So, in trying to enjoy some “romancified” good times with the soon-to-be Mrs. Eats, I decided to wine and dine her at a spot that I’ve written about before, L’Image. I was able to get 6:30 reservations several days in advance and looked forward to a hearty and romantic French dinner about which we would reminisce into our old age. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out so well. First of all, the quiet, too quiet atmosphere of the place made us uncomfortable, and the $65 fixed menu didn’t do much to rouse the passions in either of us. The service was exemplary though; too bad the food couldn’t live up to it.
To start with, the bread and butter were awful. Who serves bad bread and butter? I don’t know out of what fraternity house refrigerator they pulled the butter out of but it tasted rancid, and the bread tasted like spongy cafeteria loaf. The 4 course meal was interesting, and by “interesting†I mean “not good†with the restaurant’s usual simple French bistro menu giving way to a fancified litany of random ingredients like duck confit and quince jelly and cous cous custard (which tasted like someone just melted a stick of butter over a Fleischmann’s yeast cake). I’m not sure if this was an overreaching by L’Image’s new chef or some ill-conceived “new direction” but, suffice it to say, it soured me to the whole place. After walking out the door, my wallet $200 lighter, I felt a bit cheated and more than a little upset. I don’t think I’ll be traveling back to L’Image for any meals in the near future. If not for the dulcet trombone tones of J.J. Johnson playing on my home stereo, our romantic evening may have been foiled. Thank you J.J., once again, for setting the mood.
On a lighter note, we cleansed our palettes today with a helping of Barbary Coast Savannah BBQ after picking up our marriage license. Nothing portends a lifetime of happiness quite like some fantastic BBQ. If you haven’t gone there yet, you’re missing out on some special comfort food, and southern comfort food to boot.
The Sac Rag 