The New French is really the new New French, since its owners have reimagined a defunct Minneapolis joint of the same name. The New French also replaces the old French of Le Gamin, the spot’s previous tenant. In any case, the New French isn’t French. The new French, as manifested by the New French, is new American. All of this was explained the other night, more or less, by a waiter whose T-shirt depicted the California state flag. He took care to add that, while forty remains the new thirty, the new black is harder than ever to pin down.
After you’ve nailed the name, you can tackle the New French’s pleasingly straightforward menu, which, when coupled with the dining room’s agreeably understated atmosphere, imbues a patron with a kind of ready-made I-wanna-be-a-regular yen. (It helps, these days, that everyone lusts after the West Village.) The space, small, with a couple dozen tables and a quarter as many staff, can at times be a tad cozy, but its centerpiece, an orange-white-and-gold mural by the illustrator Maira Kalman, of trees and animals and men in porkpie hats, is elegant in its modesty. The bench out front seems to sum the place up. You may sit there, whether or not your evening plans include dinner, and not get the stink eye; the New French just wants to be your friend.
The trick, as the chef Livio Velardo seems to see it, is to lay off the tricks. “This place is honest,” a diner pronounced recently, after he and his tablemates happily put away the chicken-liver crostini and the day’s pizza—with grilled onions, goat cheese, and roasted red peppers—and were halfway through a bottle of Pinot Bianco, because, well, the Pinot Blanc just wasn’t supposed to be on the menu. The table advanced to well-crafted entrées of roast chicken with bok choy and oyster mushrooms and roast lamb with sautéed tomatoes and runner beans. Velardo’s pho was deemed too gingery, but his pulled pork, braised with chili and beer, offered plenty of succor with its spice. The desserts were functional though forgettable: “The tart is tart,” the diner said, of an underwhelming lemon curd. Maybe a bit of imperfection is the new perfection. (Open daily for lunch and dinner. Entrées $12-$25.)
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