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"I know this sounds corny," he said, perusing the wine list. "But if I close my eyes, this could be France."
Even with my eyes wide open, the little restaurant didn't feel like Missouri. To get to the second-floor dining rooms, we climbed up a long series of steps (there is a handicapped-accessible entrance as well from a street behind the restaurant) and through a red-painted door. Inside, a big square room has been painted the color of buttercream, and little tables are draped in linen and white butcher paper. It's an odd, boxy space, but the building is 150 years old and these rooms were once someone's home. The place evolved, over the decades, into a German bakery and a tea room, among other things.
Almost Vermeer-like in their simplicity, the two dining rooms and the tiny bar area, painted the color of tomato paste, have little in the way of decoration, aside from the hanging metal light fixtures (painted by Sparks' mother) and those lace curtains. But it's a sexy room.
"No," corrected John, "it's a cheeky room. It lends itself to some stimulating conversation."
But he really meant sexy conversation, because he launched into the story of his recent seduction of a beautiful woman even before the charcuterie plate ($9.50) arrived. It was amazing to watch him greedily devour homemade paté on crusty French bread, thin circles of imported ham, and meaty bites of cold sausage and never miss a beat in his storytelling. It reminded me of writer Guy Davenport's account of the first time John Adams, America's second president, traveled to France and had his first French dinner: "He found the food delicious, if unidentifiable, but blushed at the conversation (a lady asked him if his family had invented sex)."
I was ready to blush at John's story, but luckily a plate of dark little escargots arrived in a white-hot bowl, sizzling with garlic butter and herbs ($5.50 to $9.50, depending on size). The very fragrance of the garlic butter diverted the conversation, at least temporarily, from sex. Escargots, the French word for snails, are the classic Gallic example of turning something cold and nasty into something hot and sensuous. French chefs can do the same with brains and sweetbreads, which aren't on the Café Des Amis menu. But more popular dishes, such as a sautéed duck with a green peppercorn demi-glace ($17.50) or a chicken roasted with lemons and herbs ($14.50) also arrive, hot and sensuous from chef Emmanuel Langlade's pocket-size kitchen.
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