Russ McBee

Last night, I joined four friends for dinner at the Northshore Brasserie for a birthday celebration. The verdict: wow.

The Northshore Brasserie is one of two authentic French restaurants in Knoxville (I'm not including The Orangery in that list, since it is neither strictly French nor particularly authentic). Although it's a bit surreal to see a French brasserie in a Knoxville strip mall, the interior of the place looks like it could have been teleported directly from the Left Bank. The layout, decor, and menu are absolutely spot-on; I've eaten in countless French brasseries that look exactly like this one, so the locale is easy to forgive.

The interior is divided into two halves; the bar side is filled with standard tables for four (which are removed on Sundays to make room for their outstanding, sumptuous brunch). The dining room side is typically French in its layout and decor; guests are seated on long banquettes with small tables for two or four very tightly spaced in front of them. The banquettes form a kind of wainscoting, above which are placed black-and-white photographs, mostly of Knoxville. Higher up, the walls are lined with mirrors, and the half-height wall separating the dining room from the bar is topped with thick curtains hanging from brass rods. The setting is comfortable, casual, and very, very French.

As is true of most brasseries in France, the Northshore Brasserie does not serve haute cuisine; instead, it specializes in traditional French standards, cooked and presented with integrity and perfection. This is not the precious self-consciousness of nouvelle cuisine; to the contrary, the Northshore Brasserie focuses on the French version of comfort food: hearty dishes based on timeless recipes meant to please the palate, the stomach, and the soul. It excels at all three.

Since there were five of us, we were able to share a number of dishes between us. For starters, we chose steak tartare, escargot, and braised veal cheeks. The veal was succulent and married perfectly with the apricot molasses and shallots; it was both hearty and slightly sweet. The steak tartare was prepared with Dijon mustard and was served with cornichons, which are small, very tart gherkin pickles. I love steak tartare, but the combination of Dijon and gherkins made the dish a bit more aggressive and acidic than I would prefer. The escargot was an exemplar of the classic dish: snails sautéed in garlic, butter, white wine, and Parmesan cheese, served piping hot in a small iron skillet. After the snails were devoured, the five of us enthusiastically sopped up the remainder of that wonderful sauce with pieces of French bread.

Any culture that can make snails taste that good has my undying devotion.

To accompany the starters and the main courses, we drank a 2002 Robertson shiraz, which has become of late one of my favorite South African wines. Ever so slightly buttery in flavor, the Robertson bore a passing resemblance to a malbec or perhaps even a grenache; it lacked the sharpness so many shiraz (?shirazes?) tend to exhibit. Somewhat chewy, yet very smooth and almost fatty, it merged perfectly with the above dishes, and it nearly sang out loud alongside our choices for the main course.

For the main course, we chose dishes we could all share and sample. Two of us ordered the filet Roquefort, a 10-ounce beef tenderloin seared and cooked absolutely to perfection, then topped with Roquefort bleu cheese. I ordered mine blood rare, and that's exactly what I got; usually, a steak ordered rare is only rare in the very center, with the outer portions typically coming out medium rare to medium. The steak I ordered last night was completely seared on all sides, which sealed in the flavors and juices of the consistently rare interior. Absolutely perfect. That cut of prime beef was one of the best steaks I've eaten in years. The filet was served with pomme frites and a gratin of wild mushrooms; I could have made an entire meal of just the mushrooms and some bread. Suspended in a luscious blend of cheese and cream, the mushrooms were rich, hearty, and earthy.

Steamed mussels are one of the national staple dishes of France and the Benelux countries. Each town in the Low Countries has developed its own localized recipe, which typically involves steaming the mussels in some local variety of beer or white wine. Last night, we had steamed mussels in a lobster-Pernod beurre blanc with tomatoes; true to form, the mussels are served at the table in the cooking pot, with the lid of the pot used to hold the empty shells. The mussels were succulent, huge, and aromatic; tasting them brought back vivid memories of dining in the Low Countries in early September, when the mussels come back in season. Being out of season from May through August, the beginning of September finds nearly every restaurant from Normandy to Amsterdam loudly proclaiming the newly-arrived shellfish delicacy. Practically every restaurant, bistro, and brasserie in northern France, Belgium, and Luxembourg will place a sign out front in early September reading "Les moules sont arrivées!" (meaning "The mussels have arrived!"). Some restaurants abbreviate the announcement to a single word, the universally understood "Arrivée!" (or "Arrival!"); inside, every table will sport at least one gigantic pot of those deliciously steamed shellfish. The Northshore Brasserie features five different preparations, and I intend to sample all five of them.

We also ordered a deliciously rich beef short rib, served au jus with fried oyster mushrooms. Like the other dishes, the short rib was hearty and aromatic, and married perfectly with its accompaniments. Just as hearty was the lamb shank, braised in Chimay beer and served with a blackberry reduction, Dijon mustard, and fresh rosemary. The meat of the lamb shank literally fell off the bone. One member of our party lifted the bone to cut off some of the meat for sharing; as soon as he lifted the bone, all of the meat fell off onto his plate. It was tender, succulent, and amazing.

Dessert was no less satisfying; we ordered a cream-filled pastry with a deep, dark chocolate fudge sauce, a chocolate and hazelnut mousse cake, and a creme brulee that was cooked to just the optimal consistency. All three were exquisite and perfectly prepared.

I don't remember who said this, but last night's dinner reminded me of a quote: "One sweet night of wretched excess is worth years of dull moderation." If you're looking for that one sweet night, The Northshore Brasserie should be a top candidate.