Isn’t that pretty? Awesome pal Sam and I went to fancy-pants Fraiche in Culver City last night. It was delightful, de-lovely, and delicious, especially with Sam’s big, bold bottle of Turley zinfandel. (Sorry I cheated on you, vodka, but that wine had great legs).
We shared a burrata and speck appetizer, with a drizzle of balsamic that contrasted beautifully with the silky mildness of the cheese. For our meals, we shared monkfish “Francaise” and fork-tender braised beef short ribs on a pillow of buttery polenta.
For dessert, fromage:
Fraiche may mean ‘fresh’ en Francais, but these people are serious about their moldy milk. Two of our 3 cheeses were perfection, but the brie — EW. I know you can’t call yourself a foodie if you loathe salmon (me) and stinky cheese (that’s me, too), but there are some pungent cheeses that all the butterfat in the world can’t convince me to eat.
In the same way that I won’t eat that week-old Chinese in my fridge because my nose tells me that I shouldn’t, I can’t eat something that smells like a Frenchman marinated his feet in it for a week or two. Just can’t. So I guess Chester Cheetah was right. It ain’t easy, being cheesy. And… scene.
Thanks for all your awesome cheat day comments! You kids have given your Mother a LOT of foods for thought. Keep ’em coming!