By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
Sakouhi just opened Le Paris Bistrot, his second Dallas restaurant. Tramontana was his first, but that slipped through his fingers during the messy tribulation of divorce. He insisted on using the traditional French spelling of bistro for his new McKinney Avenue spot not only because he felt it added an air of authenticity, but also because he wanted Dallas to know how the word is supposed to be spelled. (The final T is silent.)
Above him, grafted onto the mural, are the heads of four of the world's most renowned chefs. The names are scrawled in shimmering gold, so it's hard to read them, especially in the restaurant's votive-fortified evening light. There's Gerard Boyer, owner of the three-Michelin-star restaurant Les Crayères in Champagne; Roger Verge, owner of the one-Michelin-star Le Moulin de Mougins on the French Riviera; Alaine Ducasse, who earned six Michelin stars for his restaurants in Monaco and Paris; and master chef Paul Bocuse, whose three-Michelin-star restaurant called Paul Bocuse near Lyon is considered among the greatest restaurants in the world.
Sakouhi talks about the menu. He says the dusky potent sauce sludging the duck confit ($7.50) is a raspberry-wine reduction with natural bird juices. It's a good rendition, with a dollop of fluffy, smooth sweet-potato mash staked with a fried sweet potato waffled and garnished with raw spinach leaves. The sweet potato flushes an unusual flavor, one that should be sampled first, before the rich duck and the concentrated sauce. Its lightly sweet earthiness is delicate, and it kind of nudges you toward the duck. A leg and thigh, the duck is sheathed in a paper-thin crust swaddling moist meat, which seemed to get parched toward the bone. My companion disagreed. She found it pleasantly chewy, reveling in its lack of profuse fat.
Pommes frites? Sakouhi laughs at the question, almost dismissively. He refuses to consider them. The things were invented in Belgium, he says, so they're not even French (Larousse Gastronomique, the definitive French culinary encyclopedia, doesn't have a listing for them). "I really don't know why they call them French fries," he adds. "Here, it's like you have to have French fries in order to be a bistro. I don't think so. That's the game here -- it's a fad, a cliché."
I'd never met Sakouhi. My only contact with him was maybe three or four short telephone conversations, the last one at least six weeks prior to this visit. But after just five minutes of superficial menu chat, he stops and looks me in the eye. "You're Mark, aren't you? I can tell by the questions, and of course, your voice."
Perhaps it's that level of perceptiveness that allows Sakouhi to create a French bistro that's both authentic and something Dallas will swallow. Maybe. He's right down the street from Alberto Lombardi's Bizu, a bistro that perhaps panders a bit too much to Dallas' thirst for flash. Bizu is strikingly attractive and a fiercely fertile incubator for see-and-be-seen prancing. But the menu, a sort of French thing spangled with Italian and American scraps, too often falters. And Bizu risks abandonment by Dallas' fickle saunterers.
That's not so much the case at Sakouhi's restaurant. Le Paris appears to be designed to cultivate regulars with its brief, changing menu and its roster of somewhat reasonably priced wines drawn from major French regions as well as the Loire and the south of France, though I'd say he should consider more of the latter. The differences between Sakouhi's bistro and Michel Baudouin's Encore in Fort Worth are striking, within the context. Baudouin's bistro, plugged into a Fort Worth strip mall, is crisp and brashly pedestrian, plying what Baudouin calls "French comfort food." His menu is less elaborate than Sakouhi's, with broths and sauces made from natural juices and herbs. He serves pommes frites. Damn good ones, maybe the best in the metroplex.
Le Paris is more elegant, more sophisticated. The sauces are effortful slurries of veal stock reduced and rippled with intensity. Plus, there are some provocative twists on tradition here. Cassoulet of escargot ($7.50) is a fusion of sorts, combining herb-dusted snails with a collection of cannellini beans -- firm, meaty nubs that are underdone, but not in a distracting way. It's served in a veal stock reduction with shallots and garlic -- a sauce that was perhaps too loud. The snails had a peculiar, though not unpleasant, earthiness, with strong, musty overtones. But the potency of the sauce fought this intriguing nuance -- a kink, though a small one.
Le Paris is a tool of temptation, a utensil of seduction, one without any distracting, pretentious trappings. Plus, it has -- How do you say this without sounding like a schmuck? -- soul. It's planted in a historic building, circa 1923, that was for many years an antiques shop. It's elevated above street level on a flattened zit in the landscape -- the Dallas version of a view from a hill. Wall murals, crafted by New Mexico artist Sherry Beadle, depict Parisian café street scenes. Arched white-paned windows -- church portholes -- wash the place in reflected light from the neighboring Hard Rock Café's outer shell. Le Paris is a cluster of little dining spaces -- a miniature maze of hard-surfaced rooms that never degenerate into shrill echo chambers.