Paris on 12th Avenue
A haven of authentic café society flourishes on Capitol Hill.
Sitting solo at the bar in want of something French and lemony, I placed myself in Mr. Tattoo’s hands. Moments later he brought forth a Corpse Reviver No. 2, a transporting alchemy of Lillet Blanc and Cointreau and gin, breathing a float of Pernod. Mr. Learned Tattoo then regaled me with the history of the cocktail (it won World’s Best in 1896), the mysteries of bitters, the kitchen’s way with steak frites. There at the bar I crunched a crumple-leafed bibb-lettuce salad, strewn with halved hazelnuts and drizzled with a sweetly savory sherry-hazelnut vinaigrette, and I tried that steak frites—a rustic composition of natural hanger steak, crisped at the edges and blushing within, served in a richly shalloty reduction shimmering with butter, sweet with Madeira, magnificent with frites. The bill came to $30.08.
Café Presse is Le Pichet’s kid cousin, less little black dress than little french t-shirt.
And so I returned, often, with friends, at all times of day, for more simple, affordable, luscious food. Often the table wasn’t exactly large enough for what we required. Like the evening we took inventory, and discovered to our shame that we were eating a smooth brick of chicken-liver terrine with a seam of sea salt, tart cherry compote, mustards, and cornichons on the side; a croque monsieur, bubbling with Gruyère and béchamel; a daily special of fresh green beans with pine nuts and sherry vinegar; a bowl of bright, briskly refreshing tomato soup with a floating chèvre crouton; and that German fellow’s beloved rillettes, a coarse version heady with cinnamon, clove, and juniper, decadent over a tear of baguette. Oh yes, and the baguette—made at Grand Central Bakery according to Presse’s secret recipe. And two scoops of perfect nectarine sorbet, housemade.
The owners had the good sense to import Pichet’s roast chicken, a civic treasure that takes an hour to cook and is worth twice the wait, for the flavor-drenched crackle of its skin and the succulence of its flesh. It’s one of several dishes Presse has in common with Pichet—egg dishes, cheese plates, charcuterie, and other nibbles off the casse-croûte list—but apart from these Presse’s food is commoner, dailier. That shrewd decision fits the neighborhood, enables the price point, and accommodates a kitchen that’s hot from 7am to 2am. It also explains the waiters, many of whom were lovely humans but a couple of whom may have missed a day or two of charm school. “C’est la vie, sweets,” I told my affronted companion. “You’re in France now.”
And that’s the thing: In this city of food sophisticates and Euro-palates Café Presse is without doubt the Frenchest joint in town. On one late-night visit during a break in the ambient roar we heard a snippet of David Bowie’s “Young Americans” wafting out of the speakers, and somehow that sealed it. French restaurants in the States play Edith Piaf. But restaurants in France play David Bowie.
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Published: October 2007
