BRASSERIE PAVIL

Both the interior and the food impart the essence of France

By RON BECHTO
Photography JANET ROGERS

It’s hard not to be impressed. All the brass, the mirrors, the tin ceiling, the ceiling fans, the decorative tile floors, the clock that looks straight out of the Gare du Nord (or any other French gare of your choosing) not to mention, though we will, the zinc bar as long as a bowling alley or the outrageous rumors (and outrageous they are) of big-bucks budgets. And all this without benefit of seeing the spectacular kitchen; it gleams as much, if not more, than the dining space.

Brasserie Pavil, then, comes outfitted in the finest, French fin de siècle couture; it positively reeks of the (now-legal) absinthe that is the hit of that burnished bar. But does the cuisine measure up to the cadre, as the French would say?

Not too surprisingly, given that executive chef Scott Cohen spent his stage time after culinary school in France, it does so in large measure. But Cohen, also not surprisingly, riffs on some classics to ends that are variously genial and just short of the mark. Let’s start, again sans surprise, with appetizers.

Cohen’s pâté de campagne, il faut dire, is without peer in town — fantastic with just the coarse mustard or with the red currant marmalade. Or both. I recognize fully that the pissaladiére (a Provençale French version of a pizza) tastes great; I just don’t like the fancy crust. I’m not a fan of the too-fine texture of the duck rilletes.

But goat cheese ravioli with braised endive, on the other hand, was a triumph: terrific texture in the pasta, unctuous cheese playing against bitter greens — only a lack of convincing bite in the creamy chive sauce kept the dish from receiving unrestrained raves.

Perfection, or its kissin’ cousin, was again in evidence in the mustard-crusted rack of lamb; seldom has this eater encountered a texture so exquisite, a taste so sublime. The advertised saffron mint sauce was a player only in aroma, but that hardly mattered. Coarse polenta provided a more than satisfying support system. But if you think that was a rave, wait till I start in on the scallops: they were supernal. (I’ve always wanted to use that word — look it up.)

True, one can simply sear good scallops and come away seeming smugly clever, but Cohen doesn’t stop there; these larger-than-life specimens are crusty and meaty at the same time — delicate and smacking of the sea. The beurre noir sauce with capers is just as it should be. The accompanying asparagus and sliced, sautéed potatoes play dutiful roles worthy of best supporting actor acclaim. And furthermore (I’ll stop hyperventilating soon), the dish was almost as good with our 2006 Marc Bredif Chinon from the Loire Valley as was the more obvious lamb — it was that complex.

Both dishes, by the way, provided sopping opportunities for the city’s best bread, a confidently crusty loaf imported in dough form from New York and baked off in that gleaming kitchen’s steam-injected ovens.

We didn’t have the Chinon with Cohen’s amazingly appealing vegetarian cassoulet — an invention on his part, but we did pair it with a quasi-classique rendition of the bean-based dish from southwestern France. Chef can’t help overdoing this one just un peu. The original, whether from Toulouse or Castelnaudary, would likely not have chicken, for example, and the beans — just creamy enough from long stirring and stirring in of the bread crumb crust — would be more prominent. But there’s no arguing with the flavors; they’re the essence of earthy.

All too often it’s the case that an indifferent meal is snatched from the jaws of disappointment by good desserts, but the opposite was the case this evening —in part because I’d tasted nearly everything else on the menu on previous visits. (Go for the strawberry crêpes and the Anjou pear tart.) I feel obliged to mention, however, that the airy beignets are good — just not as exciting as the rest of the menu. And the macaroons — really more like meringues with chocolate and strawberry fillings — are a waste of time and calories.

But then why bother when one of Cohen’s cheese plates, a presentation he honed while at La Mansion del Rio, can be had? France, de Gaulle once said, was effectively ungovernable solely because of the number of cheeses it produced. (Forgive me; I forget the number.) So, in defense of French anarchy — and its brasserie acolytes — order cheese. Besides, that gives you the opportunity to have more of the bread.