The restaurant, La Mélange, is fancy enough that the menu uses words like “confit” and “jus.” I ordered the steak, which arrived wearing a tiny edible flower like it was going to prom. I ate it while pretending I knew the difference between rare and blue rare. (Spoiler: I don’t, but it was delicious.)
My dining companion ordered the fish, which came with a foam that had no business being there. “It’s a ginger and lemongrass espuma,” the waiter said with a straight face. We nodded sagely, then spent five minutes whispering, “What even is espuma?” (It’s fancy foam. Fancy foam.) The dessert menu offered a chocolate délice that was so rich it felt illegal. I ate it anyway, because the spa would fix my guilt in the morning.
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