A true taste of France, for a song

By Devra First, April 22, 2005

Recently returned from a trip to France, Sauce feels like a cranky child waking from a very pleasant dream. What happened to the fromageries, the outdoor markets, the affordable, wine-dark bistro feasts? They were all here just a moment ago!

No need to whine, mon petit chou. Instead, head to Petit Robert Bistro, a newly opened bastion of French authenticity in Kenmore Square. With its menu of classics -- onion soup, mussels, beef bourguignon -- and its mission to re-create the genuine bistro experience (stated on its genuine bistro website), it seems specially designed to satisfy our Gallic cravings.

Seated in the pretty yellow room, formerly Il Bico, we can see chef and co-owner Jacky Robert, of the Maison Robert clan, at work in the open kitchen beside a woman whose arms are covered in bright tattoos. The smiling staff circulates, visibly happy to be there; general manager Loic Le Garrec, also an owner, shakes hands with all. Specials are listed on a blackboard, and the walls are adorned with framed photos of vegetables rather than trite café scenes: It looks just bistro-y enough without going overboard. There's even a singing waiter, accompanying the French soundtrack as he twirls from task to task.

OK, we're charmed. But how's the food?

Really charming. Escargots arrive, and they've been supersized. Each giant snail is a tender, meaty mouthful cloaked in garlic and butter. We've never been passionate about escargots before, but now we're converts. Eat snails. Eat them often. Eat them here.

Onion soup gratinée is less successful, on the sweet side and not as deeply flavored as it might be (or as hot, for that matter). But an endive and radicchio salad with bacon is the model of balance: tangy, salty, and perfectly dressed. And the huge puck of panko-crusted goat cheese that accompanies a garden salad is hot and crunchy on the outside, creamy within.

That waiter is still singing, but we barely hear him now. Our attention is fixed on our adorable waitress, who has seen to our every need and now comes bearing duck confit.

The ultra-crisp skin gives way to meat that melts in the mouth like duck butter; a sausage link, braised cabbage, and pert haricots verts round out the plate. But better than the duck is the rabbit, juicy and dense, served in a traditional mustard sauce. What to drink with it? Le Garrec ponders, then pours a glass of gamay. Petit Robert doesn't really offer that wine by the glass, he says, but it's the best one for the dish.

Downstairs there's a dessert bar, where you can watch pastry chef Kristen Lawson assemble the likes of crème brûlée, profiteroles, and gâteau Petit Robert, which is served with a mini Eiffel Tower spun from chocolate. (When the cake arrives at the table next to ours, a woman coos, ''Oooh, look! How cuuuute. It's the Eiffel Tower." Tourists!)

We order up the tarte Tatin, a fine rendition notable for its nonmushy apples. An espresso Napoleon features crisp layers of puff pastry and coffee cream that's sweet without being overly so; a lemon curd tart is, well, tart. Lawson uses sugar with welcome restraint.

Robert has cooked locally at Locke-Ober and Maison Robert, so it's no surprise the food is this good. What is surprising is the bill, a small number at the end of a long list of dishes. Petit Robert is a real deal. Which makes it the real deal: Bistros aren't supposed to be expensive.

It's time to pay up, and though the singing waiter has started to lose his charm (sit one out, Celine Dion!), nothing else has. Leaving, we're bathed in the glow of the Citgo sign, the Eiffel Tower of Boston. France doesn't seem so far.