Home Tags French
Downtown needs a restaurant like By George, one where the business-casual set can entertain clients, hang with friends, or just unwind at the bar.
What’s not to love about the Brasserie at Bazati, a day-and-night, BeltLine-adjacent restaurant that’s serious about traditional French cooking? Bread & Butterfly chef Rémi Granger’s food is that of a true Frenchman, and the restaurant's idyllic patio suits his classic style.
In this era of hyperlocalism and regional pride, the popularity of French cuisine has been on the decline. But there is hope. In Atlanta, a comeback has arrived inside the recently transformed Hotel Clermont and directly above the lovably grungy Clermont Lounge. Yes, the French resurgence has materialized above a strip club.
A dozen waiters running through Shops Buckhead Atlanta with trays of champagne? It's a Bastille Day tradition—and a way to thank the more than 230,000 members of Atlanta's restaurant industry.
With Bastille Day on July 14 (plus the Tour de France July 5 to 27), now’s the time to fete French style. Alliance Française, a cultural and language center, will celebrate July 19.
When restaurateur Fabrice Vergez closed Downtown’s French American Brasserie (F.A.B.) last year, plans for a smaller locale were already underway. F&B opened this past summer, a “rustic neighborhood bistro” that holds plenty of charm and allure for its predominantly Buckhead-based clientele.
Whatever happened to sauces? If they appear at all on the dishes served in many modern American restaurants, sauces tend to hide meekly under a hunk of protein. I understand why young chefs who carefully source vegetables and meats from within a hundred-mile radius do not want to disguise their flavors or blur the contours of a composition. Eliminating sauces altogether, though, dismisses a component that helped cooking evolve into an art form. Sauces used to be the hallmark of a professional kitchen. They linked the ingredients on a plate. They added glamour to simple preparations. At their best, they imparted richness without heaviness. I can still recite the names of French mother sauces—beginning with béchamel (flour, butter, and milk transformed)—and their variations like an incantation: hollandaise, béarnaise, velouté, espagnole, bordelaise, Mornay, Périgueux, Nantua . . .
Our server at Viande Rouge in Johns Creek sidled up to tell us about the night's desserts. We'd already polished off cosmopolitan throwbacks like escargot in puff pastry and an entree of Dover sole fillet, divided for us on a tableside cart, with a side of haricots verts amandine. Sweets followed the same retro route: peach Louie, a Georgia-themed variation on bananas Foster flambéed with bourbon and Schnapps, and—here were the magic words—chocolate or raspberry soufflés. "Raspberry, please," I said.
French cartoon master Jean-Jacques Sempé, whose big-nosed, slightly bewildered characters often appear on the cover of the New Yorker, once drew two old men wearing berets and riding rickety bicycles with string bags of identical long baguettes hanging from the crossbars. I remember that each man sported a little mustache and a limp cigarette dangling from a mouth set in a sour expression. The absurd caption—“We are becoming more and more American every day”—made me laugh out loud.
To Anglo ears, the word "abattoir" has an almost spiritual chime. Without knowing its meaning, one might guess that it refers to a labyrinth of monastic cloisters, or the dwelling of a particularly devout ascetic. But it’s French for "slaughterhouse," the term being derived from the verb abattre, meaning to shoot, knock down, or demoralize. Abattoir is one of the least onomatopoeic words ever adapted into the English language.