Au bon parc

By Paul Reidinger

SOUTH PARK – the park, not the cartoon – was the spiritual, or perhaps aesthetic, heart of dot-comdom, if dot-comdom can be said to have had a spiritual or aesthetic or indeed any heart. Trying to navigate the green on a warm weekday noon hour circa 1999 was an arduous task that could make you wish you'd worn your riot gear: bodies everywhere, resting and recreating from their IPO exertions.

The mobbing of South Park in the second half of the 1990s made quite a contrast with the lassitude of the first half. Then the park was an oasis, a hidden city village of quaint buildings and narrow lanes arranged about a central, public lawn. It reminded me, in a small way, of the Place des Vosges, the oldest public square in Paris and one similarly hidden, cut off from the rest of the city except for a few unassuming points of entry and egress.

Despite the new millennium's opening in a burst of economic lethargy, today's South Park is more like its more recent, manic precursor than the oasis of 10 years ago. It's not as crowded as in 1999, but it's crowded – in part because of the rise of the new baseball park a few blocks away, and also because of the rise of new, lofty-looking apartment blocks here and there around the perimeter of the green. And there seem to be even more restaurants, in fact very little besides restaurants. It's like Belden Place transformed into an infinite loop, with grass.

Although there is a Gallic tone to quite a few of these places, they are a bit too casual to be Place des Vosges-worthy. The Butler and the Chef, for instance, is the kind of sunny, animated café you would find on a narrow side street in the Marais – near the Bastille, say – not on the Place des Vosges proper. There is a cluster of sidewalk tables, an enclosed garden at the rear, and, in between, plenty of vintage posters on walls and little crocks of Dijon mustard on tabletops.

The authentic look of TB&TC is not coincidental: the owners, Georges Blum and Laurent Philippe, also operate a Dogpatch showroom that imports period bar and kitchen furniture from France. (Just to muddy the waters, it too is called the Butler and the Chef.) With such convincing atmospherics, the café's food has to be convincing, and it is: the menu (apart from its being in English) could easily have been lifted verbatim from a thousand Parisian spots. Or boîtes, as Dr. Frasier Crane might say as he waltzes into the eternity of reruns.

One of the great pleasures of eating simple French food is its reassuring monotony. You start, say, with a platter of pork-rich country pâté ($4), satisfyingly coarse, with cornichons, big dabs of mustard from your little crock, and a slice or two of fresh baguette from the continually refreshed basket on your table. Or perhaps a broad bowl of lentil soup ($4), freighted with quarters of new potatoes. Or a profoundly rich and deep onion pottage ($4) that without doubt is made with beef stock. (It was a friend's passionate assurances about the unforgettability of the onion soup that brought me to TB&TC in the first place. I thought the soup was fine, if not magical; it is not difficult to make.) My only quarrel, soup-wise, was with the yellow split pea version ($4), which oddly was the prettiest to look at, brightened as it was with carrot coins and flecks of thyme. I was astonished to find that it was undersalted – something that never happens in France, where restaurant tables are routinely barren of salt and pepper shakers. (TB&TC has them.)

The heart of the menu is a familiar array of sandwiches, salads, and crepes, with a few oddities, such as a French hot dog gratiné ($6.50), thrown in. One's experience is that European interpretations of American standards are even more embarrassing than California interpretations (soggy ribs, flabby burgers, spongy pizza), but TB&TC's all-beef dog, while nothing like a grilled ballpark frank, is quite good. It's served on a soft, warm baguette with plenty of mustard and is available with or without a robe of melted Emmentaler cheese ($6.50/$5.50). As I am a cheddarhead, I gravitate instinctively toward any dish with cheese or the possibility of cheese, though it must be said that a grilled sausage on a baguette with mustard and melted Emmentaler cheese is basically not a hot dog at all but a rearranged raclette. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Croque Provençal ($7.50) also relies on melted Emmentaler, along with baked ham, tomatoes, herbes de Provence, and – for an extra soupçon of richness – brioche for bread. If you prefer some other sort of cheese to Emmentaler, you might try a salad of goat cheese and beets ($7.50; additional advantage: low carb), which combines that longtime duo with walnuts on a bed of red vinaigrette-dressed baby greens. If you don't want cheese at all, perhaps the jardinier ($7), an assemblage of smoked turkey, zucchini, and tomato slices on a baguette slathered with lemon aioli.

Service bustles. In true café style, it is attentive though not coddling. Dishes arrive swiftly, and tables turn over fast. A grace note: A chocolate truffle for each guest is presented, gratis, with the bill. Bon!