L’Escale
Oyster Pond Saint Martin
When you’ve been a professional chef as long as I was, and you’ve lived in the hospitality world as long as I have, you’re bound to have a great meal or three. There have been epicurean experiences over the years that stay with me. A few of them I was part of behind the stove, a few I was merely a spectator to, and on a rare few I was fortunate enough to be the recipient of true culinary artistry. L’Escale belongs in that last category.
L’Escale is about love. The love and purity of terrific fresh ingredients. The love that comes from warmth, a beautifully written menu board, a smiling owner. It’s about the love that appears on the plate, not created by chemists or cooks obsessing over tweezers, squeeze bottles, and foam, but by a chef using true skill to create memorable moments on the tongue.
One of the finest meals I have ever eaten in my life came from José Andrés at a restaurant called The Bazaar, SLS Hotel, Beverly Hills, California. It was a five hour ordeal of Bacchus like indulgence. Every bite was memorable, delicious, beautifully seasoned, sometimes unimaginable, other times just so tasty that one finished with a smile and no words. This restaurant did not play to the same sensibilities. There were not eighteen waiters at every moment ready to catch my napkin before it hit the floor. It did not have a wine list worth more than every house I’ve ever owned in my life. But what it did was create a meal that two weeks later I can still figuratively taste, bite by bite, from memory.
On first offering, one would never think this was more than a casual, cute little hole in the wall. We found it by absolute accident, driving aimlessly around the Oyster Pond area, headed to a competing restaurant that just didn’t feel quite finished or open. We stumbled upon this tiny outdoor gem tucked into a hill overlooking Oyster Pond Marina. When things are perfect, it doesn’t matter if Michelin has rated you three stars or the chef is just in the kitchen turning out pure deliciousness on every plate.
It’s the small things that gave it away. The details, while seeming unimportant, made us feel like neighbors who had just walked over to their favorite eatery to join friends in celebration. The perfectly written and well explained menu board, the beautiful wine list, the well appointed napkins and silverware, delicate and elegant while still reeking of bohemian chic, graced every corner of the outdoor establishment.
Nowhere did those details matter more than on the plate itself, starting with a dish I still think about. To this date I’ve never experienced a squid steak at this level. I’ve had calamari everywhere, and in Orange County, California, they do something called the calamari steak. It’s basically the same as you get in every Italian restaurant on the planet, but in flat form, generally breaded, fried, and generally chewy and forgettable.
This squid steak challenged my well developed senses beyond imagination. The texture of a scallop, the sweetness of lobster, the earthiness of squid, the slight bite of a perfectly done octopus. The loving marinade, with just the right amount of herbs, citrus, and olive oil, was so perfect I think about it and will order it before landing on my next arrival. Also ordered was the ribeye. It was subdued, nicely seasoned, cooked beautifully, and did not rely on a screamingly hot cast iron grill for its char or its flavor. The taste came from the quality of the meat itself, the gentle marinade, and proper cooking technique. Sometimes even on a ribeye, a semi low and slow procedure works beautifully and effectively.
If the food set the bar that high, the wine list came close to matching it. The wine offering was crisp, leaning just a touch toward a more citrus forward Sauvignon Blanc rather than the French style. Again, if I stretch and really delve, my only possible complaint about the entire experience is the offering of champagne, sparkling wine, or even a lovely cremant. However, bubbles are really only offered as a few highly marketed, very expensive bottles, like the ubiquitous Perrier Jouet or the far too yeasty Taittinger. Being able to order a normally priced $15 glass of Louis Dumont, or even something slightly elevated by the glass, just isn’t available. Eventually, when I’m president of the world, prosecco will not exist. Only bottles actually fermented in the bottle will be legal.
That is, admittedly, a minor complaint for a meal at this level. I would have gladly paid more for the meal. However, I was delighted that it was affordable. Imagine having one of the best culinary joys in recent memory and not feeling like it came with a price gouge for the honor.
Restraint, it turns out, runs through everything they do, right down to the hours. They are open strictly for breakfast and lunch because, as intelligent owners, they follow the Clint Eastwood classic mantra of “a man’s got to know his limitations.” Rather than trying to stretch and please every single palate at every single hour of the day, they’ve limited themselves to two perfectly satisfying meal opportunities.
Everything was light, airy, and flavorful, perfectly executed and affordable, with lovely presentations that never tipped into pretentious. For the first time in my life, I actually thought it would be interesting to learn French just to go back to this restaurant so I could communicate with them more effectively.
Do yourself a favor and discover a little culinary paradise in an already surreal, perfect world:
Oyster Pond, Saint Martin.
“I ccok. I write. So you don’l have to settle for mediocre”