New Wave French Fare at Bardot

The latest from the P.O.P.E. folks is much more boudoir than bar. 

ARMS RACE: Bardot’s citrus-braised octopus is a serious contender.
Hillary Petrozziello

There are three different colored cauliflowers in the crock of plush “saffron dumpling gratin” at Bardot. There’s white: transformed with garlic and shallot, melted leeks and Pernod into a béchamel-like sauce that blankets the dumplings — actually pebbly little spaetzel, scented with the rare crocus stigmas and turmeric — like a cashmere robe. And purple: roasted crispy, breaking up the soft, comforting textures. Finally green: shaved raw, adding a mustardy edge alongside pine nuts and Parm.

White, purple and green, and they all look gray. Kasbah lanterns on drapey chains, an Adam Wallacavage octopus-tentacle chandelier and glass pendants shaped like pineapples and beehives form a solar system inside Bardot’s edge-of-NoLibs digs. But it glows so low at this sex kitten of a bistro (named for the original blonde bombshell, Brigitte) that dinner is a study in sepia and charcoal, buckwheat and black. The diners aiming their iPhones at the speck kissed with pear jam  or chicken liver mousse on house-baked brioche aren’t Instagramming. They’re pulling up Flashlight. 

It’s all part of the vibe at Bardot, where crimson drapes part to reveal alcoves of come-hither sofas and the crimson wallpaper is so lavishly flocked it appears 3-D. It took longtime POPE owner Dennis Hewlett more than a year to turn the former Wine-O into the sultry taproom that stands before us today, a place where brilliance, on occasion, flashes in the shadows. 

Fresh off a short turn at Petruce, Rhett Vellner is the source of said brilliance. The chef is better known for his time at Resurrection Ale House, but you won’t find fried chicken here. At Bardot, for the first time, Vellner hasn’t inherited someone else’s menu. “I’ve had my touch on the food here from the start,” he says. “It’s like my baby.”

A multilingual baby at that. Stacked with cassoulet and Nicoise sandwiches, the neighborhood-friendly menu shares a native tongue with the restaurant’s namesake, but Vellner circles the Mediterranean as well.  Rubbed on lamb neck that’s braised and pulled, a merguez spice mix of cinnamon, cumin, coriander and company evoke North Africa in the heady eggs en cocotte, itself a French-speaking version of shakshuka. Harissa turns up, too, its Moroccan heat cooled by brown butter and mayo into a spread for the excellent burger layered with Mahon cheese and caramelized onions. From Italy, there are spools of beautiful black spaghettini, made in-house and darkened with ink, accessorized — unexpectedly — with grilled corn and lush corn veloute. And Calabrian chilies, lending their pep to a habitat of peanut potatoes and salsa verde. Charred citrus-braised octopus arms curl through the scene — sour, smoky and contending for dish of the year. 

Deconstructed “tartines” feature Vellner’s house-baked bread including a sourdough of uncommon lightness. It’s paired with an audacious tartare of hanger steak informed by aggressive elements of Caesar salad. (BYOAltoids.) The dishes in this section aren’t really tartines, but then again, the dumpling gratin is not really a gratin — it’s not baked — and the “pavlova” surrounding an oat square drenched in key lime curd is a more of a blowtorched meringue putting on airs.

Nothing is quite as it seems at Bardot, except maybe the cocktails, which are refreshingly straightforward and nicely balanced: gin, rye, mezcal, a few dashes of bitters, maybe some ginger beer or Chartreuse or Lillet. A tidy wine list complements; a baker’s dozen draughts bring up the rear. 

By the end of the meal, though, all you’ll need is a shot of Fernet. Aside from the octopus, the food at Bardot often feels built to bulk up for harsh winter. Flavors are deep, sauces are creamy and thick. There’s fat everywhere, that sometimes spins from satisfyingly rich into gratuitous.

The sourdough wedged into the eggs en cocotte doesn’t need to be smeared with lamb fat. There’s not enough sherry vinegar on earth to cut the aching sweetness of the roasted grape puree — emulsified with duck fat — paired with a rabbit crêpe stuffed with mushrooms. The buckwheat crêpe was less like a delicate pancake from Brittany than something that should have been wrapped in foil and served at Chipotle. I also found a bone inside. 

I broke out in meat sweats by the end of the night, and my jeans stuck to me as if they were made of Fruit by the Foot. I felt like one of Vellner’s proteins, confit-ing in my own fat.

Not that that stopped me from dessert. The key lime curd is definitely interesting, but a little bitter-on-bitter between the citrus and the browned not-pavlova. Instead, go with the moist bar of cocoa-and-cardamom banana bread with banana chips dipped in fudge and coconut and a scoop of smooth, sweet cream ice cream. 

“Bread and ice cream, those are my things,” says Vellner. We have that in common.

With a little more restraint, a little more attention to plating — the dishes have a tendency to look sloppy, not that you can see them very well anyway — Vellner has the potential to really take Bardot places. Don’t be afraid of the dark. 

BARDOT | 44 Poplar St., 267-639-4761, bardotcafe.com. Mon.-Fri., 4:30 p.m.-1 a.m.; Sat.-Sun., 11 a.m-1 a.m. Small plates, $5-$15; large plates, $18-$21; dessert, $7.