For the first course of our meal at Escoffier, Lisa ordered a potato tart with smoked salmon, caviar, and chive oil. The dish was more Scandanavian than French: the potatoes were shredded, like rosti, then browned to a dark, nutty crust on the outside while their insides took on a creaminess punctuated here and there with a tender bite. You could still taste the faintest hint of green mustiness at the center; a welcome reminder that potatoes are roots first and starches second. The salmon was sliced a little thicker than I am used to, but it was so soft that it didn't much matter. The salt from the cure had been ably subdued, and what remained was a pleasant briny fattiness that was smooth but not greasy. Since this was Lisa's appetizer, and she was picking up the check, I thought it best to leave the caviar for her.

I began with the terrine of foie gras. To dine at Escoffier and not order the foie gras is, to my mind, the height of idiocy. Nowhere else can you get a preparation of this quality at a lower price. To students of the Culinary Institute of America, this costly ingredient is a school staple. The tuition-paying staff of Escoffier are a source of revenue, not an expense, and since the Culinary is a non-profit institution, it can charge far less than fair market value for its thick slabs of carefully cooked foie gras. Best of all, these kids have learned exactly how to handle this intimidating foodstuff: I asked our waiter what wine I should pair with the terrine, and he didn't hesitate: "Sauternes." Give that man an A.

I have a couple of C.I.A. textbooks, and their treatment of foie gras usually begins with a marinade of armagnac or madeira. I am personally more of a fan of the dry marinade: sea salt (pink and white), white pepper, and sugar. This leaves some of the livery flavor in the foie, which I rather enjoy. The dish I had at Escoffier had begun with an armagnac marinade, and the foie was layered with roasted figs in its terrine. The texture was absolutely perfect: smooth and buttery, the result of careful control over its temperature during cooking. But I found the flavor of the foie was overpowered by the sweetness of the figs and of the plum compote that was served alongside it. The handful of mache tossed in lemon and oil that garnished the dish was barely enough to counteract all the sugary fruit; I ate the last few bitefuls of foie on plain toast without any of its accompaniments. I could have eaten a lot more.

On to the main course, my favorite of the night. I ordered the braised veal cheeks with orange, a mammoth portion of four veal cheeks in a rich brown sauce garnished with whipped potatoes, baby root vegetables, orange fillets, and candied orange zest. The braise had left the meat meltingly tender though it still held its shape. I didn't need my knife once, but neither did I need to go digging through the sauce for shreds of disintegrated flesh. The fresh citrus note of the oranges cut cleanly through what might otherwise have been a rather heavy entree. I have never tasted a more skillfully prepared braised dish. Lisa's beef Wellington was also a treat, and was served with a similar rich brown sauce (hers infused with madeira). When she asked what it was, I explained to her that her sauce and mine were probably both made from the same base of veal stock, and that it probably took about fifty pounds of veal bones to make a quart of the stuff. She glanced from the pillows of tender meat on my plate to the shimmering amber pool on hers, and shook her head. "All the baby cows," she lamented. I quietly nodded my agreement. "All the delicious baby cows."