Franco File
When the economy starts cooking, new French restaurants often follow suit, and these days they’re sprouting across Texas like champignons after a spring pluie. Here are sixteen places that give a whole new meaning to “stock options.”
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Pretend that you’re a boulevardier and stroll on up McKinney to Watel’s, whose kitchen is presided over by chef René Peeters, age 44. Here a more sedate atmosphere prevails in an appealing small space with white walls, abstract art, and an art deco feel. Even at lunch, the crowd is quite civilized—a few couples, lunching ladies, some business types. The grilled-Belgian-endive salad sounded intriguing, and it was, with thin slices of prosciutto and salty Parmesan for contrast, though the endive had been left on the grill too long, making it rather strong. The cassoulet surprised me; I was expecting the classic long-simmered, robust dish of white beans with sausage and bacon and falling-apart duck, but this was cassoulet lite, with almost undercooked white beans and a firm duck leg confit. As for dessert, someone must have griped that the poached pear was too bland because the kitchen had gone overboard in the opposite direction: My poor pear was overwhelmed by a thick, cinnamony port sauce—nice if you are hooked on Red Hots.
If you live in far north Dallas, or have the time and energy to drive to what seems like southern Oklahoma, you will find two of the best French restaurants in the Dallas area. Although located in a shopping center, La Mirabelle still has a credibly Gallic mien, reminiscent of the days when restaurants looked like dining rooms rather than movie sets. An exploration of the menu turned up a rough-chopped duck pâté appetizer, a generous and meaty slice enlivened by bits of walnuts. The cream of asparagus soup emphasized the cream more than the asparagus, with just a hint of sweetness. A magnificent pile of fat little mussels in the shell came bathed in a winy broth, heady with garlic—it was so good I wanted to drink it straight from the bowl. For dessert, all that two of us could manage was a shared lemon sorbet, icy and indisputably light, if a little bland. When we left, owner-chef François Fotré was conferring in French with his wife. Our totally Texan waiter called after us, “Bonjour, y’all.”
For my money, the best of the lot in Dallas is Lavendou, another shopping center venue that has transformed itself into a convincing and rustic corner of Provence, with arched buff brick walls and gleaming bottles of preserved fruits above the bar. Normally I try not to go on and on about something as simple as an appetizer of bread and olive oil, but this oil, spruced up with herbs, was exceptional (and for sale—I bought two bottles to take home). A classic duck liver terrine, coarse-textured and very tasty, was accessorized with tiny squares of Sauternes aspic scattered about the plate, and a seafood terrine found a perfect match in a robust herbed mayonnaise. The chef, Jean-Marie Cadot, age 34, has a fine hand with fish, a case in point being the delicate tilapia filets Provençal topped with a Nyons-olive tapenade and anchovy pesto. Of two dessert tarts, it was hard to choose which I liked better: the apricot with almonds and vanilla-scented whipped cream or the chocolate, on a sugary, shortbreadlike crust.
HOUSTON
If you go strictly by the numbers, Houston has as many French restaurants as Dallas. But only three—Café Perrier, Bistro Provence, and Cafe Descours—are places I’m eager to go back to. The first, named for its chef and owner, Frédéric Perrier, is a hangout of the River Oaks crowd, with plenty of cell phones, Hermès scarves, and well-tailored suits in evidence. The look is curvy and modern. Lunch is a great bargain; in fact, several of my favorite dishes were on the $15.50 prix fixe lunch, including the best mussels in the city, pristine and plump in a salty, rosemary-strewn broth. The soup of lentils with duck confit was as satisfyingly meaty as a stew. Dinner is a playground for Perrier’s imagination, with consistently interesting if sometimes dubious results. Seared Hudson Valley foie gras with a balsamic glaze came on a bed of braised cabbage, a potentially good combination except that the reduced balsamic vinegar was too strong and the cabbage was too bland. We were more impressed with the napoleon of red snapper, a lightly cooked filet garnished with bell peppers and niçoise olives. It wore a rakish hat of crisp, thin potato slices. We were happiest with dessert, a soft-centered individual chocolate cake that poured onto the plate at the touch of a fork. It was better than getting to lick the icing off the beaters in your mother’s kitchen.
If Café Perrier is urban, Bistro Provence is unabashedly country. With two off-the-beaten-path outposts, both tricked out in chipper yellow and blue, with black and white tile accents on floors and walls, it is as welcoming as a spring day. Chef Georges Guy, who is 55, offers a menu that’s full of crowd-pleasers: mussels, côtes d’agneau (lamb chops), and Guy’s own version of Provençal-style pizza, with black olives, anchovies, and Swiss cheese. I loved the rich flavor of my confit de lapin à l’huile d’olive, a long-simmered rabbit stew with caramelized onions and prunes, and the meat in a friend’s beef stew was tender to the bone in its tomato-based sauce. The escargots were just the way they should be—drenched in melted butter, garlic, and parsley. If I have a criticism, it’s that some dishes were excessively oily and dauntingly heavy. But if you choose carefully, you can eat well at Bistro Provence. Most of all, it’s a charming place. Even if I weren’t fond of the food, I would go back for a glass of wine and the atmosphere. It reminds me of France.
Cafe Descours also makes a valiant effort to turn itself into a little piece of France despite being located in a new Houston shopping center. An artist has painted a convincing scene from Paris’ Montmarte neighborhood on the wall, with the faces of regular customers at next-door Pâtisserie Descours cleverly worked in. Oriental-style rugs cover rustic tile floors, and dark wood panels accent Dijon-colored walls.
Whatever else you order, definitely have the snails, tenderlittle mollusks snuggled into individual savory profiteroles with the usual depraved garlic-butter sauce. The seafood chowder that emerged from the kitchen of chef Yvonne Samudio, 27, wasn’t bad, either, with a creamy base, clams, and nibbles of fish filet. To me, there’s not a creature in the ocean that can beat a big, fat sea scallop when it’s been properly handled and cooked, and these were. Lightly seared, they arrived in a pool of caper-studded balsamic butter, pungent and rich. The pork loin chop, crusted with sun-dried tomatoes, came off well except for some iffy textures. The meat was somewhat chewy, and the novel goat-cheese coulis that accompanied it was rather pasty. As for dessert, tarte Tatin—as French as apple pie—was tarted up with two sauces: caramel and crème Chantilly. It seemed like overkill, but then nobody was holding a gun to my head when I managed to eat both.
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