Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite

I was in Santa Monica recently, land of Starbucks and juiced vegetables, when, after hearing a radio program about Robert Bly, that poet of the human male, Iron John and the hairy beast, I was overcome by a terrible and perverse lust for a hamburger. A big, fat, cholesterol-besotted, politically immoral hamburger. Manly, red-blooded, American food.

I remembered a place on Colorado near Yale that served a nearby enclave of cabinet shops, gun shops, auto body shops, industrial supplies shops, etc., and it seemed as likely a place as any for a good burger.

The place didn’t look the way I remembered. The green awnings seemed different. Le Petit Cafe? I didn’t remember that either. But I was too hungry to care and walked in. The place was packed, not with real men, but yuppies. Liberals! Glasses of white wine. Men in white shirts and ties but no jackets. Women from the art world in their casual-but-expensive outfits. Eating at tables with white tablecloths under glass.

Near the small counter I noticed the specials chalked on a board. My French is fluent, especially when translated, so I was able to make it out: Salad Nicoise, $7.75. Spinach salad, $6.75. Warm goat cheese with baby mixed greens, $6.75. Cognac pa^te, $7.75. And there, just as I suspected--quiche (with spinach and mushroom soup), $8.95! I would have left then, but I was weak with hunger. So I looked at the printed menu beside me and hamburger, cheeseburger, BLT, grilled ham and cheese leaped from the page. Le Petit Cafe, at least at lunch, seemed to offer two cuisines: traditional American and traditional French.

I ordered a burger, medium-rare, looked at the waitress, a tanned, natural beauty wearing no lipstick and shorts salvaged, just barely, from bluejeans. Let’s see what the French can do with good old American cooking, I thought. The burger came medium-rare, thick and juicy. And a true piece of craftsmanship it was, rough and lumpy around the edges--not one of those industrialized, commercial, perfectly circular disks of meat with sharp edges machined down to a thickness of 0.375 centimeters.

There was no mustard. When I asked, I was offered a small dish of Dijon mustard--French, not French’s.

As I ate, I peered around skeptically. I had to admit, grudgingly, that the place seemed real, unpretentious. The Avignon-born owner, Robert Bourget, a man with a burr haircut and no airs, waited on tables, dressed in khaki shorts and short-sleeved shirt, speaking in French to his help.

The interior had not been gutted and remodeled. Nor had it been decorated in perfect taste. It had merely been refurbished on a small budget and the interior painted white, rough spots and all. The counter seats, installed by some previous entrepreneur, were bolted to the floor and immovable, and the cramped cooking space with its tiny, four-burner stove stood along the back wall of the kitchen, in full view of the counter.

Paintings and framed photographs, mostly on the level of craft fair art, were fitted into every available space. The truth was, the place had a friendly, frugal, no-airs, real-life quality that one could not help but like.

Despite Iron John and the hairy beast within, I could not help thinking that the French menu looked pretty good. I found myself admiring the roasted chicken on a plate nearby, casting a covetous glance at the salad Nicoise.

So I returned the next day, and again, and again, with friends and without, my cravings for hamburger having vanished, along with ambitions to emulate Iron John. Le Petit Cafe is a find. From the many commercial art and architecture establishments in the neighborhood (Bergamot Station and the offices of MGM and the Rand Corp. are close by), they come because the food is inexpensive and delicious and the atmosphere unpretentious.

The salads are always fresh and crisp, and the servings are generous. The Nicoise tastes like something you’d taste on the Riviera. The spinach salad is tossed with Gorgonzola cheese and walnuts in a simple vinaigrette.

The gazpacho is cold and crisp, the lobster bisque (a special) is rich and satisfying, asparagus soup a creamy essence. Bouillabaisse is beautifully presented: Green-shelled New Zealand and the black-shelled rock mussels are arranged like the petals of a flower around the side of the bowl, and chunks of salmon and cherrystone clams are set in the central cavity.

The entrees, too, can hold their own against the fare at far pricier restaurants, and they’re served on plates so hot that they must be delivered with potholders. The excellent roasted chicken comes with a subtle rosemary and herb sauce. (Sometimes, admittedly, it is a bit overcooked.) Filet mignon in a flavorful mushroom sauce, at $15.75, is a bargain, and a generous one at that. Chilean sea bass comes with couscous and a ginger-cilantro sauce that suggests a sort of chutney.

As for the deserts, you would need great incentive and determination to dislike the raspberry tart. So with the Grand Marnier white chocolate mousse, the dark chocolate mousse and the tiramisu.

In a very real way, Le Petit Cafe is in the good, red-blooded tradition of honest, hard work. It offers down-home American cooking, French style.

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WHERE TO GO:

Le Petit Cafe, 2842 Colorado Ave., Santa Monica; (310) 829-6792. Open for lunch 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Monday-Friday, 11:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. Saturday; dinner 5 to 9 p.m. Monday-Saturday. Beer and wine. Parking next to restaurant or on the street. Cash only. Takeout. Lunch for two, $14 to $30.

WHAT TO GET:

Hamburger, Nicoise salad, roasted chicken, bouillabaisse.