In an age when too many servers sidle up to the table to explain the menu, detailing all the arcane ingredients, the dishes at this Capitol Hill hideaway—pheasant pâté, mussels, steak frites—need no explanation. If the setting—pillow-backed booths, grandmotherly lamps—seems more suited to a séance and the service can be a bit too relaxed, those seem decent tradeoffs for solid French cooking at a time when that beloved genre is in danger of disappearing.
This article appears in the March 2011 issue of The Washingtonian.
