Z Whiz

I return again and again to Z Cuisine, sometimes with my book and sometimes with friends. I come here to clear my culinary conscience and to experience a half-dozen small miracles of transfiguration on any given night. It's like church without all the kneeling. I eat beet carpaccio made from the sweetly sour vegetables I would have died before eating as a child; devour croque Parisienne stacked with thick-sliced ham and raclette and a fried egg, served open-faced on dense, warm, eggy bread with a forgettable field-green salad on the side. The crepes are the only thing I don't worship, the Nutella tasting gritty and sour, the bittersweet chocolate too chalky for my taste, but with a good sliced banana. The addictive tarte tatin fills a tart shell with folded, soft slices of apple capped with a poached half-apple, then honey-sweet ice cream and a warm, brandied caramel sauce. And the puréed potato soup with lemongrass and thyme is so good as to be nearly indescribable; if you're lucky enough to come in on a night when Dupays has it on the board, order it by the gallon and carry the extra home cupped in your hands if you have to.

For me, this warm little bistro is like a perfect fantasy of Paris, requiring no passport, no baggage, no feigned appreciation of the films of Jerry Lewis or Gerard Depardieu. I love the old iron gate hanging open by the front door, the fact that there's nothing else on this quiet dog end of West 30th Avenue save for a few old houses and a dark, silent church looming against the night sky. The only things missing from Z Cuisine are the Gauloises-smoking French, the pall of their yellow cigarette smoke hanging around the high ceiling, and the bells tolling the hour as it grows later and later.