Pretty Coquette Review: We Still Don’t Have Paris

The French bistro maintains a mythic hold on diners’ imaginations: the simple yet satisfying food, the balance of intimacy and energy, the evocation of Paris, real or imagined. It’s not easy to measure up to the bistro devotee’s notion of authenticity, and bemoaning the lack of a proper bistro has been a favorite pastime among Philadelphia foodies since the demise of Blue Angel. It may be harder to sustain that grousing with the recent openings of Cochon and Zinc, and Stephen Starr’s anticipated Parc Bistro on Rittenhouse Square.

The first to appear was Coquette Bistro & Raw Bar, in Queen Village. This venture of Sansom Street Oyster House owner and chef Cary Neff gets the look and feel right, with painted mirrors over the bar, hex tile on the floor, and butcher paper on the tables. But is it authentic? Neff seems unconcerned. He claims not to know much about bistro cooking, and despite a menu that implies a traditional approach, he dodges the issue of authenticity, saying he’s more interested in creating a casual neighborhood restaurant.

Though bistro cooking is seemingly straightforward, there’s a degree of alchemy involved in transforming humble ingredients into gustatory gold. And while Coquette’s kitchen is occasionally able to perform that trick, it more often delivers plates that look the part, but lack the deep flavors one expects from these classic dishes. A Wednesday special of cassoulet — listed on the menu as for two, but also available for one — featured a flakingly tender confit duck leg, chunks of pork, creamy-textured boudin blanc sausage and hearty beans. Each element was tasty, but this dish exemplified the shortcomings of Coquette’s nontraditional approach: It wasn’t a cassoulet at all. The components hadn’t been cooked slowly together, the magic that melds the traditional dish into a sum greater than its parts. The same problem plagued the bouillabaisse. The mussels, langoustine, and filets of cod and monkfish hadn’t absorbed any of the garlic and saffron of the soup, and remained shockingly bland. It seemed appropriate that our server forgot to provide a spoon, as if the broth was beside the point.

Steak frites displayed a pleasing beefiness, but the attractive presentation, pre-sliced on a wooden plank, seemed to be part of some perverse moisture-reduction strategy. The board not only soaked up any juices, but also precluded adding a winy sauce or an herbed butter, each so typical of the dish. (They’ve since done away with the plank.) As seems prudent, we verified the type of meat used for the steak frites — a hanger steak — although at press time, Neff said they were experimenting with a short-rib “zabuton,” a tender, cushion-shaped cut from the chuck.

Minor changes should be expected. Chefs David and Carla Gilberg departed abruptly about a month after the restaurant launched. But Neff says he’ll continue with the same formula, with occasional tweaks to reflect seasonal changes.

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