I have known more than one fellow citizen who, after a recent visit to France, complained about the food, because it was so different from that to which they are accustomed. Would they also find beer in Germany undrinkable? The offerings of boutiques in Italy unwearable? Neither travels any better or worse than French cuisine, yet neither seems to be as curiously familiar yet alien to us Americanos, despite our addiction to things like sliced deep-fried potatoes, or mayonnaise ("Really? You put mayo on your fries? Eeew!"). Julia Child went above and beyond in an attempt to correct this, but I'm sure she would agree that a successful expatriate French restaurant must not only accurately interpret the cuisine but also make you feel like you're actually in France. This for me is what has distinguished the memorable ones in Chicago from the forgettable, most of which, regardless, have largely come and gone. I hope the arrival of two new North Shore eateries--Aboyer and Pomeroy, both in Winnetka--will atone for the early pandemic demise of the intimate, highly promising Chez Benoît, and also augment the various other "comps" along Green Bay Road. Unable to get a table at Aboyer, we booked Pomeroy instead.
Its website refers to Pomeroy ("The King's Apple"), as a café, bistro, brasserie AND bar--technically impossible, and a giveaway that the people behind it are not French but Americans who assume their patrons mostly either don't know or don't care. Pomeroy is unmistakably a brasserie--which has nothing to do with brass, but there is plenty of it in this room, studiously yet unpretentiously elegant with a tasteful New Money mix of modern and retro décor, not remarkably large, easy to navigate and good for people-watching. Its location on a relatively quiet side street makes the portico seating across the invitingly French-looking entrance an equally attractive choice. Another authenticator: 1940s Jazz in the air, loud enough if you like it but not too loud if you don't.
The beverage menu is balanced and appropriate, the wine selections being the most impressive. Beers and ciders are somewhat less thoughtfully chosen: I suspect even the French don't drink French beer, so placing a Belgian Strong Ale as well as good 'ol Stella Artois amongst a couple of dime-a-dozen Midwestern craft brews is the right call, but favouring domestic ciders over French ones is a serious misstep. I opted instead for an Old Fashioned, one of the featured cocktails, made, according to the menu, with Bonded Bourbon (no brand is specified and my server didn't ask if I had a preference--more missteps) plus a handful of trendy "hand-crafted" sounding ingredients. I was served a watery, disharmonious mess, apparently to remind me that neat whisky is how God takes it.
First plates are appealing but hit-or-miss. The Warm Tomato Tarte was, quite simply, spectacular: a gossamer Filo crust topped with tart heirloom tomato slices, citrousy fresh white cheese and minty herbes de provence, a masterpiece of rustic, unfussy Mediterranean bakery. I bounced back and forth between Steak Tartare and Escargots à la Bourguignonne, before finally choosing the snails. Good but not good enough--properly baked and presented, but nowhere nearly as garlicky as I hoped and expected (yes, I know, some people are even more afraid of garlic than they are garlic with snails. Pray for them). I first ordered and was blown away by this classic at the now-defunct Brasserie Jo/Chicago, and have been disappointed by every rendering since.
My Trout Almondine, narrowly overcooked but perfectly seasoned was accompanied by the greenest of green beans. The Macaroni And Cheese, like the tarte, is a marvel, reminiscent of my grandmother's. Which is to say, perfect, what Jefferson was aiming for when he served it at the White House. But if my trout narrowly missed the overcooked arrow, the salmon, with cabbage and coriander vinaigrette--took it in the chest: dry, drab and imbalanced rather than enhanced by a bacon lardon.
Desserts are classic if unimaginative and, in the case of the Profiteroles, dissatisfying. Filled with (very good) vanilla ice cream instead of custard crème, the pastry itself was under-sweetened to where even a glaze of chocolate ganache failed to redeem it.
Service was efficient, attentive and knowledgeable, yet somehow...not very French. In this regard I can't fairly compare Pomeroy to the aforementioned Chez Benoît or Evanston's late, great Bistro Bordeaux and delightfully intimate Crêperie Saint Germain--all French owned--but I do think it somehow both authenticates and enhances the experience.
Pomeroy has the potential to become a star destination if, like any new restaurant, it succeeds in eliminating its inconsistencies and shortfalls. read more