By Paul Reidinger

FRANCE. IF nothing else, we should be grateful there is still a country in the world able and willing to expose our president as the monkey he is, and to do so with stylish – nay, gleeful – malice. Many of us, of course, are not grateful; we like french fries and French toast but resent and fear the French themselves. We wish they would behave themselves by doing as we say, we wish they would stop snickering at us behind our broad backs, we wish they weren't quite so indiscreet about enjoying their superior culture. We have tried to banish them from our consciousness with such ludicrous formulations as "freedom fries," but I suspect we have not succeeded.

Although Rummy's antebellum diss of "old Europe" suggested a useless land buried alive, Pompeii style, in the ash of tradition and custom, French civilization is actually quite nimble despite its avoirdupois of accumulated cultural practice. There are restaurants in Paris serving French food we might easily take for California cooking in its innovation and surprisingness; France's history as a colonial power has infused French culinary practice with influences from faraway (and now former) possessions, especially in Africa and Indochina.

The fact that colonial relations are inherently those of master and servant does not mean they aren't synergistic – transformative of both parties. When you find lemongrass and couscous on Paris menus, you know where the French have been. But you know, too, that the traditional ways and foods of countries so visited have also been affected. Hence the Gallic tone of so many Vietnamese restaurants: the menus in French, the neatly folded table linens, the efficient service. Even in our own Mission District, the fusion of French and Indo-Chinese styles has long been evident.

When Watergate opened in 1998, it was revolutionary not least for its bringing to the dot-com Mission a restaurant environment quiet enough to have a conversation in. It also offered a fusion menu that reflected the experience of the chef and co-owner, Walter Liang – lemongrass-braised duck with Puy lentils, that sort of thing. You would have been forgiven for thinking you were actually in a restaurant in some other part of the city – one of the hipper precincts of Nob Hill, say.

Nowadays you would be right, for Watergate moved a few months ago into a grand Nob Hill space. But Liang and his co-owner, Rebecca Kwan, have not abandoned their point of origin in the Mission; it is now called Watercress, emphasizes a three-course, $19.95 prix fixe dinner menu that must be one of the best values going, and seems to be, not coincidentally, quite busy most of the time.

One is galled by those fixed-price menus that limit one's choices and forbid substitutions. Watercress's menu isn't one of them. You can choose any of the first courses (petites assiettes), any of the main courses (grandes assiettes), and any of the desserts. (There is a "no substitutions" admonishment at the bottom of the card, but it is meaningless unless you wanted two starters or, shame on you, two main dishes or desserts.)

We ranged far and wide and found nothing amiss. The food does seem to have tilted more definitely in a European direction, but there are still plenty of Asiatic flourishes, and the cooking is at least as good, perhaps even better, than in Watergate days. I did think the mashed potatoes and braised baby spinach that lay beneath the duck confit au orange could have used a bit of salting, but that lack was partially made up by a scattering of roasted garlic cloves. Grilled tiger prawns (artfully plated with celery, tomatoes, scallions, and brown butter) had a nice smoky char, a carrot-ginger soup was rich and sweet-tart in the fashion of a good butternut squash version, and crispy goat cheese wontons (with a bushy salad of greens, daikon, tomatoes, and pecans) was like a plate of nachos in some slightly skewed dream.

Asian influences are muted enough to slip unnoticed past the unwary. A plate of almond-crusted petrale sole was arranged atop a medley of baby bok choy and fingerling potatoes, and a roasted pork chop was served with a compote of red cabbage, bacon, and Fuji apple; I liked the subtlety of these touches, and their homage to the past, but more conventional ingredients, such as spinach for the bok choy, could easily have been substituted without compromising the effects.

At Absinthe – Billy Russell-Shapiro's still-alluring Civic Center take on fin de siècle Provence – your croque monsieur ($9) is likely to be served with a relish quite similar to Watergate's compote, though of apple and onion and nothing more. Pancultural touches belong to Paris, not to la France profonde. In that rustic spirit, the sandwich itself is spectacular: two elongated ribs of bread enveloping ham and cheese and crisped to a tremendous gold. It is almost, but not quite, enough to make you forget the absence of frites on the side.

We had, perhaps subliminally, expected as much and opened with a small bowl of spicy fried chickpeas ($3), crisp-tender as the best frites and considerably more interesting, not to mention healthy. Also healthy, and interesting: a salad of Belgian endive and smoked trout ($12), enlivened with quarters of green apple. And interesting, if not quite healthy: a chapeau de cowboy ($8), one of those ambitious and oddly deconstructed desserts set on the plate like pieces of some disassembled machine, consisting here of bittersweet chocolate-encrusted chocolate mousse in the shape of a cowboy hat, with a pat of cocoa-y ice cream on the side.

Absolutely unhealthy: absinthe. But they don't have it, wouldn't you know – not at a fixed – or indeed any – price.