Restaurant review: La Bauhinia at Shangri-La, Paris
You dine like a king in his castle here. Yet you won't feel the snub of French aristocracy.
The Napoleon-style decor has Chinese motifs all around.
I feel a strange discomfort whenever I associate myself with French high-living, particularly fashion and food. People may have shunned Marie Antoinette's rococo gowns to go all street about couture, but France's culinary arts remain locked in intimidating etiquette. Le Bauhinia was French in elegance but its friendly service rode on the warmth of Asian hospitality.
Hidden in the hallway of what was once Napoleon's grandnephew Roland's residence, the two-floored restaurant is like a king's living room. There's a piano and a three-tiered chandelier dripping from a glass canopy. The celadon vases are beautified with Hong Kong's national flower Bauhinia, which artistically links its etymology to its Asian roots.
The meal began with a leek soup. Over four pieces of fresh asparagus on a soup plate, the server poured a green creamy soup. He'd already caught my attention with his moves and I tucked into the creamy leek as soon as he disappeared. It felt like moist greens mashed up with a hint of garlic; a palate warmer if not a cleanser. This was paired with the yam som' o, a tangy grapefruit salad spruced up with spicy peanuts and lime. I was expected to pair this with the Chenin Chamboureau which had fruity notes, but I chose to avoid diluting the hot flavours.
Then came the laab moo made of minced pork (the only way I can eat it), rice and fresh mint. It blended perfectly with the mildly warm Malaysian curry chicken that was soaked in fleshy coconut milk. For someone who's put off by meaty smells, the flowery aroma of these entrees was a saviour, and also a treat. It wasn't necessary but my Indianess made me order a plate of Singapore fried noodles. These had crunchy deep fried vegetables, sesame seeds and cilantro as garnish. The second course struck a chord with the strong red Bordeaux Chteau Citran. The sommelier orchestrating my meal had read my palate well.
I had taken note of the restaurant's culture of serving small slabs of dark chocolate in the end (courtesy: the table next to us). So, I chose the dumplings filled with steaming hot raspberry sauce and savoured them with a mildly sweet ros Grenache.
When I was done, it was midnight in Paris. I tuned into some Sinatra and strolled back alongside a Siene that stood illuminated by the Eiffel Tower. Le Bauhinia had done its bit in shaping some of my finest memories of Paris.
Hidden in the hallway of what was once Napoleon's grandnephew Roland's residence, the two-floored restaurant is like a king's living room. There's a piano and a three-tiered chandelier dripping from a glass canopy. The celadon vases are beautified with Hong Kong's national flower Bauhinia, which artistically links its etymology to its Asian roots.
The meal began with a leek soup. Over four pieces of fresh asparagus on a soup plate, the server poured a green creamy soup. He'd already caught my attention with his moves and I tucked into the creamy leek as soon as he disappeared. It felt like moist greens mashed up with a hint of garlic; a palate warmer if not a cleanser. This was paired with the yam som' o, a tangy grapefruit salad spruced up with spicy peanuts and lime. I was expected to pair this with the Chenin Chamboureau which had fruity notes, but I chose to avoid diluting the hot flavours.
Then came the laab moo made of minced pork (the only way I can eat it), rice and fresh mint. It blended perfectly with the mildly warm Malaysian curry chicken that was soaked in fleshy coconut milk. For someone who's put off by meaty smells, the flowery aroma of these entrees was a saviour, and also a treat. It wasn't necessary but my Indianess made me order a plate of Singapore fried noodles. These had crunchy deep fried vegetables, sesame seeds and cilantro as garnish. The second course struck a chord with the strong red Bordeaux Chteau Citran. The sommelier orchestrating my meal had read my palate well.
I had taken note of the restaurant's culture of serving small slabs of dark chocolate in the end (courtesy: the table next to us). So, I chose the dumplings filled with steaming hot raspberry sauce and savoured them with a mildly sweet ros Grenache.
When I was done, it was midnight in Paris. I tuned into some Sinatra and strolled back alongside a Siene that stood illuminated by the Eiffel Tower. Le Bauhinia had done its bit in shaping some of my finest memories of Paris.
