In recent years, a sameyness has been burgeoning on the restaurant scene in cities like New York or Paris or London. In rooms defined by a similar adherence to raw wood and stone, menus crow about local sourcing, and yet in their desire to allow ingredients themselves to shine, technique and tradition take a hit. Recipes cull the very best techniques from around the world, delivering plates that have a sort of unrootedness to them. While I love kimchi, I miss the sense of here you once got when dining abroad. It’s no surprise that when I go to London or New York, I avoid these places in favor of gastropubs or diners, places that still seem to have a bit of a soul of, for lack of a better word, terroir.
Of late, I’ve started to perceive a pleasant pendulum swing back to our roots, a return to a certain Frenchness I adore. It’s not about undoing the modernity that’s come before; it’s just about suffusing it with a bit more rootedness. And it’s something that truly comes center-stage at Dandelion.
This restaurant is located down a quiet side street in the off-the-beaten-path 20th. The dining room ticks a few of those modern boxes, with exposed limestone walls, and yet there are also some nods to Frenchness, whether with those gleaming dark wood chairs or the beautiful wood-handled knives on each table.
The ever-changing menu includes four apéritif snacks, four appetizers, and four mains. A few members of the first category were of the now-ubiquitous “thing on a plate” category, but there was also a plate of fried Brussels sprouts (8), which we gamely split to start. The last-of-the-season sprouts were crispy on the outside and tender within; I loved the touch of serving them on a bit of crumpled parchment paper, which kept them from going soggy. And the accompaniment – a zingy, smoky mayonnaise studded with pickles – was positively perfect.
Between us, we managed to try nearly all of the appetizers, beginning with this creative play on French onion soup (16). First, a beautiful bowl of foie gras, smoked beef marrow, and cubes of Comté arrived, bedecked with flowers.
The French tradition of tableside service is alive and well here, rendered even easier thanks to the space afforded between each table, and the server topped off the bowl with a Roscoff onion broth that warmed up these fattier components just enough to lend a luxurious richness to each mouthful. I love French onion soup, and I was bowled over by the creativity of this delicious play on the classic.
My friend ordered the white Landes asparagus (16) – the first of the season. The buckwheat topping meant I couldn’t give this dish a try, but I was assured that the pairing of the first-season veg with raw cream and smoked pike roe was a winner.
My appetizer was a raw line-caught mullet positively coated with a blanket of fresh chives (14). The thin slices of mullet were settled in a mushroom jus seasoned with Vadouvan curry oil. This French-Indian curry blend from Pondicherry contains pounded onion, garlic, cumin, mustard seeds, and fenugreek and is dried in the sun before being crushed and mixed with castor oil to preserve it. Unfortunately, the French can be a bit light-handed with spice, and this proved to be the case here. A bit more of the curry flavor would have punched this delicate dish up a bit for me.
Scallops are often served seared, so at Dandelion, it was enticing to see them served poached (32). I love me a monochromatic plate, and this one didn’t disappoint, the white-on-white not belying the dance of flavors to come. The sweet scallops sat in a pool of green pepper and seaweed-infused beurre blanc studded with cockles and blanketed with thin slices of turnip. This plate toyed artistfully with expectations, marrying sweet and briny aromas against a backdrop defined by just the right welcome touch of richness.
Hearty veal sweetbreads (40) were seared until caramelized and served with a shrimp satay sauce infused with Meyer lemon and chile. Much like with the mullet, I felt that this dish didn’t lean quite enough into the satay promise, but all-in-all, it was a tasty approach to one of my favorite offals.
I deviated perhaps most from the classics of French cuisine with my choice of main, but when I saw Cantabrian anchovies, I couldn’t help but pounce on this house-made cavatelli (28). Much like the others, the plate itself was a work of art, topped with perfectly blanched baby Tuscan kale and a generous shower of breadcrumbs. Beneath the greenery, I was expecting to find more bits of both the promised anchovies and Taggiasche olives throughout, the sauce that coated the pasta offered, instead, a harmonious briny balance.
We finished our meal with a tarte tropézienne reimagined as a cream puff (11), a generous dessert inspired by the creation of the Côte d’Azur and perfect to share – especially seeing as the first service was ending, and we were being encouraged to abandon our table for the next parade of happy diners.
Overall, Dandelion is the kind of restaurant I find particularly enticing, these days: a restaurant rooted in the rich history of Paris that’s nevertheless unapologetic about pushing the boundaries of French cuisine. Servers are lovely and present – perhaps even too present, though part of me thinks this may come down to the fact that ours was the first service. And with a menu that changes with the seasons, it’s one I’ll definitely be returning to.
Dandelion – 46, Rue Des Vignoles, 75020