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Café des Architectes

Sometimes it’s about the little things. A stolen glance here, a heavy pour there, the pickup line that doesn’t make you want to vom.

And at Café des Architectes, it comes in the form of an ineffably charming Frenchman.

Il s’appelle Romi, our pitch-perfect server at the aforementioned restaurant and a man who, in many ways, was the architect of our experience. After 23 years on this side of the pond, the not-so-fresh-off-the-boat Frenchman defies relinquishing his accent – et mon dieu, does it work for him. He disarms and charms with the mere utterance of merci, verbally caressing his guests with musings that the pike is tellement delicieux, and what do you know, just like that you’re beginning to feel delicious, too. Romi is the kind of exceptional server with whom you find yourself making incidental conversation (in either French or English, or Frenglish, comme moi), if only it will keep him tableside a little longer. He is achingly endearing, full of savoir-faire, and imbues the French restaurant with an added air of authenticity. He very well may have been my favorite thing about Architectes.

And don’t get me wrong, when it comes to dining out, food is undeniably of paramount importance – but while some judge an eatery by its edibles alone, I look to the comprehensive culinary experience. I will, of course, forgive a lot if the fare is good, but if we’re being honest, I’d prefer to not be sitting in a room that resembles a minimally appointed crack den while I consume my venison. Space and service play essential roles, capable of enhancing and, at times, marring the cuisine. I will never overlook an unbalanced composition in the name of atmosphere; that said, a particularly adept server might help mitigate the disappointment.

And with that, the moment of truth: Café des Architectes is a restaurant, after all, not a dinner theatre (though Romi might argue to the contrary). Our meal began boldly with the amuse bouche, an intensely flavorful beet soup light enough to play palate-prepper and appropriately summery served chilled. A delightful quasi-starter, I thought it a bellwether of good things to come. Indeed, the Madagascar shrimp proved a validating follow-up – brightened by the citrusy notes of a Meyer lemon supreme, the shrimp is served with perfectly grilled octopus that lends the dish some density and a drizzle of honey caramel for that touch of salty-sweet. Well-balanced and -executed, it stood in stark contrast to the hamachi carpaccio across the table that, while beautifully plated, was watery and overwhelmed by mounds of accoutrements (asparagus, orange, lemon confit). Poorly proportioned and uninspiringly tame, it was pedestrian, at best.

Then we got a sitch switch with the short ribs, a dish more pleasing to the palate but terribly less so to the eye. Served with pureed spinach, the meat was wading in a vibrant but unappetizing green liquid that more-than-slightly resembled something I might glop on to my face. The accompanying candied orange was a helpful, if predictable addition (citrus flourishes are all over the menu), but ultimately, the presentation was too much to overcome. After the eye candy of courses past, the dish’s sloppiness did it in.

The rustic little number that is the pike (with flageolet beans, manila clams and basil puree) proved redeeming, however, the bean-and-clam medley adding a rich depth to the Walleye. And dessert really hit the sweet spot (my apologies, couldn’t resist.). Both the pineapple-coconut panna cotta (with kaffir lime sorbet and passion fruit sabayon) and strawberry-rhubarb floating island are elegant endnotes, the latter’s “island” a dome of steamed meringue emerging from a sea of sippable strawberry crème anglaise. Nothing, though, compares to the macarons; a little unlisted extra, the pre-dessert perfect delicacies were irresistibly impervious to my waning appetite. In orange, lemon and the unparalleled pistachio, they made for as strong a (semi)finale as the amuse was an opener.

And while the stuff in between was a bit messy, Romi’s end-of-meal serenade (seriously) reminded me that Café des Architectes is best enjoyed for the little things. It’s in the beet soup, the octopus, the macarons.

And, bien sur, a particular Frenchman.

-S. Brahney