Figaro Bistrot

Figaro Brasserie in Los Feliz is tres tres French.

"Everything comes from France," our waiter explains. The zinc (an old-fashioned metal-topped bar), the mirrors (framed in dark wood, with their silver worn away at the edges), the lights (art nouveau glass), the bar stools (bentwood with red leather seats), the chairs (more of the same) -- the chef (le type in the baseball cap at the bar). "Even the waiters," he says and shrugs. "I arrived on the day we opened just before Christmas." Noting that mischievous smile, I think he can't possibly be from Paris. He's from somewhere in the south of France. Marseilles.

We squeeze into a banquette beneath one of those oversized mirrors and reach for the napkin. My hand stops: It's real linen, ironed and starched, a damask pattern with a blue border. The menu couldn't be more French. There's a silky, very generous terrine de foie gras, a salad garnished with aged goat cheese baked in a filo wrapper and a soupe de pe^cheur that's playing it just a little too safe with the rouille, the garlicky red pepper mayonnaise that traditionally accompanies this fish soup.

The food comes out slowly, which means, on the one hand, that everything is cooked fresh; on the other, that you should bring only fascinating friends, because you'll be a long time at the table. Some entrées come topped with absurdly oversized silver domes that are whisked off dramatically at the proper moment. Others come in lovely French copper casseroles, which is a treat. Chicken fricasee is perfumed with lemon and surrounded by sculpted root vegetables. The rack of lamb, though, disappoints because of the quality of the meat. My duck confit tastes like a real confit, i.e., slightly salty with the flesh so tender you could cut it with a spoon. French sea bass is good, too. The waiter filets it table-side -- hoopla! He removes the head and separates the flesh from the bones, clearly an experienced hand at this.

As we pour cream over the dark chocolate soufflé and dive into it with our spoons, a patron across the room turns around and asks out loud, "Is this soufflé as amazing as I think it is?" Two other tables, strangers at first, share bites, chatter about France.

It's that kind of place.