From the oysters of Normandy to the cassoulets of Toulouse, French food is as varied as that of any big country. On the other hand, America’s popular-culture concept of it is a bundle of stereotypes so common that they invite ridicule. Snails, frog legs, foie gras, and coq au vin have gone from being the epitome of gourmet dining to a caricature of it.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with such stereotypes. Consider Swiss chocolate and Maine lobster: Culinary clichés can be great! Years ago, as a fledgling writer, I loved editorial lunches in New York because they were so often conducted in one of the city’s plethora of French restaurants—some simple, some grand. It was then I developed lifelong affection for French-food clichés as well as for flights of fancy by creative chefs.
By comparison, small-town South Carolina, where I live now, is a French food desert. That is why I popped the cork when Bistro 55 opened last year. Located in the planned community of Hammond’s Ferry along the Savannah River, it is a repository of iconic dishes.
Onion soup is listed as soup à l’oignon gratinée. Gratinée indeed. Its abundant melted Gruyère and plenty of broth-logged bread make it an aromatic, onion-sweet mire that you could stand a spoon in.
Salade de quartiers is a section of iceberg lettuce with leaves separate enough to allow the fluent part of Roquefort dressing to seep between them but sturdy enough to support thick bites of bacon, diced tomatoes, and clumps of cheese.
Bistro 55 gets its beef from Reidsville, Georgia’s Châtel Farms, an FPL Food subsidiary which claims its cattle are raised on “lush grass pasture, natural forages, and a custom blend of locally sourced grains.” One result of the aristocratic pasturage is a juicy lunchtime Wagyu hamburger made even more lavish by sheets of brie melted on top. This is one instance where optional bacon is unwelcome because its smoky sweetness distracts from the mineral might of red meat.
Steak frites, available at both lunch and dinner, is a boneless strip sided by well-seasoned French fries. There’s also a ribeye with either Béarnaise or Bordelaise sauce and a grilled “pavee de boeuf” that is described on the menu as filet mignon but has the baritone flavor of aged sirloin.
The kitchen cooks meat as ordered. One day at lunch I asked for a rare burger and my wife, Whitney, requested medium rare. My burger’s center is red; hers pink. Perfect.
A curious, lunch-only beef dish served by this restaurant devoted to French food is the French dip. Despite its name, a French dip isn’t French at all; it was invented in Los Angeles about a century ago and has since become a favorite bar and bistro sandwich coast to coast. Although the one served here superficially resembles the standard-issue roast beef sandwich with a cup of “au jus” for dipping, everything about it is different.
The bread is a high-quality baguette. Shreds of meat punctuate the cup of gravy, which is an opaque sweet/savory broth reminiscent of onion soup. The beef itself, dressed with garlic aioli, is not cut from a roast. It is thin slices of rare steak—prime steak, according to the menu—that are impossibly tender and edged with melt-in-the-mouth fat.
Lest my carnivorous enthusiasm distract from a well-rounded menu, know that duck à l’orange is juicy but nearly fatless under audibly crisp skin; tuna steak is a reinterpretation of salade Niçoise, complete with potatoes, green beans, hard-boiled eggs, and anchovies, dressed with vinaigrette. Saumon Grillé Provençal, which easily separates into firm, pink flakes, gets a charge from the sauce spread across it. Salty olives and capers, garlic, tomato chunks, and herbs add zest that enhances the flavor of the salmon but does not overwhelm it. A bed of polenta lies underneath.
Midway through the meal, you must let the kitchen know if you want a soufflé for dessert. Baked to order (is there another way?), each precarious egg-risen puff, either chocolate or Grand Marnier, arrives jiggling above its ramekin’s rim. Alongside comes a bowl of thick, freshly whipped cream. It’s a grand finale … although I’m always hoping that someone else at the table will order and share warm tart tatin, which isn’t as awe-inspiring but every bit as swoonful, especially when amended with ice cream.
The privileged aura of Hammond’s Ferry, which calls itself a “new urbanist neighborhood,” makes Sunday an especially fitting time to stroll the streets and find a table indoors or on the sidewalk and indulge in brunch of croissants and café au lait or slices of French toast, which the menu promises are “just like maman made them,” or, on one memorable occasion, hot beignets presented with whipped cream, raspberries, caramel sauce, and chocolate sauce.
Word to the wise: Bistro 55 is not a restaurant to visit if you are in a hurry. Whether or not it’s crowded and whether you order a simple dish or a complex one, nothing comes from the kitchen fast.
Bistro 55: 465 Railroad Ave., North Augusta, South Carolina, 803-599-5449, thebistro55.com
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