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Sometimes,
there's no point fighting. Like at Le Severo, a circus tent
of a bistro in an otherwise gray Parisian neighborhood. You
might try to order the beef the way you like it-except the
place is run by a former but still impassioned butcher and
the chalkboard menu declaims that all beef is served ÒsaignantÓ
(bloody rare). The night we visited, an American foursome
in the corner tried to order steaks medium well. Monsieur,
a stern man, easily flustered and then given to broad smiles,
simply waved them off and declared it Òimpossible.Ó
You might
try to less challenging starter than the andouille-that is,
pressed, rolled pig-tripe sausage. But Monsieur is passionate
about his charcuterie and it's hard to resist his enthusiasm.
Indeed, what we got, sliced into rounds, was earthy and musky
with a cheesy aroma and a velvety finish. Not for the timid-a
kind of Old-World organ-meat extravaganza, long out of fashion.
But at least it comes with a heart-stopping gob of butter,
the better to smear on bread and top with the fleshy rounds
of French pleasure.
For dinner,
we ordered the rump steak and the pintade, a small guinea
hen. Both were served undercooked by American standards-the
steak, bloody and luscious; the bird, red at the bone and
a little gamy. Both were a bicuspid's dream: chewy, meaty,
ready-made for red wine (of which Monsieur has an exquisite
list).
He runs
a tight ship. The wines are chalked down one wall, not a smear
or smudge. He brooks little fooling around. He asks what you
want, expects an immediate answer. And there's no gainsaying
his proclivities. But why bother? His food is exquisite; his
passion, on display every night for the few who manage to
snag a seat. Don't expect a long, lulling Parisian dinner;
expect bright lights, garish colors, an impatient owner, and
a carnivore's paradise.
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