Bistro Francais, Georgetown, D.C.

My feet hurt.

Last night, Leo got home late from work after a hard day with office politics and was too tired to go to the gym, so we decided to walk into Georgetown to find something "non-Asian" for dinner. Our explorations got us onto the wrong road, and we ended up walking down a mile-long expressway with no way to exit. As we walked back towards civilization, we began to see some restaurants along M Street. West of Wisconsin, though, the establishments seemed to be mostly Indian, Lebanese, Chinese, or those crowded, noisy, smoky bars with food, none of which were what we had in mind. Finally, we espyed the tried-and-true Bistro Français and headed straight there.

The restaurant was crowded, but I guess the maitre d' recognized me, because we were immediately escorted to a decent table in the back dining room with an antique wood banquette on one side and an interesting view of the service bar through the window partition on the other. A non-Anglophone female brought our bread, butter, and water, then we met our charming waiter, a tall guy from Ivory Coast. His English was perfect, with an ever-so-slight cute French accent.

What to eat? What to eat? While we were trying to make up our minds, we got a bottle of one of their cheaper house bordeaux-superieurs to sip while we perused the menu. I forgot what it was, but I remember it made the claim to be like a Saint-Emilion (but if it was, it was totally unlike any Saint-Emilion I've ever drunk!). Eh. House wine.

When the waiter came back the second time to take our order, we still hadn't made up our minds, so we just plunged in and made a quick guess. I ordered a bistro salad and a minute steak. Leo asked for the seafood soup and the cold poached salmon.

My salad was a big plate of leaf lettuce with a lot of julienned beets on top and a very ripe and flavorful tomato wedge on either side (where do they get ripe tomatoes this time of year?). Their house dressing is a tasty, thin mayonnaise flavored with a bit of dijon mustard. My minute steak maitre d' hôtel was yummy. It was a large, thin, nearly square piece of sirloin cooked medium rare and topped with two little round pats of parsley-herb butter. A big pile of thin pommes frites, accompanied by a small bowl of dipping mayonnaise, overflowed the rest of the dinner plate.

Leo's seafood soup was a bit of a surprise. It was prepared very much like a French onion soup, with a large crouton in the soup and an ample amount of cheese melted on top and down the sides of the soup crock. His cold poached salmon looked nice. It was served atop a sauce of some kind (mousseline??), but I didn't taste it and Leo doesn't know the names of the classic French sauces, so I couldn't ask. He had a vegetable on the plate, but I didn't think to identify it, since another waiter from previous visits (the French one who's the exotic dancer) came to the table to say hi and chat.

Our waiter brought the dessert tray, but I didn't see anything inspirational in the way of napoleans or fruit or nut tarts, so I opted for a little cheese plate. Leo had a crème brulee. The cheese plate was simple, with a wedge of brie, a slice of a goat milk chevre of some type, and a small slice of a not-very-aged blue, with green apple slices filling up the empty spots on the plate. He brought some thick slices of a nice, crusty, country-style bread for the cheese—much better than the hard rolls served with dinner. The brie was brie. I'm not a great fan of brie, and, thankfully, this one wasn't ripe (the French like brie which has aged so much that it turns brown and runny and smells worse than dirty, damp gym shoes left in the locker all summer). The blue was tasty. It was an edge piece, so it had a bit more character than the center would have had, but it certainly wasn't a premium French blue. My favorite was the chevre, which was light and rich and had a very nice, complex flavor to it.

Leo's crème brulee must have been good, since he ate it all and kept trying to scrape the au gratin dish with his spoon to extract every last morsel. I think, though, for expediencies' sake, the restaurant had pre-made the crème brulees, since Leo reported that the hard sugar crust on the top of the cold custard was not warm.

After coffee with cream, we limped back home, walking the whole way.