Crayton and I happen to live really close to Les Moustaches, a French restaurant that’s generally thought of as among the best in the city.
The menu harkens back to a time when butter-laden, meat heavy dishes defined elegance. It’s sprinkled with items that Roger Sterling would have loved — oysters rockefeller, beef bourguignon, beef wellington.
Chandeliers glitter inside, and a roaming violinist serenades the tables. This music is also piped outdoors through a set of speakers, so passersby can get a feel for the place. The street name is even written on the building in French: “Rue de Seine” instead of Rio Sena.
To Crayton and I, the whole upscale faux-French elegance thing seems a bit absurd. So instead of eating there, we usually joked about going.
Crayton: “Where do you want to eat dinner?”
Me: “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I made reservations at Les Moustaches. Beef Wellington, baby!”
Last week, Crayton was off work and he was sick of eating leftover bacalao. He proposed Les Moustaches for dinner, but serious this time. We did live around the corner from the place, and I liked the idea of a fancy date. So we went. I put on a blue-and-maroon striped dress I love, black heels and a fuchsia shawl. The walk took us less than five minutes.
We got a table easily, since the place was mostly empty. (More diners came later, after 8 p.m.) A waiter delivered the drink menu and the wine list, which was surprisingly reasonable. I’d expected the cheapest bottle to be around 900 pesos, or about $70. We ordered a 2006 Cotes Du Rhone for around 450 pesos, or about $35.
Waiters bustled around our table, whisking away the drink menus, dropping off the food menus, serving us bread. We chose the oysters, the wellington, and chicken kiev.
“I keep wanting to call you ‘Bets’,” Crayton said, referring to Betty Draper from Mad Men.
One of the waiters served the amuse-bouche, which was a sliced fig topped with what looked like a round ball of blue cheese.
“This is….?” I asked him.
“Fig,” the waiter said.
“Yes, I see it’s fig, but fig and… what else?”
“Cheese,” he said, and he rushed off.
Oo-kay.
The oysters arrived on a bed of rock salt and came with a tiny spoon, a tiny fork, and a flat, scalloped-edged spoon that I had no idea what to do with. Didn’t matter, because they were fantastic. Buttery and rich and topped in a thin crust of cheese. (Crayton later compared them to potato skins, but with oysters.) A waiter almost removed my plate before I was finished, but I stopped him with my hand. Must suck out every ounce of the buttery juices.
My chicken kiev and Crayton’s beef wellington arrived with stainless-steel, domed plate covers, just like you see in the movies. Two waiters removed them at the same time. I was waiting for someone to say “voilá” but no one did.
“Shall I cut your chicken?” the waiter asked me. “Because it’s filled with butter, they tend to explode if you cut them open too quickly.”
Of course, I told him.
My chicken…
Crayton’s beef. Apologies for the blurry iPhone photos.
The chicken was very good, soaked with buttery herb sauce. It wasn’t spectacular though, and I can’t point my finger on exactly why. It needed an extra zing. I wanted to swoon like Meryl Streep/Julia Child tasting the sole meuniere in Julie & Julia, but it didn’t happen.
Crayton’s beef wellington had been cooked to medium instead of medium rare; it tasted a wee bit too tough for his taste. The waiter hadn’t asked how he wanted it cooked, though, or mentioned that medium was the standard.
After such a rich meal, I wanted to skip dessert. But Crayton insisted on getting bananas foster.
“When are we ever going to get bananas foster again, in a place like this?”
“Never, and I’m okay with that,” I said.
I’m glad I gave in, because the presentation was cool. A waiter rolled over a cart draped in a white tablecloth, and lit the gas burner that had been placed on top. He added sugar and butter, then the liquor, and then the bananas. He served them over a scoop of vanilla ice cream, nestled in a martini glass.
Would I go back? Probably not. There are too many other restaurants to try in this city. The service could have been better, and the menu, to me, felt too old-fashioned for my taste.
If you’re in the mood to relive another era, though, it’s worth it. The prices aren’t outrageous for fine dining in Mexico City — my entree was under 200 pesos, and I don’t think Crayton’s was more than 250.
Les Moustaches
Rio Sena 88, Col. Cuauhtémoc
Located between Reforma and Rio Lerma
Phone: 55 33 33 90
Since Les Moustaches is hardly ever mentioned these days, I’d wondered if it was still there. It was *the* place, long before all of these newcomers, long before Condesa was the *in* place. It was my mother’s favorite back in the 80’s. Evenings at Les Moustaches were never quite as decadent as lunch, when people seemed to dress to the nines during the day. Try it for lunch some time, and I think you’ll agree.
I’m glad that you did that, both for your own enjoyment, and for those of us who’ll never go there.
¡Adelante!
Saludos,
Don Cuevas
Bananas foster at a french restaurant — tres chic.
Lesley, since you and hubby have ventured to cross the threshhold of Les Moustaches, you can act as the 21st century incarnation of Guadalupe Loaeza and her tribe of ’80s ladies who lunch!
And I can live the ostentation vicariously through you, jeje!
Pretty please, attempt a second visit at lunchtime as a social experiment, and don’t forget the shoulder pads, big hair and Chanel bag with chain strap.
Then report back to us here, with photos!
xo G.
After returning from a business trip to Mexico City, my Father brought back a book of matches from Les Moustaches. This was back in the 70s or 80s. When you open it up a moustache unfolded. I still have that book of matches. I may take a vacation to Mexico City this summer. If I do, I will have lunch at Les Moustaches.
Thanks for sharing such a neat memory, Mike. Those matchbooks sound cool — wish they still had them!