I had a very grown-up weekend. Jane and I had lunch at a little French place down in the Valley, A la Bonne Franquette, a spot I’d never noticed before, but it was fantastic—then we caught Materialists at the cinema across the street.
Not the kind of film I’d usually go out of my way to see (unless I’m on a wife date), but weirdly—or maybe not so weirdly, having written a bunch of spy romance novels lately (but with the all shooting, stabbing, and SPLOSIONS true romance demands!)—I found myself getting into it. It’s just two people, their relationship, and some tension. Technically a love triangle, not a star-crossed lovers story. My Blue Sky review: “Captain America and the Mushroom Zombie Guy date Jane Austen girl—and it’s great.” And it was! I enjoyed it.
But what I enjoyed just as much—maybe even a little more, between you and me—was the French café we went to beforehand. It’s a small, newish place on Brunswick Street. I’d never seen it before, so I’m guessing it hasn’t been open long. It’s run by a French couple, with their baby daughter strapped to Mum’s chest in a carrier while she works the floor. (I felt like I should jump up and run some food out just to ease the load.)
It wasn’t a silver service Michelin wannabe. It was better. A proper suburban French café doing real food—classics, not experiments. Their site describes their mission as being ‘to democratise French cuisine, dispelling the notion that it must always be elaborate or high-end’.
Mission accomplished.
We both had the beef bourguignon with a freshly baked baguette, and I added a potato galette, which is one of my all-time favourite forms of potato (though I never make it myself—who’s got time for that?). The menu was cleverly designed, I thought—with a lot of slow-cooked dishes they could prepare in bulk and serve fast.
And the prices! Merde! It felt like eating out 15 years ago. I assume the low cost is because they’re doing everything themselves, at least at lunch. But the quality? Easily worth 30–40% more, and it’d still feel like a bargain. I’m going back—unless they read this and bump the prices, in which case I’m still going back but not as often.
The bourguignon was spectacular, clearly cooked for hours. Not fall-apart sloppy, but tender, perfect. The sauce was thick and rich enough to eat with a spoon, but even better with that crusty baguette. Between the galette and a bottle of champagne, I was so full I skipped dessert… and dinner. Six hours later I had a cup of tea and a few moments lightly drumming my fingertips on my still-distended belly.