and the ragout, while tasty, was not quite hot, but I enjoyed it nonetheless and ate well, savoring the play of tender-crisp zucchini and rich tomatoes, sure from previous experience working in fine restaurants that this dish may be astounding on another day with other staff on the line; my friend assured me his meal was superb. Most remarkable, I found, was the simplicity of both dishes, easily produced yet accentuated by presentation, something I could easily and impressively produce at home.
The number of guests thinned out, but I was enjoying myself too much to leave this pretty room before ordering une café and the house specialty: Crème Brûlée à la Lavande. The coffee was excellent, rich, dark; the cremé brûlée was a perfect delight and an utter surprise. Crisp, brittle, toasted sugar laid atop a dense, mellow cremé with flecks of lavender throughout, wafting delicate floral scents as I lifted the tiny spoonfuls to my lips.
Each tender bite was a complete moment to be adored, every sensation was pure love: from cracking the thin, caramelized crust to discovering the tenderness beneath to the perfection of flavors melding, melting upon my palate and alighting my senses with the complexity of textures, flavors, scents, the dish was a composition of joy.
We shared it, of course; and I was blessed with the final spoonful, as is suitable with a lady and a gentleman.
I finished my coffee in silence, ruminating over the past minutes and hours, then indulged in more; it was so deliciously bitter after the sweet creaminess of our dessert. I came to learn from our excellent waiter that he was, indeed, from France, living in Atlanta with his American wife and blessing Violette with his fluid ways and pleasant demeanor for the past number of years.
This is the way to eat, certainly, I thought as I sipped coffee and watched tables around the room dressed with crisp, white linens for the coming dinner service. Quietly, with friends – as I had dined, as those around me had dined; with gentlemen and lady servers who come and go with a whisper; with at least one unforgettably delightful aspect – this is truly the way to eat.
At Violette, I’d enjoyed so many unforgettable aspects, so many memorable moments touched – and finished – with the romance of France, infused into every last thing.