Many Brooklyn restaurants are defined more by their nabes than by their menus. Then there’s charming little French Louie, which belongs less to neighboring Cobble Hill, Boerum Hill or downtown than to polyglot Atlantic Avenue’s cyclonically transforming stretch between the waterfront and Barclays Center.
Once a sleepy row of Arab groceries and cheap antique stores, Artlantic has gotten an adrenaline jolt from the Nu Hotel and Barclays. French Louie touched down a few months ago, steeped in the warmth of owner Doug Crowell and chef-owner Ryan Angulo, the duo behind popular nearby Buttermilk Channel.
French Louie’s a more interesting restaurant. Named for a “legendary” 19th-century, Canadian-born Adirondack woodsman, its look channels the mountain aesthetic — whitewashed wood, a cartoony forest mural and high-backed banquettes that look and feel like leather but “are not from any animal,” Crowell said.
Reservations are taken only for five or more. Others might wait at the bar. If the boozy din against hard surfaces is hard on your ears, beg to be in the tranquil garden shaded by honey locust trees — maybe the widest decibel gap between indoor and outdoor seating in the five boroughs.
The modern-Parisian menu is inflected by the American South and the South of France. (Snacks $3 to $7, appetizers $9 to $14, mains $19 to $26). Twists on old staples that work — like pickled eggs lent a sweet-sour lilt by steak sauce tingling with tamarind, anchovy and garlic — have the town’s French-born bistro chefs, including Benoit’s Philippe Bertineau, dropping in.
On the other hand, I’m still stumped by papery anchovy fries served with deep-fried lemons. But the hits clobber the duds by 3 to 1.
In 21st-century Brooklyn, you expect farm-fresh, seasonal produce. Near-creamless and served cold, white asparagus and almond soup laden with thin-shaved spring truffles brought smiles on a summery night. Snails “marchand de vin” wallow in rich, New Orleans-style wine sauce dense with house-cured bacon, oysters, grits and mushrooms.
A luscious but minuscule terrine of foie gras and country ham looked lost amid an Adirondack peak of toasted brioche. In a different key entirely, “grand socca” is vegetarian heaven — a round chickpea flatbread the size of a small pizza, made crisp by skillet and broiler and topped with bean stew, charred asparagus, crunchy freekeh and spiced lemon yogurt.
“It’s very characteristic of Nice,” the waitress claimed. Inspired by Nice might be more realistic — Angulo admits it’s “something new.”
Buttermilk Channel is famous for fried chicken, and French Louie’s roasted number is another winner. The half bird, cooked in a cast-iron pan that Angulo said “we inherited from the last restaurant here,” arrived succulent amid beluga lentils, mustard greens and jus.
Yet for my money, Angulo is better with fish. Skate arrived moist after being dredged in cornmeal and rice flour. Crab and butter were folded into jasmine rice in a pool beneath the skate — a Southern “dirty rice” riff that tasted right at home with the ray. Flounder Grenobloise looked messy but tasted like a dream, its brown butter depth parried by restrained blood orange.
Not everything was in that class. Fatty lamb blade chops tasted of gas. Don’t let the seasonal promise of ramp pistou lure you to gummy, buckwheat pappardelle glued to shreds of oxtail ragout.
Desserts such as pistachio ice cream profiteroles are well-crafted and to the point. The wine list offers many menu-appropriate choices between $40 and $60. It’s as right as most everything about French Louie, a marriage of Brooklyn and Gaul that honors both sides.