The front door is where the French ends and the American starts. The door is indicated clearly with a billiard-hall neon sign, and the floor is covered with sawdust. And if you have stranger anxiety, get your food to go because the counter-style tables are made for sipping Lemonade and sharing.
The style is rustic country, complete with pickled hot peppers and jars of radioactive Pickled Eggs behind the comptoir.
The comptoir is hardly couture, but seeing slices of crispy rolls double-dipped au jus is the hottest show in town. The juicy slices of roast Beef Dip were made for a better place, but no matter how high a chef de cuisine can put his nose in the air, even his fanciest of steaks are no match for a roast beef that beats the finest filet. The Pork Dip can match, with slow-roasted slices that put the finest Cuban to shame.
Si talentueux, si impossible! A Lamb Dip crammed with inches of leg of lamb, sliced right off the shank, right before my eyes! The lamb has the texture of tenderloin with juices that flood like the Seine.
Phillllllllippppppe! MON DIEUX. I love fine dining as much as any other Frenchman, but forget the fancy silverware, poo poo the polished linen tablecloths. Throw some sawdust on the floor and hand me a double dip!
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