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Ma Provence Squirrel Hill's new bistro Ma Provence brings a touch of the Gallic to Murray Avenue. Tues.-Sat., 5-10 p.m.
French Connection Though I don't imagine Squirrel Hill closely mimics the southern French port town of Provence - where diners smoke, bring along their dogs and wouldn't dream of requesting a sugar-free latte - here, there is an urban coziness, a village atmosphere that resonated with owner/chef Eric Chabou when he began searching for a space that would host the French bistro he had imagined for years. "Squirrel Hill seems so European," comments Chabou. "Lots of shops, people walking. A car is not king on this street; pedestrians are." People expect a complete package - good food, service and accueil ("the way in which one is welcomed, made to feel at home") - which explains why Chabou, a Provence native, hustles from kitchen to tables, making time for pleasantries and small talk, waving bon soir when time is short.
Chabou grew up in his grandfather's restaurant, Le Ritz, in Sanary, a port town in the south of France. The restaurant sat only 20, but the terrace sat 100, with the sights and smells of the Mediterranean in the distance. He remembers Fridays, when steamed vegetables with salt cod and a simple aiello mayonnaise were the order of the day. As a full orange moon rose in the eastern sky, we ate like heroes, starting with complimentary toast rounds with chicken-liver spread. Potato-and-leek soup, pureed to a smooth, sleek texture, is soothing, while a musky cream-of-lentil soup enlivened with mussels in chicken stock finished with white wine is earthy, flavorful, pleasantly pungent. It is typical French bistro fare - "not too esoteric," says Chabou - "but dishes like flank-steak bordelaise and steak au poivre... every bistro in France has them." Provence's sun-drenched landscape renders an ample array of herbs and vegetables for a cuisine that is vivid and hearty. "When you get the plate, a few hours have gone into its production," declares Chabou. Everything at Ma Provence is made from fresh ingredients: reductions, stocks, pastries, even ice cream, with the exception of assorted artisan breads from Allegro Hearth Bakery next door. Whipped or anchovy butter and a gritty olive tapenade make it tough to go lightly on the bread, but be mindful that a very French cheese plate is offered at meal's end. If you've gone haywire and overpowered the hypothalamus with carbo-gluttony, satiated signals will preclude your enjoyment of cheese as a denouement. Our favorite appetizers: A plate of charcuteries, featuring French ham, paper-thin saucissons and pâté garnished with sweet cornichons, with optional Dijon mustard or gribiche (hard-boiled eggs with mustard, salt, pepper, ground capers and cornichons), is tasty and traditional. Georges Perrier's crab cake is something for crab-cake-happy locals. Chabou doesn't want to commit outright plagiarism (I assured him that if it's hip to re-create your grandfather's recipe, then it's just as hip to bring us France via Philly), but this little number, found at Le Bec Fin in Philadelphia, where Chabou worked briefly, uses processed raw shrimp and crab combined with egg and seasoning as a binding agent for the little round cake, seared until it looks like a toasted marshmallow on the outside, full-bodied and delectable inside, and different enough to make us talk.
To keep quaint, there's a running soundtrack of perfect café music; we recognized icon Edith Piaf, who taps into France's mass culture with the same story line that makes country-western, anguish and lost love popular folk tradition here. It's apropos with lamb chops served with garlic potatoes and provençale-style tomatoes; or shrimp à la provençale, absolutely smothered in chopped fresh tomatoes with an aromatic saffron basmati-rice pilaf with shallots and rum-soaked raisins. Scallops provençale, an appetizer I substituted for an entree, is arranged in a cake format with a hearty ratatouille on bottom, followed by a layer of thinly sliced cucumber, with scallops on top. During another visit, we passed over a trio of fish offered nightly for a juicy Maple Leaf Farm duck breast of excellent quality, deboned and pan-seared in raspberry or blackberry coulis, a shrewd orchestration that elevates the natural richness and depth of the duck. "Leave it to the chef," we told our server, who returned with a pleased look on his face and a fat, succulent duck, prettied up with a firm carrot puree topped with a raspberry and fresh green beans that rouse the taste buds for another onslaught. No rule of starch and vegetable for the classic fall cassoulet, a bean stew with pork, lamb, sausage and duck confit. "This plate is all starch," laughs Chabou. I've been told that cheese trolleys are on the verge of extinction in Paris, and while it's one tradition I would like to promote, my good appetite was pretty much satisfied, and my American genes craved skipping to something sweet. Choices included an apple tart with a thin but heavy crust, chocolate mousse, lemon tart, profiteroles, vanilla creme brulee, crepes Suzettes done tableside - all complemented with the elegant touch of coffee poured from silver service. "Do not come if you have an hour to eat," asserts Chabou. "It won't work." Bistros should have a few quirks. Chabou alone radiates good cheer and a sense of humor, a contagion that travels among a small group of regulars. And though mystics have long known humor as the flip side of sadness, it will nonetheless be a long time before anyone pulls up a chair at many spots in Squirrel Hill without thinking of Bob O'Connor. At Ma Provence, it can be done with healing doses of laughter in the context of the distinguished culinary traditions of little bistros in Provence.
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Each month, Deborah McDonald jump-starts appetites with lively restaurant reviews that scrutinize who's cooking what and where. She works anonymously, visiting each restaurant at least twice before writing her column. Do you know of a restaurant you'd like to have reviewed? | ||
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"I think the red is romantic," intones our sweet host, noticing that I was way too interested in the sumptuous red color of the walls. I stammered that I was just comparing the shade of the room with the red I'm currently painting my own dining room. No big, splashy effects, just clever touches in the otherwise simple but dressy room: white linen on the tables with a glass of posies set with cinnamon sticks, an antique hutch and sidebar, a long table with a Provençal-style cloth for bread, cheese and glassware.
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