Fiending for French Fast Food? (and I don’t mean fries…)
Jen

Le Petit Robert Bistro
468 Commonwealth Avenue, Kenmore Square
617-375-0699
www.petitrobertbistro.com

I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know exactly what a bistro is, but I’m sure I’ve been to many. It might come down to pure semantics, but I was curious…does a café offer drinks, and a bistro, food or do they serve both? (And while we’re at it, what’s the difference between a tavern, a bar, and a pub? Anyone?) Courtesy of my friends at Wikipdiea, I found my answer: “A bistro is a familiar name for a French café serving moderately priced simple meals in an unpretentious setting.” For those of us willing to admit to a deficiency in knowledge of restaurant classifications, this explanation might come as a surprise. Unpretentious? Nearly every definition I found contained this operative word…

After a bit more clicking, I discovered that although there is some speculation as to the etymology of the bistro, it is believed that after the battle of Waterloo in 1815, the Russian soldiers in Paris experienced somewhat of a culture shock when it came to French dining. What would any burly, vodka-breathing, gun-toting Russian do when he’s hungry? Simple: vehemently pound his fists on the table yelling at the waiters, “Bistrot! Bistrot!” (“Faster! Faster!”), hence the name bistro. While indulging in this mental picture, enjoying a light chuckle, I suddenly realized that the French(with the help of the Russians) invented the first fast food establishment! Someone call Morgan Spurlock, I just found the sequel to Supersize Me.

With this in mind, I ventured on to my birthday dinner at Le Petit Robert Bistro with an empty stomach and a potential business enterprise. While perusing the menu, my roommate (a Petit Robert veteran) was quick to point out that in a matter of moments we would be enjoying scrumptious bread straight from the oven. She added, “When my boyfriend proposes to me, it better be at a restaurant where they serve warm bread and soft butter.” To my response, “…and what if he doesn’t?” she replied, “obviously, he shouldn’t be my husband.” For his sake, I thought to myself, I hope on that special day he doesn’t take her for sushi…

The type of guy who might propose at Le Petit Robert Bistro probably wouldn’t be carrying a white gold 2 carat princess cut, but he’ll certainly find a fresh baguette, perfectly warmed and crispy enough to leave oven dust on your fingers after tearing off a bite. At this quaint Kenmore Square eatery, I didn’t find myself gasping for air in a sea of adoring couples, but in the company of quietly chatting friends, coworkers, give-or-take a few first dates. Keep yourself in check if you begin to see your fellow diners and/or waiters through rose-colored glasses, as the red glow emanating off the heating lamps in the open kitchen might be what’s distracting you. Overall, the atmosphere is quite pleasant. Low lighting and quiet music combined with brick walls and a subtly decorated interior left me feeling warm and fuzzy. In true, unpretentious form, this bistro falls somewhere between casual and romantic.

After taking in my surroundings, I quickly moved onto the first and most important choice of the evening: red or white? The wine list contains a generous selection from various regions of France as well as domestic bottles from California. When I looked up to ask our waiter for wine suggestions, I saw that he resembled to the scrawny Parisian waiter I had envisioned just moments earlier(and I proceeded to picture him scurrying from table to table to serve ravenous Russian soldiers). Much to my delight, he responded in a succulent French accent, "I recommend the Chateau Duplessy, 1er Cotes de Bordeaux, France." I had to restrain myself from asking him to read the entire wine list, so I quickly smiled and accepted the bottle before he could tell that the red in my cheeks was not from the heating lamps. The wine was more expensive than my entrée and dessert combined, but it certainly was divine.

The menu, from what I’m told, is typical of French bistros. I was having difficulty making a decision once again(and I wanted to hear that sexy accent) so I put on my best diner-in-distress expression and deferred to the waiter’s recommendations for the second time. Unfortunately, he lost some points on this one because my Roast Saddle of Lamb was nothing more than average; perhaps because it paled in comparison to my delight in the wine, (the waiter) and the dessert. Even before I took my first bite of white chocolate bread pudding, I knew it would be an orgasmic experience because a) Le Petit has an in-house pastry chef, Kristen Lawson, and b) the edible flower design on the supersized plate looked just as appetizing as the tiny treat. Fear not, my lactose intolerant friends (I, too, am a lactard), just because you can’t have crème anything doesn’t mean you can’t have dessert! Indulge your senses in the sorbet trio…Flavors are seasonal, and on this visit we found ourselves stumped in trying to guess the other two once we got past the lemon. Our waiter (who was looking better with each sip of wine) clued us in to the flavors which eluded our taste buds: pear and blood orange. If that doesn’t sound appealing, rumor has it pomegranate and cumquat have been known to frequent this trio!

