Review: Franco in St. Louis

Recently I mourned the loss (now in your best Forrest Gump voice) – AGAIN – of a longtime friend and traveling companion. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, what I can only assume was a rogue band of villainous ruffians stole away with my car. A relationship that I had poured my heart, my soul and what amounts to a whole heck of a lot of refined crude oil into for 10 and a half years, just gone.

What’s weird, though, is that the worst part is not the loss of innocence (this is the third or fourth time, they all just run together) or the expense (just another cost of kickin’ it in the ci-TAY), it is the flurry of “I told you so’s” and “How soon till the moving truck shows up?” from the suburban folk.

But before the suburbanites had their day, we celebrated ol’ Jimmy’s life and times, city-style: We feasted at an independent restaurant. We chose a place close to home (because I refuse to walk to the county) where there were high ceilings with exposed woodwork and brick walls.

And this place was French (because they always have the best foie gras dishes) but not too French (because Jimmy would’ve wanted my family to eat, too, and they can be kind of picky. Seriously, you should have seen my sister’s face when she found out that sweetbreads are not baked goods). We feasted at Franco – situated in the old Welsh Baby Carriage Factory – because most everything is delicious.

The feast began in the bar area at the custom-made triangular tables where we gazed upon the ceremonial empty parking spot. Pyrat Pistol, the finest rum I have ever set lips to, was poured neat in my glass because to spoil its silky smooth caramel, cane and spice with a mixer would’ve been a crime worse than befell my friend.

And the women in our party sipped kir royales until someone closed one eye and started singing, which signaled that it was time for some food. You may decide to peruse the wine list, and while there are only a handful of by-the-glass selections and the bottle list could be beefed up a bit, the selections are tasty and affordable (rarely straying over $40 per bottle).

We followed a basket of fresh-baked bread into the very open dining room, which is impressively intimate and not overcrowded. It was there that I received a hunk of perfectly seared foie gras with the diameter of a hockey puck and a thickness of probably more than half an inch. While I would’ve been just fine with it served naked and vulnerable on a plate, the sweet, sticky pecan-cherry compote and apple reduction and creamy, fluffy challah French toast simply danced with the buttery liver.

The country-fried sweetbreads were next. Sweetbreads are fairly hard to find but when you do, they’re generally about the size of a large marble, breaded and pan- or deep-fried. At Franco, the rich and somewhat savory sweetbread sitting atop tart, vinegary pickled coleslaw and sweet red onion jam was about the size of a medium dinner roll. The thymus (or pancreas) is usually cut into smaller bits but Franco serves the whole gland; it would seem that the latter is the more traditional preparation.

Grilled beef brochettes, or large steak skewers, were topped with a sweet and earthy mushroom-Madeira sauce. A lifetime of crisp, fluffy and golden pommes frites with black pepper-mayonnaise dipping sauce (tangy pucker with an afterthought of heat), payable to owner Tom Schmidt’s nephew Franco, was the cost of licensing the name for the restaurant.

Of the large bowls that we indulged in, the chicken and dumplings was my favorite with its mounds of chicken, perfectly seasoned broth and small noodely dumplings that resembled Spätzle. Chicken étouffée seemed totally misnamed. There was no connection with the traditional notion of étouffée (no spice or heat and the broth wasn’t thick or reddish). This dish was, however, some of the best chicken and rice soup I have ever had.

Red wine-braised beef over butter noodles, with subtle herbs and a deeply savory stock, looked and tasted like a better, ritzier version of beef stroganoff. My wife and sister loved it, but I thought the beef was just a little overcooked and dry.

The lager mop used on the dead-nuts, medium-rare, wood-grilled bistro steak imparted some spice that you’d never get from a pat of butter. I was blown away by a moist, flaky and straight-up luscious Missouri trout with sweet scallop mousseline that was rolled up and topped with a bright and savory sabayon sauce. The potato-kohlrabi gratin had kind of a spicy, nutty aftertaste and was OK, but it paled next to the trout.

A tender, flaky pan-roasted walleye was light in texture and full of flavor. The only defect I could point to would have been the lentil-leek ragout, which far outpaced the red pepper vinaigrette. But the flavor combination was well-conceived: mild fish, earthy, grassy ragout and a zingy sauce.

For dessert, I could only think of Jimmy and all the Saturdays spent driving for doughnuts when I saw the Molten Coco with cinnamon-sugar doughnuts: a mini-mug of liquid chocolate (about halfway between melted chocolate and hot chocolate in consistency) and hot, fresh mini-doughnuts made in-house to dip in that mug. The root beer float is a superb soda paired with a deeply vanilla ice cream from Serendipity Homemade Ice Cream of Webster Groves.

There were some gaffes here and there but I generally had above-average to excellent service. In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve known Schmidt for a ling time, and while this might have meant our table was favored, it seemed that tables surrounding ours also received good service. And I know it is 2007 now, but this was among my favorite new restaurants 2006.