Segal's squab is among the tastiest I've had in Los Angeles, the flesh rosy and strongly flavored. He serves it with braised lettuce, a lovely touch, and just a touch of sauteed foie gras. Slices of beef come in a red wine sauce, surrounded by soft cepes and even softer pieces of marrow. This comes with pommes sarladaises-- basically pommes anna with a few truffles thrown in. Considering that pommes anna --thin cakes of sliced potatoes that have been cooked in clarified butter until they are almost translucent--are served as a side dish with all the entrees, this is really gilding the lily. Not, you understand, that I'm complaining.
After \o7 pommes anna \f7 who needs dessert? And a good thing, for the desserts are not as good as the entrees. They do a good \o7 creme brulee, \f7 and a pear sorbet one day came with green peppercorns in it, a surprising and interesting touch. But almost everything is too sweet--from a raspberry \o7 gratin, \f7 to a pear pastry in a caramel puddle--even an apple tart.
There is a wine list with some refreshingly unusual choices (a number of white Rhones, two red wines from the Loire, a still white Champagne, a choice of wines from Provence, an American Petite Sirah). And with the exception of my first unfortunate experience, the service has been unobtrusive, professional and very, very good.
Still, the memory of that first night lingers. I hope that these three Frenchmen will remember that one reason why French restaurants went out of favor in the first place is that much as we liked the food, we all got tired of being treated like fools.