Hot Dish Review

So There I was, driving towards Brookhaven on a recent Friday night. I would be dining at a restaurant, but unlike most weekend dining experiences, There would be no crowd. In fact, There was no menu.

The establishment’s proprietor BB, who also happens to be a CIA trained chef, had lured me There with the promise of a decadent croque monsieur, a fancy French version of the pedestrian American ham ‘n’ cheese.

Having eaten the rich sandwich at a sidewalk cafe along the Seine in Paris, I knew how a proper croque monsieur was made. The challenge recreating it in the USA is finding the quality ingredients required. Aged gruyere is an everyday grocery item in Europe. Amazing freshly baked breads can be purchased on practically every corner.

BB was left to forage for his ingredients at the nearby Publix. He came up with a round of sourdough, some gruyere, a chunk of pecorino, proscuitto di parma, and ham. For the sauce, he substituted regular milk for the usual heavy cream.

JV, who will be the restaurant’s manager, joined us for the impromptu meal. We chatted about everything from music to meat while BB whisked his sauce. I served myself a Guinness, skipping back and forth between the bar and the kitchen, camera in hand. BB grated a bit of nutmeg over the bubbling skillet. “Bechamel?” I asked. Something like that.

But There was more. BB had made chicken pot pies earlier in the day, popping them in the oven before prepping the croques. They were enormous individual pies, with homemade fresh herb crusts, filled with all the usual goodies. However, just as a croque monsieur is no regular sandwich, his pot pie beared little resemblance to the Swanson’s in every college student’s freezer.

They came out of the industrial size oven sizzling, the rich chicken broth bubbling out of the slits in the crust. While they cooled, BB assembled the sandwiches, topping them with the bechamel and more grated gruyere for good measure. He stuck ‘em in the oven to brown as we dug into our pot pie appetizers, diced carrots, potatoes and tender chunks of chicken mingling nicely with crisp bits of crust.

I served myself another Guinness from behind the bar, awaiting the piece de resistance. Don’t let its size fool you, the croque was a monster, inflicting arterial damage with each bite. It was a serious sandwich, the kind one must eat with a knife and fork.

It was an evening of honest comfort food, with a side of relaxation, peppered with laughter. Tune in tomorrow to read what became of the leftover croque monsieur!