The Three Men

Down a dark street in London's seedy East End, there's a haunting torchlight illuminating the sign for the infamous French restaurant Les Trois Garcons that draws people to it despite the dodgy location. With chandeliers that practically cascade to the floor, rows of antique purses suspended from the ceiling, and eerie displays of taxidermied birds and mammals, the restaurant is as known for its uniquely stylized decor as it is for well-executed cuisine.

Which is why it's such a shame that I arrived there last night for my roommate (yes, I now pay rent, that makes me an official Londoner) Marilyn's birthday dinner at Les Trois Garcons with a nearly-dead camera battery. I tried very hard to cajole it into getting at least one good shot that captured the bizarreness of the upstairs dining room, but the battery refused to cooperate.

Marvelously though, with what life remained, it was willing to immortalize my favorite courses of the dinner itself.

My architectural salad, with that little tower of red endive concealing a conical mound of soft fromage.

And the cheese course! Oh, I was in heaven over having so many luscious cheeses before me. The best was the Tete de Moine, which is that frilly flower petal you see that looks more like a garnish than a supple slice of a rich chestnut-flavored cheese and with a dense salty undertone.

Our meal was taken in the room shown below (with birthday-girl Marilyn seated at the head of the table). Large parties are scurried away in the basement, where the interior design lacked Les Trois Garcon's signature outrageousness (though there is that odd "WB" sign that you see to your left).

The room also came with a view of the kitchen via a supposed one-way window, but the eyes some of the kitchen staff shot at us left us dubious about that.