Almost immediately after being seated, our server informed us that the chef was offering fresh chanterelles, flown in that very day from France. God, doesn't that just set the stage? Even though it was Bastille Day, Chateau France was practically empty, so it was easy to feel that the mushrooms — perhaps the first of the season — had been brought thousands of miles just for us. It was obviously our destiny to eat them.
That's a frequent feeling at Chateau France — the place just encourages excess. A quick look at the menu and it is easy to become fatalistic about the bill — "hell, if I'm paying that much for a steak, I might as well make it a night to remember." You may spend a fortune, but at Chateau France you get what you pay for.
Filet mignon — prepared with a variety of classic French sauces — takes an entire page of the menu. They are prime grade, so $35 isn't that bad compared to a high-end steakhouse. But for just $45, you can have free-range Australian beef, grass-fed, so the notoriously bland filet might actually have some flavor to go along with the tender texture. If tender is your raison d'etre, spend $75 and have a cube of Kobe beef. Massaged daily, fed a strict diet of beer and grains, and butchered humanely, these cows lead a better life than you do. And you can cut the filet with your spoon.
I chose the Australian version, topped by my chanterelles. Each bite melted in my mouth, so tender I almost forgot to chew, thinking that the rosy flesh would just dissipate on its own. I've had tenderloin as delicate as this before, but never one that was so, well, beefy. It tasted like the memory of steaks I had when I was a child. I didn't think beef was this flavorful anymore.
Everything about Chateau France just reeks of traditions that are rare in our tourist-happy town. On the fringe of downtown St. Petersburg, it's in a converted 1910 two-story house. The interior is all dark woods and low lights, candles turning each table into a secluded island — ideal for a tryst. If you bring your spouse, try the long, glass-enclosed veranda encircling the house, lined with white wicker armchairs and white linen tablecloths.
While customers may be wearing halter tops and jeans, or linen and sandals, the servers wear suits. It lends them gravitas, and an aura of authority that's backed up by an encyclopedic knowledge of the menu and some good experience with the wine list. Listen to them.
On my second visit, one of my guests ordered the bouillabaisse, but our server Brandon steered him toward the cassoulet de la mer ($35), claiming that it was less messy and he would enjoy it more. He was right. Instead of the pork-laden cassoulet of the common bistro, this version is elegant and simple. Tender white beans are suspended in a pale sauce that is silky and rich, while still light enough for the ideally cooked lobster, scallops and shrimp resting on top.
At first glance, the menu can be misleading, filled with staid French standards that seem a little tired. You know what I mean: lobster bisque, steak tartare, Dover sole, crème brulee, yadda yadda. Had 'em a million times.
But rarely this good.
Chef/owner Antoine Louro says that everything used in the kitchen is organic and that almost everything he prepares is flown in from the region that made it famous. Sole from England. Caviar from the Caspian. Truffles from France.
This isn't rocket science — a lot of Chateau France's dishes are straightforward, utilizing classic techniques. That said, I cannot remember the last time I've had such stellar ingredients so balanced and composed, so perfectly seasoned, so ideally prepared. Actually, considering how few meals I've had that were this good, maybe it is rocket science.
For instance, the steak tartare ($18), assembled table-side by chef Louro. He forcefully shreds prime filet between the edges of two sharp spoons. It's hard work, the spoons click-clacking against the large wooden bowl for several minutes, his arms stopping only to reach for a dollop of mustard, a pinch of pepper, some diced shallot. When the raw, bright-red meat hits the mouth, it makes you feel like an exceptionally refined and fortunate caveman.
Because the food is French, there are plenty of sauces. Instead of taking center stage — as often happens with mediocre French cooking — each serves to merely accentuate the main ingredients. Instead of weighing down a dish, they transport the core flavors to every part of the palate.
Take the tiger shrimp Marseille ($15). An Anjou rose reduction, fortified with cream and the suggestion of spicy red pepper, serves to blossom the delicate briny flavor of these notoriously bland shellfish. They taste like shrimp, only better. In the lobster bisque ($15), the requisite dose of cream acts merely as a vehicle for intense lobster stock, coating the inside of the mouth with a richness that is redolent of the sea.
And let us not forget destiny's mushrooms ($10). They are suspended in a rich sauce of butter, cream and thyme. The fat tempers the rough edges, and in the process becomes permeated with the meaty, musty essence of the wild chanterelles.
I did encounter a few problems at Chateau France. Just three, to be exact. The butter served with the crusty bread and flaky croissants was too cold to spread. Herbed goat cheese — artfully piped onto the top of the tiny cylinder of gruyere and potato gratin served with the steak — was cold, which made the potatoes also cold. The wine list — especially in the white Burgundy section — lists village appellations and prices, but neglects to mention the producers of the wines. That was it for miscues.
The wine list is the place to finally cut free any feelings of restraint. There are a few values among the French and California offerings, but why settle? Chateau France started us off with a complimentary glass of champagne, so we retaliated by ordering an expensive bottle of chalky (in a good way) white Bordeaux to go with Eiffel tower salads. Romaine leaves tower a good six inches above the plate, propped up by a cylinder of thinly sliced rolled cucumber.
Another wine splurge — this time a black-hearted and smoky blend of mourvedre, grenache and syrah from the Languedoc — was the perfect match with a country lapin casserole ($26). Slow braised in red wine and herbs, the rabbit is fork-tender and drips with the concentrated flavor of the reduced braising liquid. The wine, the sauce and the meat are so complementary that they meld into each other in an astounding culinary synergy.
At the end, after downing fluffy white soufflés filled with creamy chocolate sauce ($15), we realized we wanted something impressive to put a cap on our decadent evening. It is rare to have a dining experience this profound. It cried out for a gesture.
A half bottle of divine nectar — namely Chateau Yquem Sauternes ($195) — was just the ticket. The golden liquid fills the mouth with an intense blast of apricot, honey, and flower oils, with a finish that lasts the entire ride home.
Don't worry, Planet editors. That last one's on me. And it was worth it.
Brian Ries is a former restaurant general manager with an advanced diploma from the Court of Master Sommeliers. He can be reached at brian.ries@weeklyplanet.com. Planet food critics dine anonymously, and the paper pays for the meals. Restaurants chosen for review are not related to advertising.
This article appears in Jul 27 – Aug 2, 2005.