Bistrot Zinc offers a confusion of options – the late-night crepeteria, the crowded (and, indeed, zinc) bar, a clubby lounge, and a wide dining room–all cluttered with the cliches of French dining: rattan chairs askew on the sidewalk, Edith Piaf on auto-reverse, and a taxidermied chicken on duty by the register. Dining here takes gumption too. You’ve got to be clearheaded about your strategy, insistent about landing a table, and willing to down some heavy-duty cuisine, no matter how likely it is to be August in Chicago outside. –Leah Eskin
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Flamiche “Chtimi” Served ominously accompanied by a dehydrated, decapitated scallion, leaving one to wonder about the leek quotient of said leek tart. Flaky crust sequesters lifeless green rounds cowering mid-brie.
Mercredi: Wednesday, for those fluent in English, is lamb – undercooked, chewy lamb at that – served with pliant roasted veggies and a dried-tomato-dyed aioli.
Poire Belle Helene: We tried a single stab at the Poire Belle Helene, one tough prepuscent pear neither sweetened nor consoled by its syrup dip.
