Comida Francaise at Chez Henri – Cambridge

I came to Chez Henri with no expectations, curious about just how a Cuban-infused Frenchman conducts himself. Does he smell of fresh baguette while he dances salsa? Does he add wine to his Cuba Libre (rum and coke)? Will the steak frites have habanero? Or will it be a menu of dueling cultures, a less bad version of Sibling Rivalry? Turns out, a miniscule bit of both.

The Ceviche Mixta was a fine fare, brought forth in martini glass within a vase. Yes, you heard me, martini glass within a vase. The ceviche itself was fresh and cold with a nice touch of mango and a tasty accompaniment of plantain chips. It was standard ceviche by all standards, but it served a higher purpose for me. Thanks to its bizarre presentation, I now know exactly what to do when I accidentally break the stem off one of my martini glasses after my b/f gets me flowers.

I usually steer clear of items like Chicken-Fried Quail, but I swear this was the sexiest quail I’ve ever had. Yes, quail can be sexy. I wouldn’t believe me either, but I tasted it. And it tasted sexy. I feared that the frying would mask the flavor of this seductive little gamebird, but it actually enhanced it. Like a well-tailored corset, the breading was a second skin (since the first was stripped off) and magnified the gamey-ness, giving the quail a dark, smoldering taste that conjures a dark-haired temptress from the Moulin Rouge.

The Steak Frites were the formal French fare you’d expect. Juicy steak, seared to the ne plus ultra of medium rare with crispy fries, frites by those who invented them. I’ve had far better, less mealy cuts of steak, but the bordelaise sauce was praise-worthy, and it hits the bullseye of cravings for French fare.

I tried the Criollo Bouillabaisse with great trepidation – any soupy seafood concoction will inevitably turn out to be either a fantastic feast or an utter disaster comparable only to the heinous proportions of fashion attained by the indescribably hideous Crocs. Fortunately, this was far better than Crocs. Not as thick as I’d like a stew to be, but full of fresh clams and mussels with a heaping helping of salmon and a white fish I can only guess was cod. A nicely fused dish, enhanced by a sprinkle of saffron and a kick of chipotle-garlic rouille.

The Chocolate Gateau dessert was Chez Henri’s number one endearing quality. As seductive as the quail, the long, dark, moist legs of chocolate cake interlaced with the best thick, buttery vanilla cream I’ve ever had in my life. It is rare for me to be seduced by a dessert, but for that one moment in time, it was enough to make me believe I no longer needed men.

So in the end, the “fusion” aspect of Chez Henri is, like the French, rather subtle. More understated that overstated, the bouillabaisse was probably the only item of true fusion. Aside from a sprinkle of saffron in a couple of entrees and the appearance of the classically Spanish ceviche, there is no real fusion in the food. Though the dishes were close enough to 4-star good, my disappointment in this establishment is slicing half a star off the top. Cuban cuisine opens myriad plumes of potential yet Chez Henri has not yet proven to be a capable multi-tasker. It seems that the food is mostly French and can only really be French or Cuban, not both. Though there is nothing truly reproachable about Chez Henri, and I could even see myself growing fond of it, I probably wouldn’t make the trek to Porter Square again. It’s far too far for far too few fusions.