Once again, we consider the peculiar habits of the French.
One night they’re popping champagne corks, eating pâté and generally being bon vivant-ish in full view of the world.
The next, they’re popping champagne corks, eating pâté and generally being bon vivant-ish in a darkened corner of a side-street bistro with some mysterious mademoiselle.
Which brings us to Bistronomic, a snug and low-lit French cove now open in the Gold Coast, ready for that discreet spur-of-the-moment rendezvous, or your usual full-blown pink-bubbly-soaked Valentine’s Day blowout—for which you may even consider bringing a date.
Martial Noguier, the star chef whose French culinary bona fides are beyond dispute—One Sixtyblue, Café des Architectes, Parisian birth certificate—is your host for the proceedings, whatever you have in mind.
Sure, most nights you’ll be happy to grab a country pâté tartine, a few sardines on crispy toast and something suitably Burgundian at the bar—or better yet, in the room behind the bar, where a TV’s discreetly tucked away.
But when you need to be discreetly tucked away, take a seat in the side room, and let the Cartier-Bresson-style photographs, a bottle of premier cru brut, a jar of caviar, steak and fingerling potatoes cooked in duck fat set the mood.
Nothing says romance like duck fat.
One night they’re popping champagne corks, eating pâté and generally being bon vivant-ish in full view of the world.
The next, they’re popping champagne corks, eating pâté and generally being bon vivant-ish in a darkened corner of a side-street bistro with some mysterious mademoiselle.
Which brings us to Bistronomic, a snug and low-lit French cove now open in the Gold Coast, ready for that discreet spur-of-the-moment rendezvous, or your usual full-blown pink-bubbly-soaked Valentine’s Day blowout—for which you may even consider bringing a date.
Martial Noguier, the star chef whose French culinary bona fides are beyond dispute—One Sixtyblue, Café des Architectes, Parisian birth certificate—is your host for the proceedings, whatever you have in mind.
Sure, most nights you’ll be happy to grab a country pâté tartine, a few sardines on crispy toast and something suitably Burgundian at the bar—or better yet, in the room behind the bar, where a TV’s discreetly tucked away.
But when you need to be discreetly tucked away, take a seat in the side room, and let the Cartier-Bresson-style photographs, a bottle of premier cru brut, a jar of caviar, steak and fingerling potatoes cooked in duck fat set the mood.
Nothing says romance like duck fat.
