Honestly, what do I know about French food? I went to Paris once and all I ended up eating were croissants and chicken with freedom fries. While this hardly represents the breadth of Parisian cuisine, I found it wholly satisfying and palatable in a way I didn’t find foie gras and other delicacies at the time. Sure my palate was young and unsophisticated, but I knew what I liked. In the time since Paris I’ve ordered entire meals made of goose parts and other unmentionables (and, no, I wasn’t eating panty crepes if that’s what you’re thinking). Despite the obvious maturation of my taste buds, the night I went to Casanis they were knocked right back to 1999. And what, pray tell, was the reason for this regression? Why, the wrecker of all that is taste, of course: booze. It’s not as if I wouldn’t have ordered the hanger steak without it, but I wouldn’t have made those snarfling sounds and ground my knife down to a miniature foil trying to get at its juicy rareness without it. Alcohol makes cavemen of us all, and there is no other satiation out there better than meat and potatoes. And nobody makes it with as much flair as the French. This place seemed a little high-end for a large-ish group of drunken co-workers, but we stumbled in nonetheless for a late night dinner. The place, despite being pretty much empty (and looking like they were closing for the night), served us promptly, and kept us plied with wine. It looked to be one of those small casual neighborhood bistros with light wood and clean lighting that make me jealous of the neighbors every time I enter one. The way I wolfed my steak obviously spoke to my joy. Good location, good decor, good service, good food. Sounds like what it is you call a perfecta times two. [MF]
