Le French Diner
No pitchers of beer, but they do have a great Syrah from Languedoc
It’s hard for me to trust big restaurants — like, really hard.
Executing at scale is challenging. And in most situations, the jumbo restaurants fall flat. There’s a higher chance of food coming out poorly. A greater likelihood of spotty and sparse service. In my mind, the bigger the place, the more variables — and the more that can go wrong.
Like most sweeping generalizations made here at Flood’s, this one comes with exceptions. A few weeks ago, I was mesmerized by Sunny’s in Miami, which, by my rudimentary math, was doing 1,000+ covers on a Monday night. I get unreasonably excited to visit East Harbor Seafood Palace, a 200-seat dim sum behemoth in Sunset Park. When a grandiose restaurant hits, it hits. But my enjoyment of these spaces is rare.
My aversion to mega-restaurants is met with an equally strong pull toward the small and scrappy. I love being in a tight, almost comically small room. Scenes like this are where people drop their guard, lose their egos, and start acting slightly silly. The red wine flows fast — how could you turn down the owner hovering with a bottle in hand, ready to top off your glass? Guests shuffle and contort their way through the dining room. Everyone seems to be riding the same energetic wave. That’s heaven to me — all under one roof buzzing.
This preference is likely a function of being young and nimble. Grandpa Bob, 85, likes having lots of space for himself and his back against the wall of a corner booth so no one can sneak up from behind him. He also prefers his pitchers of Michelob Ultra to be under $10. If I took him to Cervo’s, he’d think it was a sick joke.
Me — 57 years younger — I want to make eye contact with the person cooking my food. Ideally, once they finish dressing the salad, they’ll be the one to slide the dish in front of me. I want one server commanding the entire room. I want to brush shoulders with a stranger in the bathroom corridor and look back at each other and tenderly apologize, even though no one was at fault — you just don’t get that kind of action in St. Louis.
I like small restaurants because they don’t feel like an operation — they feel human.
Le French Diner is a miraculous, small restaurant — a place that almost feels too good to be true. The 270-square-foot space is always humming in the best way possible. It’s a place where chefs duck in on their nights off. Where industry heads blow off steam over a bottle of Altaber from Burgundy. Where blossoming relationships become something more serious. And where couples married for years come to humbly celebrate an anniversary. There’s acceptance and understanding in the air and not an ounce of pretence. Le French Diner is a place you come to eat simple, straightforward food that’s executed to perfection. It’s a restaurant full of people that get it, run by people that get it.
Every time I decide I’m going to Le French Diner, I get a little anxious. There are 18 seats, all of which are for walk-ins only. To secure one, you’ll need to step up to the bar and write down your name on the waitlist clipboard. Even once I’m on-premise, pen in hand, I worry I’ll write an illegible digit of my phone number and never get the call.
There’s no real method to the madness. No hack to guarantee a table. Some nights, I’ll show up at 6:00 pm with hardly a wait. Other times, I’m quoted 3 hours, or worse, hit with the kiss of death: “The list is long, and I can’t promise anything.” It’s all a function of how many people in this city had the same idea — to eat great French food on the Lower East Side. And unfortunately, when your mind's set on Le French Diner, nothing else in this city will suffice. My love for this place can be agonizing.
When the call finally comes — when my caller ID reads “FRENCH DINNER L” — every ounce of worry drains from my body, replaced with pure, unadulterated excitement. I polish off my Miller High Life at The Magician and move with giddy pace toward 188 Orchard Street.
From the outside, Le French Diner isn’t turning heads. The facade is weathered, trash cans sit out front, and the awning could use a pressure wash. Inside, the tin ceiling has charm, and the range hood lined with Polaroids is a lovely, lived-in touch, but there aren’t any major design features to write home about. Frankly, without the immediate, unmistakable smell of beef sizzling on the flattop, you’d think you’ve stumbled into a dive bar — a dingy one, at that. But you’re not here for frills. You’re here to eat well.
Le French Diner is a restaurant for two. You could come as solo, in theory, but I haven’t. I wouldn’t dare try for three. This is partially because of the size, but mostly because of the menu — a tight and traditional set of bistro classics engineered for a duo. The dishes are too substantial for one, and not quite enough for three. But perfect for splitting.
As you settle in at the counter and watch the kitchen at work, you’ll quickly realize the absurdity of the situation. The man grilling quail is also the busboy. The woman working the door and making calls off the waitlist is also the sommelier. You’ll need to coordinate movements with the dishwasher who just finished plating tartare if you want to slip into the bathroom. It’s one narrow room, and whether you like it or not, you’re in the mix — you’re in the kitchen.
Across my half-dozen visits, my order here hasn’t wavered. That might sound like an exaggeration — it’s not. Same four items: socca de Nice, green salad, grilled octopus, hanger steak. The only decisions to be made are what wine to drink, and whether or not to end with panna cotta.
The green salad is humble but craveable. Little gem and romaine lettuces, crisp and cold, well-dressed in a creamy dijon vinaigrette with a liberal sprinkling of chives. It’s the perfect simple salad. I wish I could have these greens on every dinner table for the rest of time.
Grilled octopus is plated simply over aioli, with a wedge of lemon alongside — tender, delicate, and juicy. The hanger steak is cooked to a beautiful medium rare, doused in a reduced red wine sauce, topped with deeply caramelized onions, and flanked by a rugged square of potatoes au gratin.
None of these items are complicated, yet somehow, they’re revelatory. The cooking is precise. The dishes are comforting. And most importantly, everything is remarkably consistent.
Now, keep in mind that I don’t usually get too riled up about French food. It’s not a genre I reach for often, outside of the occasional jaunt to Paris or Montreal. Perhaps it’s a function of the French restaurants in New York. The old guard — Balthazar, Lucien, Boucherie — feels theatrical to the point where it seems to be more about the scene than the food. The new wave — Chez Fifi, Libertine, Zimmi’s — veers toward absurd luxury with their sexy spaces and caviar-laden menus. Fifi, for example, has a $162 dover sole entree, and the going rate for their Poulet Rôti, or roast chicken and fries, is $82 for a half portion, $160 for a full. Who the fuck is buying that? It’s chicken.
The contrast is why Le French Diner hits so hard for me. It feels like the antithesis of all the above. It’s not a scene — it’s a place to come together. It’s a place where regulars get a little extra love, but everyone is treated like they matter. It’s priced fairly — you’ll get out for around $100 a head, and that’s with a bottle of wine. The food’s French, yes, but it’s a restaurant that feels distinctly New York — scrappy, tight, and fun.
Le French Diner is a restaurant that exists for the simple purpose of making people feel great. And in a city that feels like it creeps further into the spectacle with each new opening, that kind of humility feels radical. Go write your name down. You’ll understand why I keep coming back — four dishes at a time.
This was a restaurant write-up from Mr. Flood’s Party. Subscribe for free and get Flood’s delivered every week. If you feel inclined, consider becoming a paid subscriber and supporting the creative process.
Ngl sounds like Grandpa Bob and I would get along great.
The green salad fucking rocks