I came here for one thing. And one thing only. Long did I anticipate this dish found at Challis Avenue – it was gone for a few weeks and to my surprise, this dish was unearthed back into the menu.
In the lightest manner I can manage, I do not have an affinity for the French people. There is more to life than just coffee + cigarette actually. However, Bistrot 916, with its sexy, shadowy realm – engulfs me in blooms of candlelight and pink tablecloth to excommunicate me of my Francophile prejudice.
Before the star of last night, the trap of ‘brown butter cream sauce’ ensnared me in its glutinous jaws. Scallop quenelles. Bubbling warmth, tanned like a white fox babe in Bondi, the 3 egg-like ovals make the diameter of the circle dish. Now I’m mad I brought a date because I have to share. A quenelle is essentally a French dish that is made of a creamed meat or fish, poached either in combination with breadcrumbs or mashed potatoes. To my guess, this iteration was composed of a potato dough infused with a stock either of prawn shells or fish bones. Small smooth shards of scallop glisten like polish tiles beneath the hefty quenelles. The bite is easy, soft – coated in a sauce that can only be described as a savoury cream chive-y caramel. It’s dark and toasty and seafood-y, it forces you to slather more of it on your spoon. You have to order a bitter tall cocktail with this, something to interrupt the richness and make you forget it, so you can be eager to scrape the edges of the shallow porcelain and be surprised all over again. You can hear your cocktail being made, the ringing jingle of ice being shaken as a percussive addition to the soft sizzling baseline of pans searing steaks. The inside of this venue is nothing short of romantic, a tender swig of brandy on a June winter night.
At this point, we’re starting to scoop literal air from the plate hoping to taste for a whisper of that sauce again.
And then I see it. The dish that made me countdown the weeks of this egregious assignment period. Two plates of duck frites. Fries slathered like a cacophony of toothpicks, sprawled on the left hand side of the plate. Beneath and beside, duck breast. A pinkish brown crackle of skin, flakes of salt kissing its surface, joyous iceberg of medium meat with a fuchsia centre. I love reckoning with things I dream of. I need to compare the two plates so I can keep the slightly better one for myself. Sauce is concealed beneath, a green pesto like oil that is deceivingly herbaceous. The slices of duck are lovingly cut into bite-size for me by baefy. And the bite is what I think it is – great anticipation cajoled into fruition. It’s duck. Its compassionate, luxuriant, slightly-fatty and perfect. The fries are salted and soaked in that sauce. Thin and too crunchy, warm and too quickly finished. Bring someone you really, really love here. You can’t waste a hinge date on this place. Or a situationship. This is some soulmate, best-friend, twin flame, boundaries- are-clear- I -definitely- know – who – I- am -and – what – I – mean- to – you type of venue. This is more commitment than a name tattoo.
Alas, cocktail glasses are dry and once crowded plates are now deserted. Now I want to be desserted. Haha dessert. Ok. Sorry. We got chocolate mousse to share and its set within a spacious teacup. Simple earns king here. On top, toppings we guess to be a dehydrated crunchy honeycomb and another quenelle, sweet hazelnut ice cream this time. Ahhhhhh. We exhale because how can you go wrong with chocolate? Its bitterness is accompanied with the taste of orange zest – an opulent conversation. The thickness and unstructure of the mousse is resolved with the crunch of sour crisps of honeycomb and the zips of crushed hazelnut.
The craving for date night is satisfactorily fulfilled. I rejuvenate my belief in Monday-night dining. My opinion of the French is slightly more sympathetic. Thank you, Bistrot – catch her before she closes for good at the end of this year.
Very Busy Bee 
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