French cooking hasn’t been big in Los Angeles in the past, but that’s no longer the case. Some popular bistros are changing the way Angelenos look at Gallic cuisine

Here on the edge of the Western world, we suffer from a case of what might be referred to as Bistro Envy. Over the past two decades in New York, bistros have become quite the thing, ranging from the excellent Montrachet and Jo Jo, through the amazingly funky Florent (a 24-hour French diner in the meatpacking district), to the savagely trendy Balthazar and Pastis.

Of course, since New York has the same dank chill during its winters that’s found in Paris, along with wet springs and falls, the solidity of bistro cooking works just fine back there. New York is a bistro kind of town.

But here in L.A., where summer lasts all year long, the heaviness of a dish like cassoulet (a distinctly highfalutin’ form of pork ‘n’ beans) tends to make you feel as if you’ve got a lump of lead where your stomach used to be. And cassoulet does not help you look like anything but a beached whale when attired in a Body Glove swimsuit.

Bistros did not proliferate out here on the Left Coast as they did Back East. Indeed, there are lots of places here with the word “bistro” in their name, which serve nothing but pasta and pizza and such. These are not bistros. They are bistro poseurs.

Yet in recent times, our bistro population has grown to the point where it has become a significant force. At an end is the banishment of things French to L.A.’s cultural dustbin. We’re back to steak frites and darned happy to be there. Though, as ever, our bistros are not without a spot of California to them.

What makes a bistro?

Perhaps a moment of definition is needed here. Like a good deal of the language, no one is entirely sure of where the term “bistro” came from. One theory has it that it derived from the verb “bistouiller,” which translates quite literally as “to make bad mixtures.” Another school of thought suggests that it has its roots in the noun “bastringue,” a sort of low-rent dance hall.

The most popular of explanations insists the word isn’t French at all; instead, it’s alleged to be from the Russian “bystro,” meaning “quick,” which was supposedly shouted by hungry Russian soldiers as they headed for the cafes upon entering Paris during the Napoleonic conflict of 1815.

Whatever the roots, the meaning is clear sort of. A bistro, by popular usage, is variously a cafe, a snack shop and a small restaurant. Paris is filled with them places like L’Amis Louis, Aux Deux Magots and the Brasserie Lipp, among many others. (Brasseries and bistros have become so stylistically intertwined, the terms are more or less interchangeable these days.)

The defining qualities are a casual air, often mimeographed menus, and a love of traditional, home-style dishes cassoulet, roasted chicken, pommes frites and pot-au-feu are definitive bistro dishes.

Here in L.A., Mimosa (8009 Beverly Blvd.) is probably the most highly authentic bistro more or less. As the statement of purpose on the menu says, “No Truffles, No Caviar, No Bizarre Concoctions. Simply Our Interpretation of French Regional Cuisine with a Touch of Italy.” That “Touch of Italy” isn’t tossed in because the owners of Mimosa fear that Angelenos will revolt if there isn’t at least one pasta dish on the menu. It’s there because the man in the front is the ebullient Silvio De Mori, formerly of such wonderful places as Silvio and Tutto Bene.

He leavens the Gallic seriousness of the enterprise with a big helping of Italian whimsy. He makes Mimosa a very happy room. He knows everyone. And he’s everywhere at once.

No proper meal can be consumed here without the tarte flambee Alsacienne as an opener, a wonderful thin-crusted pizza-wannabe, topped with the sweetest caramelized onions imaginable. It’s one of those darned dishes I just can’t stop eating. The eggplant “caviar” is pretty swell too, heavily garlicked, and perhaps a bit Middle Eastern. It’s just right as a prelude before diving into the unabashedly caloric frisee salad, that wondrous creation of the chefs of Lyon, who sprinkle the greens heavily with thick chunks of smoked bacon called lardons, then top the whole thing with a poached egg a dish to fall in love with.

The Italian touches are found here and there in the pasta e fagioli soup, the risotto with porcini mushrooms, the gnocchi with gorgonzola and tomatoes. I’m sure they’re very nice dishes. But why eat tagliatelle when the town’s very best braised veal daube is there to be eaten, served in a blue Le Creuset casserole, so tender and good I almost ate the pot along with the stew.

The same pot is used for the whole roasted chicken, which serves, as the menu notes, “one or two.” Actually, it serves two with ease. For dessert, there’s Floating Island, an apple tart with vanilla ice cream, a pear clafoutis or a cheese plate.

Hard to find, but worth it

While Mimosa is the essence of Paris, Cafe des Artistes (1534 N. McCadden Place, Hollywood) is Provence body and soul, in a neighborhood that most have long given up for dead. It sits in a space that used to be home to another restaurant called Cafe des Artistes, which was a nice enough place, though normally quite unpopulated. I recall going there for Sunday brunch some years ago and being the only diner in the place, possibly because the name McCadden Place is unfamiliar to most locals. Actually, it’s just one block east of Highland Avenue and one block north of Sunset Boulevard. But it could just as well be in Saugus; the address is a bit obscure.

So, call it a destination, and a damned fine destination at that. It’s not hard to find, though once you get there you might wonder if you’ve actually found it. Look for the valet parker (local parking rules are downright Draconian), and there you are. You enter through a pleasant patio, into a rustically decorated room, where fussy food would just seem so wrong.

And indeed, nothing served here is fussy. Not the wondrous grilled fresh sardines, the roughly flavored Moroccan sausages, the plate of marrow bones (as primal a dish as can be imagined, because consuming the marrow involves an inelegant process of sucking and gnawing), the steamed mussels with French fries, the politically incorrect steak tartar. For the luvva’ Pierre they even have macaroni & cheese on the menu.

For dessert, there’s both a properly chosen cheese plate, and an order of “fresh cheese” (fraiche faisselle), served with “salt or sugar.” Cafe des Artistes is so authentic, I’m amazed they use English at all.