These little bites were so amazing -- they were the kind of fried that makes you forget they were fried, as if they were never tainted by oil. The outsides of each perfectly round ball were crisp, while the insides were creamy, salty, and piping hot. I felt the way that Ramona Quimby did when she bit into a french fry, only these were better than any french fry could ever hope to be. The potato puffs were accompanied by an artichoke aioli, and were consumed rapturously at a picnic table in front of the tiny and lovely Gregoire in north Berkeley's 'Gourmet Ghetto.' There are only three counters seats inside this small restaurant, and two picnic tables outside. Most people come here for a casual meal or take-out, and I've heard the line wraps around the block during lunch time. At dinner it was much quieter, probably because everyone was at the Cheeseboard, which I will also visit before I leave for the summer. I've been there before though, and while I enjoyed it, there are a million places to try.
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