Saint Amour, Mon Amour

Beautiful Frenchmen in black bistro aprons were dusting raindrops from an unexpected sprinkle off wicker chairs on the patio when we arrived at Le Saint Amour.

A hip looking young woman with a small dog on a long leash cast sideways glances at the operation as she strolled by.

It was 6:30 on a Saturday evening and the tree-lined sidewalk of Culver Boulevard was radiating that oddly warm and pleasant odor of wet pavement.

Combine that with the smells of classic French cuisine emanating from the already crowded, cozy-looking Saint Amour, and we could have been standing in the middle of a spring day in Paris (with the possible exception of the SUVs cruising by, but you get the picture). 

Saint Amour is owned by Frenchmen Florrence and Bruno Herve-Commereuc, former owners of Angelique Café in the Fashion District downtown (still open, but they sold in 2006).

Bruno Herve-Commereuc is Chef de Cuisine and creator of the house-made terrines and sausages, of which there are several on the menu. Florrence can be found most nights floating gracefully around the dining room, assisting as maître d'.

The French restaurant has an authenticity that permeates not simply the food but the whole of the dining experience. After being seated immediately—we claimed one of the dry patio tables protected by an awning—the rest of the dinner seemed to float by.

When our server sauntered over for the first time, he didn't say a word but just smiled.  After a long but not necessarily uncomfortable pause, he said in heavily accented and undeniably charming English, "Something to drink?" Oui, monsieur. S'il vous plait.

The Monmousseau Rosé ($9/glass) was still full in my glass when the Burrata et Tomates Confites ($10) arrived. Slow-roasted tomatoes hugged small cubes of warm, dense polenta surrounding a cloud of soft burrata cheese, one of the most decadent of summer's seasonal treats.

The requisite basil pesto drizzle was fresh-tasting, and a small pile of frisee added a bitterness that my rosé was eternally thankful for.

Ris de Veau ($10), seared sweetbread served with capers and lemon with a side of frisee, was a generous portion for a hors d'oeuvre—more than enough for a light entrée.

The sweetbreads were still sizzling. Though capers and lemon can make almost anything sumptuous, the sweetbreads lacked the tenderness necessary to make them exceptional.

A glass of Sancerre ($11) was difficult to enjoy served in a seemingly unbreakable, Italian-restaurant-circa-1970s-style wine glass.

No matter: The moderate prices on the French-dominated wine list are a clue as to the overall quality; while everything is quaffable, don't expect to find any first-growth Bordeaux on the menu. If you are in the mood for an outstanding bottle, I suggest you bring your own (and your own glasses while you're at it).

The entrées, once ordered, arrived swiftly and it seemed our server was as surprised as we were at the speed; twice food was brought to the table by a runner before the proper silverware arrived.

Water glasses remained full, however, and service was generally good in the European way --  friendly but casually indifferent and unhurried. It felt very much like dining in a bistro in Europe where guests are supposed to take their time, enjoy a leisurely meal and dine all night, where they do not serve coffee to go, servers do not necessarily work for tips, and no one falls all over you. Once you set your internal watch to their clock, this kind of dining experience is thoroughly enjoyable.

Our server recommended the Quenelles de Brochet Homardine ($19) in a somewhat roundabout way: "My grandmother used to make them to perfection," he said in his airy manner.  "And here they make them very good, too."

A quenelle is a dumpling of sorts composed of creamed meat or fish—in this case, pike—blended with breadcrumbs and a light egg binding, usually poached. The result is akin to a warm, solid fish mousse, heavy in flavor but light in consistency. Served in a rich lobster sauce, this very interesting dish becomes more enjoyable with every bite as the (American) palate moves beyond the textural unknown and hones in on an immensely satisfying, savory quality reminiscent of pie crust.

Confit de Canard ($19) was two large thighs of duck over an oyster mushroom fricassee and a side of, yes, frisee aux lardons (thick hunks of crispy, delicious bacon and chopped egg over frisee). The accompanying steak knife was unnecessary.

The meat fell off the bones, mixing with the tender, creamy mushrooms to make each bite a perfectly executed, salty, hedonistic culinary experience that is still lingering seductively in my memory.

The meal concluded with a dessert selected by the house: a Flourless Chocolate Volcano Cake ($6) that I did not see listed on the menu. A side of luxurious vanilla ice cream, almond slivers and fresh strawberries made the dish.

I have a God-given gift for determining the quality of chocolate: a mild allergy that in no way slows me down but spurs sneezing fits if the chocolate used is the real deal. No sneezes here. That said, the cake itself had a texture like sponge cake and the "lava" flowed slow and steady and hot, just as lava should. It was not overly sweet and allowed us to sip our espressos (fantastic) and coffee (lukewarm) free from the burden of overindulgence.

If it had been Paris, I would have lit a cigarette to prolong the evening; as it were, the tiny white lights sparkling in the swaying trees and my sweet espresso were all the finish I needed after such a meal—such an experience.  À la prochaine, Saint Amour. And there will be a next time.