Despite my indifference towards the entreé, Le Petit is definitely worth a second visit. My multiple queries may have been a sign that I was unacquainted with the cuisine but in my next visit, I plan to the only pretentious part of this place. After requesting a table with my adorable waiter, in my best French tongue, I’ll order the paté and escargot, skip the entrée, polish off a bottle of Chateau Duplessy, and for dessert, I will have only one question for the waiter: “Excusez-moi, voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?”

Anchovies
433 Columbus Ave
(617) 266-5088
Back Bay
2.7.06

If you’re in the mood for Italian but don’t want to make the trek to the North End, keep your eyes peeled on Columbus Avenue for the small neon sign: Anchovies. Mind you, this is not the place to show off those new Prada shades; what seems to be a dark, narrow hallway is in fact the entire restaurant. Looking at the crowd you might wonder, “Have I been out of the loop all this time or is this place just that small?” They’re even busy on Tuesday nights, so bring no more than three of your closest friends and be prepared to rub elbows with an eclectic hodgepodge of Bostonians—blue collar, white collar, no collar, popped collar.

If you thought the décor at T.G.I. Fridays couldn’t get any more random, I am (not so) pleased to inform you that you’ve been sorely mistaken. The walls that hold Anchovies together are littered with a unique collection of cowboy-hat-wearing cattle skulls, fishing nets, an assortment of glass bottles, and of course, the requisite Blue Marlin strapped to the ceiling. Although you might be deterred by the interior design and/or the long waiting list, the bartender will be quick to put a smile on your face with a strong cocktail but a not-so-potent tab. Whether you choose to eat at the bar or in a booth, you can be sure of three things: 1) Your seat will be made of wood (and you might be wondering if the Pine Barrens are still standing) 2) at least one menu item will have anchovies, (I’m not talkin’ just Caesar dressing) and 3) there will be enough cash left in your wallet to pay for you and your friends’ cab home (if you feel so inclined).

The menu is like the staff—no B.S. If you’re having a craving for spaghetti and meatballs, pizza, stromboli, (or all three!) this is the perfect place to satisfy your gastronomical needs at far from astronomical prices. The hand-written menu and limited specials may not seem so impressive, but every entrée at Anchovies is a safe bet. The extra-large portions will leave your co-workers wondering where you went to dinner last night…the scent of chicken-by-the-sea doesn’t quite compare to chicken parmigiana, now does it? Diners beware: cheap eats still come at a price. Although you might save yourself a trip to the North End, Anchovies is by no means a place for a quick fix. Patrons stay long after dinner, whether it’s to buy another round or to see which collared Bostonian pops in the door next.

As you’ll inevitably leave feeling more like a sardine than an anchovy, I recommend this eatery for all but the claustrophobic.

--Jen G.

A Wicked Good Time in Kenmore Square

- Scott Kearnan

Last night I attended a lecture given by Gregory Maguire, the local author of several popular novels... including, most famously, Wicked. The lecture was held at the Boston University School of Management on Blandford, a mere block (or two?) from Kenmore Square... a locale that, until recently, offered little more than a huge, glowing gas station sign that has achieved its fame primarily through tackiness and nostalgia, rather than architectural merit. Don't get me wrong, I love that eyesore as much as anyone, and would defiantly handcuff myself to the neon tubes if they ever threatened to tear it down. But still... we're not exactly talking Times Square here, people.

Nonetheless, anyone who has read Maguire's Wicked (the theatrical rendition of which will bewitch crowds at the Opera House in April) should be familiar with one of its major themes: The duality of Good and Evil, light and dark, salvation and damnation. The popular novel undoes the character and story archs that have become so familiar to Wizard of Oz audiences. It humanizes the Wicked Witch of the West, portraying Elphaba not as a cackling, green-faced harpy... but as a well-intentioned political revolutionary who - while tragically flawed - is mostly just misunderstood. The book's main purpose, it seemed to this reader, was to convey how - by changing just a few words, altering a few brush strokes, or making a few small renovations - that which has seemed interminably darkened can suddenly be thrust into a new, splendid light.

Return now (figuratively speaking, though I highly suggest a literal return as well) to Kenmore Square: Not long ago, it seemed nothing more than the undesirable, eyesore of an axis around which the spokes of the Green Line revolved. Aside from the aforementioned Citgo sign, the Lansdowne clubs (that, as a general rule, seemed to be growing seedier by the year) and a certain Green Monster we all know and love, there wasn't much to speak of in the area. Convenience stores, Blockbuster Video, and permanent construction sites do not a hotspot make.

