Light My Fire

I knew that this list thing was a good idea. After a few failed attempts to find a night that we were all free, my two girlfriends and I finally settled on last Thursday night for a dinner of catching up, gossip, and, hopefully, some tasty food. Having been featured in an early blog entry in which I mercilessly mocked suburban chain restaurants, the girls very kindly offered to let me pick a place in the city! Using my list as a guide, I chose Gaslight - a fair bit of variety on the menu, mid-priced, and an up-and-coming location. And, above all, it had free parking. You did not read that wrong. A restaurant in the South End with free parking. How many times have you gone to dinner in the South End and nearly quit before you got to the restaurant because you were on your fifteenth trip around the block, looking for a place to stick your car? For us three ladies, all of whom would be driving to the restaurant, this perk sealed the deal.

Gaslight is partially subterranean and huge; much bigger and less intimate than I expected. On a Thursday night, it was packed to the gills with a noise level to match the two hundred or so diners in the restaurant. Happily, we had a reservation and were seated right away. The decor was all that is was promised to be - burnished mirrors, brass accents, black & white tile floor, antique Ricard bottles lined up on the molding. It would have felt authentic, if it wasn't so perfect. I'd give Gaslight a few more years of operation, allowing some dust and grime to build up, to really emulate a Parisian brasserie.

Our waitress greeted us soon after we sat and I immediately noticed how pretty she was. Not in an over the top sort of way, but more of a girl next door sort of way. As the night went on, it became painfully clear how much she needed her looks. Things were bad from nearly the first moment. She took our drink orders and returned with them fairly quickly. Great right? It would have been if one of them hadn't been dumped all over the table from a tray tipped so precariously, I actually saw the drink slide right off. Like any good girl next door, she was mortified and truly apologetic. These things happen and we were fully willing to move on without complaint. Well, everyone expect my girlfriend who's drink had been sacrificed to the table gods. We had to remind the waitress that she needed to replace the beer.

Things didn't improve from there. I am reasonably sure that she brought us the wrong dish, though we ordered one of two very similar dishes on the menu, so I can't be certain. We were asked twice if we were done with our half-eaten appetizers, though our plates were full and it was pretty evident that we were still eating. We needed to ask for refills on the coffee, even though we lingered at the table chatting long enough that it was clear that we were looking for an excuse to draw the night out a bit (I know what you're thinking, maybe they were trying to turn the table over... they weren't, the restaurant had substantially cleared by then). Sadly, despite all this, the worst infraction came in our very last interaction with her. Two of us put in cash for our portion of the bill and my second friend asked to put her portion on a card, clearly indicating the amount to the waitress. The credit card slip came back with the full amount of the bill, with the cash already pocketed. We had to have her correct the error and left the restaurant laughing about how my friend would need to check her statement to be sure she wasn't charged twice.

Ok, here I am more than halfway through this post and I haven't mentioned a word about the food. Does that tell you something? Maybe not what you think... the food was good, some of it was even excellent. The service was so bad it colored the whole experience. Unfortunately, just another reminder of how restaurants really need to have all wheels on the track, or the train is never getting out of the station, no matter how shiny the engine.

And Gaslight's engine was awfully shiny. We shared two appetizers, including the Gaslight Salade, which featured haricots verts, roasted pearl onions, and lardons, on a bed of frisee with a light lemony vinaigrette. Overall, the combination of flavors worked nicely, though the haricots verts and the lardons both could have been a little crisper. We also ordered (I thought) the fondue piemontaise, but were served the fromage blanc. Luckily, this dish was subperb! It was essentially a flat crock of melty cheese, dotted with thyme and coarse salt, served with big hunks of toasted baguette. Bread and cheese. What more could you want?

For my entree, I ordered the duck confit - hey, when you're going to go French, go French. The confit was spectacular - it practically came to the table still crackling from it's bath of boiling fat. Oh yeah... confit is not for the light of heart - literally or figuratively. The rich duck meat was served of a bed of shredded chard and orange sections, both of which (the spicy bite of the chard and the tang of the citrus) made for a great balance. The course was also served with roasted new potatoes which were unremarkable, but were a requisite starch, I suppose. The dish's only failing was a heavy hand with the berry sauce served with the confit. While a classic pairing for duck, it was cloyingly sweet and competed too much with the citrus.

We finished the meal with an order of the chocolate beignets to share. The little fritters were almost more like mini molten chocolate cakes and were served with a thimble of creme anglaise to cut the intensity of the chocolate. While the flavor of the dessert was relatively standard, the presentation was creative and it was a tasty enough way to close out the night.

I'd give Gaslight, at 560 Harrison Avenue in the South End, a B+. If you want a city dining experience without a city parking experience, it's a great choice. One word of warning? If your waitress looks like a girl that you wished your brother married, ask for a new table.