Well, well. That stirred a flurry of other complaints: The "hors d'oeuvres" - mussels (mine turned out to be puny), for instance, and grilled boudin blanc - weren't truly hors d'oeuvres. How come there was feta listed in the tomato salad instead of French cheese? "Cassoulet . . . all summer?" And so on.
I'm not a religious reader of eGullet.org or the proliferating food blogs, many of which seem to cater to (or attract) a tight cadre of folks eager to show off their knowledge of proper French (oops, how'd "Le Coquette Plateau" slip through the proofreader?), or to crab wittily or obsess about cheese. On the other hand, I do like to eat. And I do really go to the cafes and restaurants; in almost every case that comes to mind, after they actually open.
Let us return, then, to the world of reality dining, and the physical premises of Coquette. The windows look out on Bainbridge and upon a Queen Village eat-scape that currently includes Southwark, which provides some of the most amiable and thoughtful bartending in town; Famous Fourth Street Deli, cleaned up and genuine again, although the service can veer from charmingly brusque to unaccountably rude; and Ansill, where former Pif owner David Ansill is cooking adventurous small plates in the former bones of Judy's, the sorely missed, old-shoe, gay-friendly corner cafe.
There are other spots, too. But the point is that Coquette may be just what the neighborhood was lacking, with its honest salads (at $7, the Lyonnaise a light meal in itself), juicy boudin blanc (at $9, a nice plate of juicy white sausage served over warm lentils and mustard-braised lettuce), beautifully seasoned (but non-French!) yellow-tomato gazpacho, and mostly-under-$20 entrees - a decent steak frites, flavorful roasted chicken and light monkfish.
