RESTAURANTS : Feasting a la ‘Babette’

Movies make me hungry. No wonder--lately they all seem to be about eating. Last year’s celluloid supper was “Tampopo,” the story of a woman’s search for the perfect bowl of noodles. This year’s movie meal is even better: “Babette’s Feast,” which opens Friday, is a veritable ode to the art of eating.

It is the story of a great French chef who has, for reasons we won’t go into, spent a large part of her life holed up in a remote corner of Denmark at the end of the last century. Here she spends her life cooking up miserable messes of stale bread, dried fish and ale. Until she wins the lottery.

Then Babette goes shopping.

For days, the supplies come pouring into her remote northern outpost. Foie gras . Truffles. A whole, quite adorable, turtle. Dusty bottles carefully wrapped up in straw. Fabulous fruits. She invites her friends to dinner.

Are they happy? No, they are not. They do not want to offend Babette by refusing her feast, but they are a religious bunch who don’t approve of such sybaritic pleasures. They confer. They make a decision. They will eat the meal, but, they solemnly swear to one another, “We will taste nothing.”

What a waste, you think, watching the cooking begin. And then, at the very last minute, a connoisseur is added to the guest list. He sips the Amontillado with an expression of amazement. He tastes the soup. His face lights up. “Real turtle soup!” he exclaims, slurping it up with eager greed. He picks up a quenelle and puts it into his mouth; the intensity of his enjoyment tells you that it is light as air. He takes another spoonful and then he picks up the bowl and sips the last few drops of soup. You can almost taste his joy.

Now the Champagne is poured. “But,” he says incredulously, “this is vintage Veuve Clicquot.” He lifts the glass to the light to watch the bubbles. He toasts his disapproving dining companions. As fat blinis topped with heaps of Sevruga caviar and mounds of sour cream are set before him, an expression of pure pleasure flits across his face. He turns to his neighbor. “Blini Demidoff,” he says reverently. “Yes,” she replies with maddening calm, “I think it’s going to snow.”

Now the red wine is poured. The connoisseur sips it. “Clos Vougeot,” he breathes, just as the piece de resistance is borne in. He does a double take. “ Caille en sarcophage, “ he whispers , and then joyously begins to eat little quail that have been stuffed with foie gras and truffles, placed on a throne of puff pastry and surrounded with a wildly truffled sauce. He licks his lips. He eats sensuously. Clearly this is a happy man.

There is salad. Wonderful cheeses are passed round. A proud circle of Baba , saturated with rum and topped with candied fruits is set before him. And then, finally, there is Cognac and the most perfect fruit you’ve ever seen.

“What a meal,” sighs the connoisseur. And then, without further ado, he goes out the door, gets into his carriage and rides off into the moonlit night.

“Wait,” you want to shout, “don’t you want to meet the chef? Don’t you want to know who cooked this magnificent meal?”

The connoisseur had an appreciative appetite--and a lamentable lack of curiosity. You can improve upon his performance. For you can eat the very same meal, which is being served in all its splendor at L’Ermitage.

Watching someone eat the meal is one thing; eating it yourself quite another. This feast, as prepared by chef Michel Blanchet, does justice to both Babette and your own imagination. It’s comforting to know, as you sit in the theater hungrily dreaming of turtles and truffles, that this is one appetite that can be satisfied.

And after you’ve eaten the feast with all the gusto of the screen connoisseur, you can do one more thing--you can compliment the chef.

Babette’s Feast will be served at L’Ermitage during the run of the film, which opens Friday at the Royal Theatre in West Los Angeles. The cost is $75 per person without wine, $105 with wine. Reservations: (213) 652-5840.