When I read Anthony Bourdain’s bestseller Kitchen Confidential, I was both enthralled and horrified by his tales of life inside the New York restaurant scene.  Afterwards, there were things I swore never to do again, like order fish on Monday (restaurants get the fresh stuff Tuesday).  But his memories of being the chef at Brasserie Les Halles made me long to dine there.  Bourdain worked at the restaurant at a time when his career really took off, and he wrote vividly about veal stocks simmering, frites frying, and filets sizzling in the kitchen.  I got hungry just reading about it.

Brasserie Les Halles has two New York locations: one in the financial district, the other on Park Avenue. Although the restaurant’s web site lists Bourdain as “chef at large,” today he’s a celebrity who travels around the world filming his show “No Reservations.”  Still, I had high hopes for dinner at the Park Avenue spot, where I imagined the chef’s spirit (and cooking) lived on.

We had a 6:45 reservation on a recent Friday night, and our girlfriend Lauren was late.  James and I headed to the beautiful white marble bar, where a bowl of large waffle-cut potato chips, lightly salted, was sitting.  We always appreciate when bars serve snacks, and these wafer-thin chips were delicious. 

Even better was the wine list, broadsheet sized, like the New York Times.  I love French wine, and there was plenty to choose from. I treated myself to a 2002 Puligny-Montrachet. This pricy ($17.50/glass) white Burgundy made of 100% Chardonnay aged in oak was soft, fruity, and had the fragrance of candied walnuts.  I kept offering sips to my red-wine loving friend, proving just how good white wine can be.

Lauren showed up at 7, and we were immediately seated in a compact corner banquet next to a young Asian-American couple.  Our tables were so close that we had a great view when their waiter pulled up with a cart full of egg, chopped onions, and raw beef. We watched with fascination as he mixed it all into steak tartare.

The menu is classic French brasserie, right down to the cassoulet.  James started with onion soup, which was steaming hot with ample melting cheese and not too much salt. When Lauren’s appetizer came, she declared, “Holy Foie Gras!” She had only ever eaten the dish as paté and was surprised to see a whole piece of liver on her plate. Undeterred, she dug right in (and, thankfully, shared).  The sweet Calvados sauce with warm apple slices was a beautiful compliment to the foie gras’ earthy flavor.  I opted for the salad d’Auvergne, which disappointingly hid only a tiny wedge of the creamy blue cheese underneath lots of crunchy arugula.

For our main courses, there was really only one way to go: steak frites.  We each tried a different cut: flat iron, filet, and hanger (the menu also offers prime rib and New York Sirloin).  Mine was perfectly   medium rare and served with a smoky shallot sauce. Lauren and James opted for Béarnaise, and the kitchen rose to the challenge with a zingy lemon sauce perked up by tarragon. This place is a carnivore’s dream, and nothing works better than red wine with all this meat.  The restaurant has placed its Les Halles label on a St. Emillion from Chateau Toinet Fobrauge.  This 2003 Bordeaux was $38 and delicious: its big tannins matched the juicy steaks perfectly.  The restaurant’s famous frites were good, not great (I prefer my fries a little thinner).

The dark room was softly lit by faux gaslight sconces mounted on the walls and white votive candles on the tables. Predictable 19^th century posters à la Toulouse Lautrec adorn the walls, and a pair of floor length antique mirrors frame a hallway. 

By 7:30, the place was packed. Loud pop music kept pace with raucous conversations and noisy laughter.  Walking the distance to the bathroom required both skill and luck: I plotted the least-blocked path as I dodged hurrying waiters and squeezed between tables, praying the diners wouldn’t scoot their chairs straight into me.

As I arrived safely back at the table, a harried bus boy snatched our empty wine glasses, and my friends decided we should end our meal with a rich chocolate cake filled with fresh banana slices. By this point the restaurant was running at fever pitch, the tables were turning over quickly, and the place seemed louder than ever. 

I couldn’t help thinking that the frenetic pace was more New York than Paris.  And then I reflected that the restaurant has no lingering mark of Bourdain, the now-famous chef who wrote about creating specials like saddle of wild hare, roast pheasant, tuna livornaise, and cockles steamed with chorizo. Tonight there had only been two specials, both so dull that we immediately forgot them.  

This brasserie holds no surprises, and that is for better and for worse. I had searched in vain for the culinary innovation and sassy attitude I found in Bourdain’s book. But I was satisfied with what I had found instead: delicious French food and wine for a decent price.  But next time, I’ll come on a weeknight to avoid the feeding frenzy of Friday night at Les Halles.