We got off to a mixed start, Micheline and I. On the plus side, when I arrived at the host stand and apologized, noting that I had been stood up at the last minute by my guest but would still like to go ahead and dine alone, the host told me, “I like your attitude.” On the minus side, I was then shown to what I could only assume was the least desirable table in the restaurant, next to the host stand in fact but also, unfortunately, in the direct line of a blast of cold air every time the restaurant door was opened. Which, in this busy restaurant, was often. It felt exposed and far from “bistro”-like, read cozy.
Oh well, someone had to sit there I suppose, and that Norman-no-friends somebody was me.
The host, as it turned out, was also the owner. He is Jonathan Aubrey, a charming Elon Musk lookalike (but better looking,) who grew up in Paris and has worked in high-end hospitality in New York City, including a two-year stint as maître d’ at Eleven Madison Park. His chef, Josh Capone, comes from Daniel Boulud’s stable. Aubrey explained they wanted to bring an authentically French bistro to Scarsdale, in look and vibe as well as through the cuisine, and drafty table notwithstanding, to a large extent they have succeeded.
Yes, it’s definitely bistro-like. There are the obligatory café curtains, linen not lace, so interlopers can’t look in from the street, which is very French, and a long rectangular mirror, almost the entire length of the long back wall, which gives the illusion of space. Overhead bronze lamps look like upside-down Tibetan singing bowls, not that there’d be much point in singing here, because with bare wooden floors and nothing to break up the noise, the volume is fairly intense. Tea lights on the tables add a touch of intimacy.
“Happy Sunday,” said my cheerful server, handing me a menu and soliciting a drink order. With an uninterrupted view of the long, well-lit bar, and a cocktail list in hand, I was overwhelmed for choice. Several saucy-sounding French cocktails, including a “Cherie Je T’aime” (Mezcal, pear and elderflower), took my fancy, but from the all-French wine list I settled instead for a glass of Christophe Mittnacht Terres d’Etoiles, a sparkling wine from Alsace – small-bubbled, properly cold and apple-crisp. I was glad I did.
Eggs mayonnaise, the classic French starter that is so much more than the sum of its humble parts, was presented like devilled eggs, stuffed with the yokes mixed with mustard and mayo. Served from the fridge, with some scattered, undressed arugula and parsley for color, they were quite delicious if a touch cold. What really impressed was the fabulous baguette and cold butter that went with them. My weakness, I admit, but I could have demolished that loaf.
Escargots were plump and flavorful, the couple at the neighboring table told me, a touch crisp and nicely garlicky. They were served in an attractive All-Clad silver dish, as were several other dishes I spied or tried myself. Others were presented on classy white china plates. I also really liked the beautiful stemware and flatware. Even the butter knife was lovely to hold.
French onion soup came in a smallish pot. It sat on a saucer with a doily, some of the soup spilled onto it. A refined consommé as its base, with croutons and a manageable amount of Gruyère, it was good if not perfect. A server I hadn’t clocked before came to clear it. “Isn’t that the greatest onion soup ever?” he asked. I smiled. I mentioned it wasn’t all that hot and then felt a heel for doing so, raining on his parade.
But with the confit chicken served as an appetizer – a crisp chicken leg, with sweet and sour notes in a Dijon mousseline sauce – Micheline really got into its stride. A hugely generous portion of piping hot, hand-cut French fries, sufficient for four, made a terrific accompaniment.
For a main course, steak au poivre with a traditional green pepper sauce was textbook perfect. A server told me it is what regulars keep returning for and I believe it. For their part, my neighbors raved about their honey-brined pork loin, which chef Capone serves with Brussels sprouts and a sweet potato purée.
Not on the desert menu was a pear sorbet, which my server informed was very light. But I seldom want anything very light, so opted instead for a rum baba. It wasn’t remotely light, this rum-soaked brioche, but it was rather wonderful, bathing in its spiced rum syrup.
Throughout dinner, I saw owner Aubrey welcoming diners, most of whom he seemed to know. Then later, “Great to see you, come back soon,” he would say, as kisses were exchanged. In true local bistro fashion, it was a sentiment echoed by his attentive staff, all of whom thanked guests genuinely for their patronage.
At my table by the door, I heard and saw it all, enjoying the figurative warmth of the room with only occasionally chattering teeth.
For more, visit michelinerestaurant.com.
