Franck hardly needs an introduction. Since 2007, the bistro has held court in Ferguson Lane, gradually expanding its domain with an adjoining bar and a pizzeria across the way. And, oddly, after all these years, I'd never eaten here. I'd heard and read enough about the place, though, that I had built up a lot of hopes and expectations. Much to my dismay, not one of them came true.

Over the years, Franck's wait staff has garnered a reputation for being... well, let's not beat around the bush... for being stereotypically French (even in spite of most of their respective nationalities). With this in mind, I came to dinner half-cocked, ready to rail against any smug remarks, rolled eyes, or upturned noses. In my head, the gears had already started turning, coming up with clever aspersions to cast on snooty servers and affected accents. A hatchet job was in the works before I even walked in the door. But, unfortunately, at every step, Franck denied me the pleasure.

For starters, we arrived 30 minutes before our reservation. I was so hoping we would get brushed off, temporarily banished to the neighboring bar as punishment for even presuming that there would be a table available before they were ready to serve us. We were seated immediately. Damn! We had scarcely settled into our seats when they converged upon our table with their signature blackboard menus. Everything was in French. "Perfect," I thought to myself, "Here's my opportunity. When I order, I'll pronounce an "X" that should be silent or a hard "C" when it has one of those squiggly things under it. My waiter will snicker superciliously at my barbaric American tongue and my write-up will be a cake walk." But before I could even utter a word, the guy politely asks me if there was anything we needed translated. Seriously, Franck, Where do you get off?



After that, our entrees and wine came within minutes of ordering. Upon completion, empty plates and utensils were removed promptly and subsequent courses arrived at a perfect pace. Our water glasses never went empty. They didn't have to ask us anything. They already knew what we needed. And they did it all elegantly and invisibly. No one was looming and bumbling over our table. It was clear that every server was watching every table in the house out of the corner of his eye, ready to swoop in only when needed. Suffice it to say, sailing was disconcertingly smooth. That is, until we ordered dessert. We waited. We waited some more. Then, just when we began to wonder if it was going to come at all, our server saunters to our table with two glasses of dessert wine. "I'm terribly sorry," he tells us, "I just realized that I forgot to send your order to the kitchen. It will be out shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy this on the house." A server not only admitting fault, but earnestly smoothing it over with free stuff? Really? Come on, Franck! I'm a critic, as in "to criticize." Give me something to work with here!



And as if all that wasn't bad enough, the food was spectacular, too. Oh, how I wanted to have something to hate! Something. Anything to ridicule and belittle. I even prayed for some kind of force majeur. A fly in my soup, perhaps? No such luck. All I got was pure, unadulterated bistro classics beautifully executed. I'm talking crusty country bread and top quality Parma ham, salami, and even blood sausage. I'm talking exquisite steak tartare that melts in your mouth like chocolate. I'm talking a rich, seductive bouillabaisse that you can smell the second the kitchen doors open. Oh, and that dessert? It was a baba au rhum, a yeasty, buttery, brioche-like cake deliciously drowned in rum syrup and served alongside fresh, ripe pineapple. So worth the wait.

So, where does this leave us, Franck? Are you really going to do this to me? Are you really going to make me write some boringly glowing review? Come on, man. Writing about food is hard enough without defaulting to all of the hackneyed superlatives I keep in my verbal arsenal. You know, words like "exquisite," "seductive," or "beautifully-executed." Can't you have just one meaningful flaw that I can prey upon? My job is so much easier when I get to complain.

Well, you haven't seen the last of me. I demand satisfaction.

Until then, though... Damn, what a fine meal!



For a listing of Franck, click here.

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