Jennifer Fumiko Cahill
Escargot and the power of butter.
The French have certainly, as they say, foutent dans la merde,
or screwed up hard,
over the years (colonization, Polanski, etc.). But when it comes to making the best of tough times, the home of La Résistance is a solid role model. And so French is a fine choice for dinner with a heartbroken friend. In particular, France knows when to throw butter at a problem.
Humboldt Bay Bistro (1436 Second St.), which has taken over the bay views and corner nooks of the former Casa Blanca, is turning out some Gallic standards to cut through a pre-winter chill. There are little cauldrons of French onion soup bubbled over with gruyere ($6) and escargot ($9) to help you comfort eat more like an attractively teary Catherine Deneuve than you would at home in your sweats. Unlike the draggingly relentless snails that ravage your garden, escargot is hard to find in Humboldt. Here the tender, dark curls of meat arrive with neither shells nor tongs (whether this is a relief or disappointment to you may be related to whether you're wearing a dry clean-only shirt), swimming in compound butter. Just as the horn section blaring "La Marseillaise" drowns out the singing Nazis in the film Casablanca
, so, too, do the little baths of herbed butter, white wine, shallots and garlic push back the chill of a day gone dark too early. Dip the grilled baguette slices in the remaining broth and other clouds hanging over you may recede enough for you to gather your strength and remember that the lights finally came back on in Paris, after all.