Amidst the much-publicized hubbub regarding "the revitalization of Kenmore Square," it's easy to be cynical and take potshots at how far the location still has to go. But, as someone pretty well acquainted with cynicism, let me be the first to say... Kenmore Square has indeed made some impressive strides in a short amount of time. Between the opening of Hotel Commonwealth's three new dining destinations (Great Bay, Foundation Lounge and Eastern Standard), the forthcoming Trinity condominiums, the usual Lansdowne businesses, and a halo effect from the commerce of The Landmark Center and its adjacent Fenway 13 cinema... not to mention the flurry of activity during baseball season... this previously bleak repository of McDonalds wrappers is really springing to life. It's as if the perpetually hungover streak of sidewalk has finally decided to take a shower, a shave and three Tylenols. And what do you know? It cleans up nice.

I enjoyed a delightful time out there last night: First, we attended the Gregory Maguire lecture. One might rightfully assume that a lecture like this is populated mainly by college students... it is, after all, at a college. Still, there were a few older faces in the audience and a few - like myself and my comrade - who were neither middle-aged nor cutting calculus class to attend. The lecture was fantastic, with a very animinated Maguire sharing those anecdotes from his childhood that provided the impetus for Wicked, philosophizing on the nature of good and evil, and providing more than enough guffaws and trivia factoids (the name "Elphaba" is a play off "FLB"... as in, Frank L. Baum) to fill the hour. I listened in rapt attention, though trying the whole time to conceal the sweatshirt I wore under my long, black wool coat: You see, earlier that morning a sweater I selected for the day managed to get lost in the long, arduous journey from my closet to my gym bag. Thus, over my colorful button-down shirt I was forced to wear the big black hoodie I crawled out of bed in (it was too cold for a shirt alone!) ... a sweatshirt that I just happened to acquire on an autumn trip to Salem, and just happened to have the orange silhouette of a witch, careening wildly on her broomstick, emblazoned across the front.

Serendipitous, that.

So I clutched my coat closed throughout the lecture, lest I look like a sad, Wicked groupie in a cutesy sweatshirt. I didn't want to be "that guy." It's like wearing the shirt of the band you're going to see... but dorkier. And on the subject of dorkiness, I implore you, Art Bar attendees, culture mavens and other assorted members of the Boston intelligentsia: Do be sure to frequent lectures like this. Even if pop novels aren't your interest, there's something going on, somewhere, that would have your inner geek in a tizzy. Boston has some of the best colleges and universities in the nation... the world, even!... and it's a shame that the typical Boston resident - though clinging proudly to our academic reputation - doesn't attend free, informative lectures like this more often.

As Art Bar is always willing to demonstrate, of course, it's best to combine the cerebral with the social! So we ducked out during the Q&A portion of the proceedings to meet with some good friends back in Kenmore Square, proper. Cocktails and conversation commenced at Great Bay, one of Chef Michael Schlow's popular dining destinations (Radius and Via Matta are the others). For the most part, our crowd indulged only in drinks - I selected The Poe off the specialty cocktail menu, a perfect sherry-bourbon combination that preserved a masculine flavor in the increasingly more girl-friendly world of Boston martinis. As the lone fat cat of the table, I decided to forego some scrumptious (looking, anyway) appetizers for a full entree... Olive Oil Poached Halibut. It was nearly flawless, perfectly complemented by house cured bacon and oyster sauce. My one small quibble: A bit "heavier" than I expected. Still, it was truly delicious and provided a great incentive for a return visit... though the open, inviting decor and high ceilings had already accomplished that task.

We also took in a drink at Foundation Lounge next door - which, luckily for us - is accessible through the main lobby of the Hotel Commonwealth, and did not necessitate once again donning my hoodie and invisible dunce cap to brave the cold. Foundation Lounge is dark and sepulchral where Great Bay is light and expansive. Dimly lit yet furnished in hues of green and deep orange, it's a sea of low booths and ottomans that populate the cavernous space like short, squat stalagmites... the perfect atmosphere for sharing an intimate liquid date. Though my previous experiences at Foundation Lounge were nothing to rave about - on the contrary, I found the drinks poorly prepared and the service spotty - last night may have opened the door to a revised opinion. For once, the place was rife with activity and a generous crowd... the service was prompt, and the drinks well-made. Fortuitously combined with an entertaining live band, it was an enjoyable time. A few more visits before I come up with a final verdict... but if the evidence continues to prove otherwise, I'm willing to acquit the place of my initial, negative judgment.

So to take that convenient, literary tactic of summarization: Maguire, insightful. Great Bay, very good. Foundation Lounge, working the kinks out. Eastern Standard (visited on previous occasions), spectacular.

And Kenmore Square, in the local vernacular so eerily recalled by my prescient sweatshirt... a WICKED good time.

