"Wee are Fwench, so can you please speek a liddle beet slowlee?" a 30-something mother asked of her waiter as he requested their dinner order. "That's great!" the stocky, sweating, bald-headed server exclaimed. "We're sort of a French restaurant; the owner is French."
It was almost impossible to take the comment seriously, even if it wasn't directed at us. Moments before the exchange, we had peeled back the crimson napkin covering a breadbasket to reveal slices of a half-cooked sesame loaf with gummy centers. Whoever cut it didn't share the same reverence for bread as the French, who know better than to smush down a hot loaf while divvying it up. French cooking, for all its complexity and elegance, is as much about perfecting the basics — a crispy baguette, an unbroken beurre blanc sauce — as it is about perfectly deboning a duck, stuffing it, and baking it in a flaky pastry crust à la Julia Child. Read the full review on
Voodka.
