But the food puts up the biggest challenge to Bastille’s bistro identity. Many of the classic bistro dishes were plagued with overcooking (an otherwise crisp and savory pan-roasted half-chicken; the coquilles St. Jacques, beautifully served over greens and marinated beets with a gentle cauliflower puree) and overfussing, as if the star chef were bored with them. The braised lamb shank (that should have surrendered its bone more readily) arrived in a pinched little arrangement of artichoke hearts, flat-leaf parsley, and tangy olives that wanted more hearty, less nouvelle. The steak frites was another stark take, a hunk of roasted flat iron arriving sans jus on a white plate, alongside a petite pitcher of Bearnaise and a cone of serviceable frites. These were careful compositions—not the rustic plates of our bistro fantasies—and restrained of portion, befitting the mostly sub-$20 price tags.
Once I exorcised the bistro cliches, my view of Bastille improved. Galusha applies French technique inspired by fresh flavors. His salads are sublime: a house salad of rooftop lettuces and hazelnuts, or a sensational little beet and arugula number with chevre and herbs on a citrusy bed of diced pistachios. His forays into North African–influenced French dishes were uniformly terrific, from his satisfying lamb burger with harissa aioli to a fork-tender presentation of vivid purple octopus, enriched and brightened with nutty argan-oiled chickpeas and preserved lemon.
Swabbing a piece of garlicky octopus through a velvety swath of hummus or dredging a crackle of Butterfinger-like feuilletine cookie through rich creme glacee my mouth finally experienced what the rest of me knew from the moment I laid eyes on this Parisian stage set: That Bastille will feed you sumptuously—sometimes even with its food.
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Published: November 2009
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