Il Divo @ The Wang - 2/2/06
- Scott Kearnan

"I just have to say... that this is one of the most beautiful theatres I've ever been in," proclaimed Urs Buhler of the singing group Il Divo. Taking a moment mid-performance to commend the Theatre District's crown jewel, Urs was met with raucous applause and a hearty helping of Beantown pride. And from my center-stage mezzanine seat I had to agree: "Wow, this place is beautiful!..."

"... Imagine having to change all the lightbulbs?"

If you haven't heard of Il Divo, you're not out of the loop quite yet. Though they can count a current #1 Billboard album (Ancora) amongst their credentials, they've yet to become a household name. Unless, of course, your household contains an older, stay-at-home matriarch who gets her pop culture 411 from Live! with Regis and Kelly. If that's the case (and my own mother is amongst their legion of fans), you've probably been introduced to this talented - if all too slickly marketed - singing quartet. And you might have been amidst the throngs of people who showed up for last night's sold-out show, only the second on their very first world tour (not a bad distinction, Boston).

For the uninitiated: Il Divo is a suave singing group comprised of four handsome lads... each representing a different country of origin. There's Sebastien, the resident Frenchman, David, our homegrown American boy, Carlos from Spain, and the aforementioned Urs, hailing from Switzerland. Assembled by media mastermind Simon Cowell (yes, that Simon Cowell, the one who sits dourly beside Paula Abdul on your TV screen every week), Il Divo sings standard, sweeping pop ballads with Opera-lite flourish. Outfitted in handsome suits, these well-groomed gentlemen will regale you with Mariah Carey's "Hero"... in Italian. Sounding like Pavarotti.

Think Sarah Brightman meets *NSync.

Whether or not they're taken seriously by opera aficionados is irrelevant... their real fan base is older women. Moms. Moms who want to pinch their little Sinatra-singing bottoms and eat this stuff up with a spoon, like a Yoplait after yoga. And let me tell you something based on what I observed last night: You know those screaming, brace-faced girls who have clamored after The Monkees, New Kids on the Block, and The Backstreet Boys through their respective generations? They never go away. They just get a little older and start shopping at Talbots. The child inside? She's still chomping at the bit for a suave voice and dreamy eyes.

My mother was one of their adoring fans last night. I bought her tickets as a Christmas gift, though the real present (or so she told me, in an occasional break from gentle maternal criticism) was "a night out in Boston with her handsome youngest son."

Together, now: "Awww!"

Like many young professionals in this city, I grew up in a small suburban town off the 495 belt and made Boston my home after college. So I hopped in the car, made a round-trip to pick up mom (at least it was an excuse to indulge my new favorite gadget - XM Radio), and braved the rush hour traffic and overpriced parking garage. It's always wonderful to see the reaction of someone who doesn't visit the city too often; Bostonians often take for granted how charming (and occasionally, dazzling) this city really is. It had been a quite a while since my mom saw a Wang show, and the beauty of the place - striking even as a frequent visitor - is even more impressive after some time has passed. However, mom and I agree... we're still partial to the newly renovated Opera House. There's something about those decadent red hues that's so... well, decadent.

Regardless, it was an excellent show. Pretentions be damned, the boys of Il Divo are impressive singers. Opening with a sweeping Italian rendition of Toni Braxton's "Unbreak My Heart" and closing with a multi-lingual interpretation of Sinatra's "My Way," they were everything their audience wanted to see: Talented, handsome, wholesome.

Unfortunately, they were also too obviously packaged. The chummy, jokey banter between members was embarassingly scripted... here's hoping it will get more comfortable with subsequent performances. Song choices occasionally faltered; During a costume change (which consisted of trading one rack of suits for another) the band vamped "Live and Let Die" by Guns 'N Roses... accompanied by rapid-fire lighting effects. For a moment, we were all one pair of acid wash jeans away from a laser light show. By the time the guys were sitting, staggered and slightly disheveled (in that Vogue advertisement way) on a set of stairs, crooning along to an accoustic guitar, I half expected a booming voice to proclaim:

"Il Divo... the new fragrance from Calvin Klein."

As if the sea of estrogen and salt-and-pepper hair wasn't enough evidence of their contingency, they even dedicated a song to "all the moms in the audience." Oh yes, they did go there.

Though I wasn't quite able to move past the blatant marketing of it all - you could visualize a metrosexual svengali primping their hair just right during vocal lessons - I had to appreciate the showmanship, the spectacle, and the genuine talent. In a world where Paris Hilton can have a record deal, it's refreshing to see some really gifted singers - whatever their breeding - hit the top of the charts, touch some hearts, and give Wang-theatregoers a reason to be proud.

"Don't you wish you could sing like that?" my mother asked unassumingly on the way out.

What's a mother-son night on the town without a little of that gentle maternal criticism.