For the Love or Hate of Chez le Chef

Chez le Chef’s verdant exterior is more appropriate for a plant shop than a French restaurant.  Scattered handwritten signs, an overcrowded deli counter and a song straight out of a music box floating creepily in the air greeted us.  “Hello?” I anxiously called out. “For dinner?” A server popped out from behind the counter.  I nodded, “for two please.”  “Upstairs, table number five.”   My friend Drazen and I headed up to what looked like an old aunt’s living room drowning in Christmas lights, stuffed toys, flowers both fake and real, and about a dozen set, but vacant tables.

Curiosity is mostly what brought me here. People had such extreme reviews, either hating or loving it, with mention of an eccentric chef and New York Magazine crediting him with the best French Toast of 1988.

Chef Frederic appeared, decked out in a gigantic chef’s hat, an orange bow and great cottony mutton chops framing his wide grin.  Slightly terrified, I scanned the plastic covered menus as Drazen ordered Bratwurst and beer. I decided on the Coq au Vin and “only water please,” when the chef, in his German accent chided, “We’re not very fun tonight, are we?” In shock that he challenged my “funness” and determined to prove him wrong, I agreed to have spiced red wine, which turned out to be a most excellent choice.

The table bread was soft and fresh.  When the food arrived, the powerful aroma of dried leaves stabbed my nostrils.  Everything was unfortunately over seasoned with Herbes de Provence – my tender, juicy chicken, the overcooked stewed vegetables, the fluffy mashed potatoes, even my tacky plate.  The mess of a presentation was unappealing and the sauce, dry, acidic and too strongly flavored, did not impress me.

I crossed my fingers in hope that the desserts, offered by the intense European-trained pastry chef, would redeem my mediocre dinner.  Before heading back to my table to await the treats I picked out from the rotating dessert case, I spotted the chef, who, despite his cheery nature, looked weary.  He’s “been here too long,” he mused, and shared his dream of moving to sunny Costa Rica.  Despite his past success and honest passion for cooking, he noted he’d prefer to do “something completely different” if given a chance to do it all over.

As we finished the bright lemon tart and the black forest cup inedibly soaked in rum, I felt sad.  Sad that curious passers-by were too intimidated to cross the threshold, sad that Chez le Chef’s success was on its deathbed, sad to hear of Chef Frederic’s woes.  He handed us tasty butter cookies on our way out, and I wondered… was he really tired of all this, or did the modernization of the culinary world leave him behind without a clue of how to use his traditional style to keep up?  Perhaps it was time to close shop, but strangely enough, the comforting mood in the place made me hope he wouldn’t.  I won’t be back for dinner, but I’d still like to try their brunch.  If anything, I will hand Chef the photograph we took with him and to continue our chat over a bottle of champagne.

VERDICT

Atmosphere:   ★ for clean and sentimental but excessively kitschy atmosphere

Service:           ★★★★ for great service and Chef Frederic’s welcome involvement and bizarre charm

Food:               ★★ for confused food that was too expensive for being hit or miss

Overall:           ★★

Rating System: ★★★★★  Excellent

  ★★★★    Very Good

  ★★★            Good

  ★★       Average

  ★         Poor

In Pursuit of a Senegalese Vision

        Drops of rain spattered on the windshield as we searched for Yolele Senegalese restaurant in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.  Finally, the car stopped and my friend Whitney pointed.  There it was, but not as expected.  Sad brown paper covered the windows and a sign for All Men’s Shop, Inc. read above the storefront.  This was the third Senegalese eatery that appeared to be out of business.  Dismayed, I crossed Yolele off my list, just like I did Le Toukouleur and Keur N’Deye.

            The reason for this mad hunt? A personal quest to find, in Brooklyn where I live, the best version of Senegal’s national dish, Ceebu Jen.  Four years ago, on a steamy day in Dakar, two fellow students and I nervously sat across an animal pen at an obscure three-table eatery, desperate for a meal.  With no menus, our server rattled off incomprehensible dish names. We picked Ceebu Jen (cheh-boo jen), the only one whose pronunciation we could manage.  Out came a big bowl of something disarmingly new and delicious - hot and savory pellets of reddish broken rice topped with soft and sweet slices of eggplant, carrots, yucca, yams, cabbage nicely complemented by chunks of meaty smoked fish, stewed all together in a tangy tomato sauce. I fell in love right then, even more each time I had it, and the most when Kaka, my host mother, prepared it to spicy and sour perfection.

            Recently, a powerful craving struck for Ceebu Jen so I scoured for restaurants in the area showcasing it on the menu. I found five, the first of which was Le Grand Dakar.  At 4:00 pm, an hour before they opened, a server let us in and offered us drinks as we waited.  Before long, Chef Maw, a native Gambian sporting long dreadlocks tucked under a chef’s hat, took our orders.  He served his rendition of the dish on a pristine white platter that contrasted with the food’s deep orange hues. Most of the expected ingredients were present, except there were slices of slightly slippery okra instead of eggplant, and a delicate, fine-textured bluefish instead of the usual cod stockfish or smoked herring.  The bright pool of sauce was more sweet and sour, lacking the piquancy I preferred.

            Next up was Joloff, whose owner, Papa Diagne, dressed in a white button down and a hunter green sweater like a college prepster, explained that their family business has been running since 1996, with his wife cooking and his children helping out.  He handed me my entreé, which included rice cooked with red peppers and parsley adding a faint Mediterranean flavor.  The firmer baked snapper, glazed in zesty sauce, proved to be a better fish substitute.  However, the vegetables weren’t as soft as their African counterparts, which left me hungry for the tender texture I was looking for.

            I then moved on to the rest of my list, only to stumble upon a dark Le Toukouleur, a trendy yogurt shop in place of Keur N’Deye, and a nonexistent Yolele.  With only two places to choose from, I realized that the African community in Brooklyn is not as prosperous as that in Harlem. Along with probable leasing problems and underwhelming foot traffic in certain areas, Senegalese fare could still be too exotic for American palates.  After all, the two left standing were tweaked to fit Stateside expectations of familiar presentation and tastes. 

            Although both variations shone in their own way, Joloff’s Ceebu Jen came out the winner. Despite unavoidable discrepancies in ingredients, Papa and his family captured the spirit of Senegalese cuisine in this particular meal. The brilliant colors, medley of textures and complex flavors that I knew and enjoyed evoked the rich culture and sense of personal connection that I tasted that memorable summer abroad. Each bite brought back visions of a grand metal bowl of fish and rice shared by my family, the eight of us sitting side by side on the courtyard’s concrete floor, the only utensils, our hands.