Like a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, a bistro must comfort. It should be a cocoon of warmth, lit by flickering candles, with wafts of blackberry cassis or roiling garlic from fresh escargots. It must pulsate with vital energy, be small enough so that you rub elbows with humanity, and it doesn't hurt if the maitre'd knows your name and inclinations.

By this measure Chez Joel does not disappoint. It is the place to rejuvenate your world-weary body while luxuriating under burgundy crown moldings and buttery hued walls. The anise perfume of Pernod tinged Bouillabaisse wafts through the dining room; plump langoustines, flaky hunks of whitefish and briny clams mingle in a saffron-tinged broth with floating crouton islands. Black vested, bowtied waiters, with hand towels at the ready, remove metal domes from entrees with a flourish.

The hand-cut frites, with a sprinkle of herbs and crystalline flecks of sea salt, give the golden arches a run. Enjoy a hot summer night on the back porch, capped off with a caramelized apple tart tatin and a demitasse of coffee, and you'll want to light up a Gauloise and toast Charles De Gaulle.

Centerstage Reviewer: Michael Nagrant