By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
Well, What Else, a new French restaurant on Greenville Avenue, does have tiramisu on the menu. Come to think of it, the manager's kind of cute, too, but that might be pushing it.
The truth is, there's no reason What Else should succeed, if you follow the formula the way the big guys do. But fortunately for diners in Dallas, Rene Peeters, owner of What Else and its parent restaurant, Watel's, has his own stubborn idea about what dining should be, and even though it differs considerably from the money-makers' rulebook, it seems to be working out just fine for him, thank you very much. (Or I should say, merci.)
I do say "merci" to Peeters and Thierry Plumetazz, his partner and manager of What Else, because I think this is the best new entry on the Dallas dining scene since Cafe Izmir opened. (And French food is much rarer in Dallas than Middle Eastern.) I doubt Peeters did a lot of market research to find the location for his new venture, other than shopping for the lowest rent on lower Greenville. He didn't have to brainstorm for a concept--what he does is simply what he knows, and what he knows is French food. He certainly didn't spend a lot of time with interior designers--the restaurant is thoroughly charming but appears to have been decorated by the staff in their off-hours. Imagine an Andy-Hardy-opens-a-Provencal-bistro decor. A shirred, tented ceiling of a sunny print fabric (you can picture Thierry with a staple gun) conveys the idea that the menu will feature Provençal-style food. Christmas twinkle lights along the walls convey the idea that you're going to have a good time. I'm not saying the effect isn't pretty, warm, and welcoming. I'm just saying it's unpretentiously and unusually unprofessional looking. Is this a theme? What Else is new? Yes, it is. (Don't worry, you'll get used to the quiet and maybe even remember how to dine and converse at the same time.)
The menu at What Else is also designed not just to seduce you, but to make you comfortable. All the entrees, listed on the right side of the menu, are $16 and come with your choice of one dish from the left side of the menu (soups, salads, appetizers, desserts). Add any two items and your dinner costs $20. Add three and the total is $24. Very simple and shockingly straightforward, and the wine is handled the same way. Every wine on the list is $22 a bottle. Most of them you haven't heard of, but Thierry calmly reassures you that if you know your grapes and order by type, you'll be pleased. (Of course, there is also a list of fancier wines priced by the bottle for the inveterate wine snobs--and aren't they all?)
I wasn't brought up to clean my plate--evidently my parents didn't link my aversion to Brussels sprouts to the children starving in the Third World. They just insisted that I try everything I was served, to see if I liked it (as if you couldn't tell that Brussels sprouts taste terrible just by looking at them) so of course the litany at our house became, "I do like it, so do I have to eat it?" And plates were generally returned to the kitchen with a tidy pile of barely disturbed green or brown. Palate paranoia was my problem then. But palate fatigue is a real problem when you eat out as often as I do. That doesn't mean I need to be tempted with lark's tongues, ortolans, or even, say, huitlacoche-sauced ostrich. It means I crave something rarer still: Simple food, well prepared, gracefully served. And my meals at What Else inspired me to clean my plate. I liked it all.
Before both lunch and dinner, we were brought a little ramekin of tapenade with golden toasts, the dip's deep, sexy garlicky taste serving as a teaser for the full flavors to follow. One day, we tried the ratatouille, a hearty vegetable stew that should be a summertime dish, full of tomatoes and zucchini rounded out with melted onion, but it tasted surprisingly warm and sustaining on a winter's day with a glass of wine and the impossible French pop music playing above our heads and the bright flowered ceiling and tablecloths. Of course, it's always summer somewhere. The plate was made serious by a portobello mushroom cap with pale mozzarella cheese oozing down its rounded brown sides. Another day, the duck breast appealed, a dozen lean, skinless, rosy slices overlapping on the plate like a Japanese fan pooled in a remarkable clear brown sauce perfumed with lavender and sweetened (as duck should always be) with honey, then saved from cloying by a spritz of lemon.