In Honor of the Bistro

I suppose this could be considered a strange topic to spill ink on (is there a blog-appropriate version of that phrase?) but after my dinner last night, I think it’s fair to make my adoration for a proper French bistro clear.

The first time I went to France, I was about 11 years old. It was the Brazil-France World Cup final weekend, which is most of what I remember from the trip. I don’t really recall the food, except for a general fear of frog’s legs and escargot.

A few years later, I discovered the joy of good bistro food at the uptown French Roast in New York. It is the essence of the bistro distilled, with vintage posters from Truffaut films on the wall, mood lighting, and cast-iron chairs. Also, it was the first place I realized that I could order something as simple as the roast chicken with spinach and mashed potatoes, and know it would come to the table tasting delicious and be exactly what I want.

Then last year, I went back to France, with a slightly matured attitude toward food. I was with my mom, and we found that for what we wanted (an un-fussy, fairly inexpensive but obviously French) bistros and bistro-like spaces did the trick. (Also, we were in France, and wanted to feel it. Feel it we did.) We ate steak frites, salades with goat cheese croutons, and so many other classics. Oh, and vin du maison. Always with the vin rouge.

Our trip took place less than a month after I’d moved to Tenleytown, but it took me more than a year to visit the local landmark, Le Chat Noir. I went with two friends and we had salade, steak frites, and a pastry to share. It was exactly what I’d expected, I paid what I expected to, it even had that marvelous Gallic service I’d come to love (it took about 25 minutes to get water refilled). We passed on the vin, but when I walked out the door I could have been in France. And I was full and satisfied.