A Historic Evening with Norton

For many years our habit has been to take Norton out for dinner in the spring as a way of saying thanks for the opportunity of working so often and so closely with him on his books during the previous year. Some years we splurge—for example, Cafe Ena, Kâluna, Martina—in other years we take a shot at a wild and "fun" place such as the Beer Cave in Hopkins or the food truck outside Utipils brewery on Bassett Creek near Norton's house.

This year we settled on Maison Margaux in the warehouse district. Why? Because Norton wanted to go there. Why? Because a mutual friend's son works there, and besides, Norton's uncle used to own the place, back when it was better known as Ribneck Furs. He hadn't been inside since he was a kid.

Hilary and I also had good reason to enjoy the choice. We're Francophiles, of a sort. One of Hilary's ancestors was an early immigrant to Quebec, and we've spent at least four months over the decades touring the French provinces, though not recently, and Maison Marguax has established itself as a place to eat good old-fashioned provincial French cooking.

A glance at the menu confirms that it's true. Hilary and I ate aligot at a country inn in the Aubrac, a seldom visited region of south-central France. It consists of a gooey mass of mashed potatoes and gruyere cheese. I never thought I'd see that item on a menu here in the States.

I was more interested in the salade nicoise, which can be assembled in several ways. Most appealing of all, to my mind, was the cassoulet, a traditional dish of southwest France consisting of white beans, duck, sausage, herbs, and other unidentifiable elements. The residents of Carcassonne and Castelnaudary have had a centuries-old dispute as to where the dish originated and what the ingredients ought to be. Ford Madox Ford dilates at length on the issue in his book-length essay, Provence. Hil and I went to Castelnaudary years ago just to see how they made it.

One thing I can say about cassoulet is that it's always heavy, and oily, and tasty, and it gives you a stomach ache. I couldn't resist.

Norton went for the bouillabaisse, and Hilary ordered the cauliflower soufflé and the onion soup. I nursed a cocktail that seemed to be a combination of absinthe and grapefruit juice. It was good, but the cassoulet really called out for a robust red wine. I asked our personable waiter, Patrick, during one of his passes by our table, "I don't suppose you've got a rock-bottom glass of Chateaunuef du Pape on the wine list?" I was joking, and he knew it. He smiled and shook his head. "No. But I do have a cabernet franc that might be just the ticket."

As you may know, cabernet franc is most often a blending grape, dry and tending toward simplicity and harshness, but it turned out to be just the thing to cut through and complement the thick, oily, stew. Plouzeau Chinon.

It was a fine year at Nodin Press, with several stunning poetry collections and a top-flight memoir, but we didn't talk much about that. More  about a few upcoming projects, and how the tomato plants were coming along. 

It was a fabulous spring evening, there were lots of people out on the street and sitting on the terrace alongside the building. Big blue sky, and the passing years count for less than the passing minutes.