Ludo LeFavre is the very embodiment of everything French and everything chef. Severe and exacting, his reality-show kitchens cower under his stern brow and unrelenting demands for perfection.
And why shouldn't he demand perfection? French food is the foundation of so much fine dining, and it's imperative that the basics be done very well. The gratuitous yet gratifying use of butter, the flambe, the saute, the bake, the bread.
Except everyone is trying to set themselves apart. By pushing boundaries with novel ingredients and unconventional combinations, so many chefs try to blaze their own trail, to find a rare frontier where so much has already been tried.
Imagine the exact opposite of that, and you have Petit Trois. The food is as French as LeFavre himself, and most items are as textbook and classique as the French Baguette. It doesn't look like much, but it is as perfect as those that come out of the ovens of France itself. The crust is airy and crisp, crackling willingly between the fingers. The inside is chewy and soft, requiring a little more pull to break it apart.
More bread slumbers beneath the murky depths of the best French Onion Soup I've ever tasted. The crock is steaming porcelain, crusted with cheese, intense strings of gruyere and emmental that cut deep into a beefy broth sweetened by liquid onion.
The Burgundy Escargots are of a rare beauty; the round spiral shells too pristine to eat, the soft pillowy snails soaked with gently-pungent garlic butter too decadent not to eat.
The more shells the merrier, with a pot of Mussels Mariniere. A simply steamed, white-wine sauce tradition with a touch of cream.
The mussels are appreciated, but it's the side of Frites that steal the show. Like most things at Petit Trois, they are cooked in clarified butter, all the flavor with almost none of the lactose, a whole plate of fries with only half the heavy-and-gross aftershock.
Everything is so French, but let it never be said that the French have no sense of humor. The Big Mec is a cultural fusion, the ultimate big mac en francais, except it is so much better. A lesson in dual patriotism and decadence, two all-American patties erupt with rivers of juices over an avalanche of melted cheese and thick slabs of bacon. The brioche bun is impossibly buttery, and it swims in a foie gras foundation of Bordelaise sin.
I've never spent so much on lunch, but the prices hardly matter when a steamy soup fogs up your glasses as you curl up at a cozy counter. The quality and skill are unparalleled, and believe me, it's worth every centime.
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