The little Bobby

If I could live again in Paris I would in a heartbeat. But since my slim wallet and declining ability to speak French aren’t the best assets when trying to live in an expensive foreign city, I’m forced to realize my beret-and-baguette dreams in San Francisco, where a transatlantic flight turns into a cross-town drive, from Hayes Valley to Russian Hill, where Le Petit Robert sits on the corner of Polk and Green.

Le Petit Robert strives to be an authentic French bistro. From the look of the menu and the appearance of the sophisticated yet homey décor, it felt like some of the ones I ate at while in France. It, however, didn’t have the charm of a restaurant cat walking around and in between my legs, as did a Parisian bistro where, with Ryan, I had one of the best meals of my stay.

Greg, my dinner companion for the evening, and I started with a mesclun salad with currants and candied pecans. The greens were crisp and lightly tossed in a light, fruity vinaigrette. The currants were a nice sweet touch, although they kept falling off my fork to dot the table. And the pecans were lovely, although they too were hard to get on my eating utensil.

The cassoulet that I ordered came out in a large, warm ceramic dish, bubbling with juices. The waitress placed it in front of me and I was a little nervous. She gave me an extra plate and an extra knife. I didn’t know what to do other than push those extraneous items aside and dig in with my fork. Those tender white beans with pork, sausage, and a beautiful leg of duck confit tasted just like the first meal I had in Paris, when after walking who remembers how long and seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time, I sat down to eat with Yvonne and the older Asian lady who liked to walk around her room naked. Never before had beans brought back such odd memories, filled with equal parts nostalgia and repulsion. Each bite of the cassoulet was richly flavored with the juices from the pork and sausage, and the leg of duck that sat on the cherry topping it off. I sat across from Greg and picked crispy thin fries off his plate of steak frites. My Syrah, which was slightly fruity, stood up well to the strong flavors of the cassoulet.

For dessert, which we were somehow able to make room for in our stomachs, we had the cherry and apricot pain perdu. I wasn’t quite sure what pain perdu was but rightly guessed it as a bread pudding. It came out warm and heavenly. The custardy bread was soft without being mushy. The cherries were sour and tangy yet sweet and slightly juicy. It was light yet substantial, a lovely end to dinner that, because of our bulging waistbands, we had to leave unfinished.

And, although I knew that I wasn’t in Paris, that in no world could Polk Street be mistaken for le boulevard St. Germain, that I wasn’t sipping luscious café crèmes or strolling through le Jardin du Luxembourg with rose flavored ice cream in hand, I was happy just the same.