French Makeover

By Melissa Castleman

Vincent of Camelback hasn't changed much in 18 years, which is why people love it so much. It sits low on its not-quite-hip stretch of Camelback Road, a solid white bunker of old fashioned elegance amid surrounding strip malls and glass office buildings. In its suspicion of change, the restaurant is more French than Southwestern (its excellent food is a mixture of the two). But even the French have been known to make a begrudging nod toward the new now and then, and this past summer, Vincent's on Camelback did, too.

"Nobody knows about it," said the Maitre d', dressed in fine tweed, as he set down a glass of red wine for me. Indeed, the dark, comfortable, wood-beamed lounge where I sat (formerly a room of about 50 tables, all "undesirable seating," according to the Maitre d', due to their proximity to the bathrooms) was empty. I did not mind. I've found that at Vincent's, you are far more likely to be treated royally when the competition for attention isn’t stiff. "I bet," the Maitre d' told a passing waiter, "the lady would like some olives and breadsticks." A bowlful each of lavender-tossed niçoise olives and wands of crisp, cheese-flecked puff pastry immediately appeared. On a cold and rainy Tuesday evening, all was right with the world.

On a Saturday just three nights earlier, however, the restaurant was packed and my dining partner and I had been shown to a table in the gray, half-empty "stone room." When one is expecting the warm apricot-yellow cheer of the main restaurant, the stone room can feel like punishment. So before my return visit, I called specifically to request a table in the main area. Instead, we were led to a sage-green side roorn -- a definite move up nevertheless. During the course of our long, unrushed dinner, we even came to appreciate its cozy charm. Yes, just as our waiter delivered a basket of chubby little croissants and calorie-packed cornbread muffins, we discovered that our window directly faced a gym, but we took heart in the fact that the gym was absolutely empty. Plus, the croissants were the real thing -- as buttery and flaky as they used to be in France, before the bakers of that country took the false step of replacing butter with margarine.

Chef-owner Vincent Guerithault, who worked at Maxim's and Fauchon in Paris before leaving for Chicago's Le Français and then Phoenix, does not skimp when it comes to rich or luxurious ingredients. He recently changed up the restaurant's menu for the first time since its opening in 1985, adding to classics like his intensely flavorful tomato-and lobster bisque such new items as sautéed foie gras on an "apple tatin" and a Provençal-inspired veal loin with black olives and asparagus.

Printed on white cardboard with glossy color photographs of the food, the menu itself looks like something you'd find in a Chinese restaurant. No matter. Vincent's is an odd but winning combination of the flawed and the perfect. You may have to wait five minutes to be handed your menu (or, as we did in the stone room, an entire hour between the salad, - course and entrée), but you will also be surprised with enough unexpected little attentions to make up for it.

On one evening, for example, a $49 bottle of Chalone Pinot Noir was brought to our table instead of the $36 bottle of Fess Parker Pinot Noir we'd ordered. The cellar was out of the Fess Parker, apparently, and we were given the upgrade for the same price. "It will be perfect with what you ordered," our waiter assured us, and it was. A little later, he appeared with a small complimentary plate of chef Guerithault's blue-cornmeal-crusted sweetbreads, simply because we'd asked him what they were like. "People who like sweetbreads come to the restaurant just for ours," he told us. Crisp and delicious, they dissolved in our mouths.

Off the bar menu, the smoked-salmon quesadilla with warm Manchego, horseradish cream and plenty of fresh dill hit the spot. I learned only after she'd cleaned her plate that my dinner companion doesn't usually like smoked salmon. Chef Guerithault's slightly sweet rendition, which she described as "not fishy at all," won her over. An heirloom tomato and goat-cheese "tower" was simple and tasty, the accompanying greens dressed with a perfectly balanced vinaigrette seasoned just so. Stuffed cabbage with duck confit was nothing short of unctuous. Even better, however, was a pear salad with spicy pecans and big chunks of blue cheese. It came topped with two irresistible garlic-parmesan crisps that resembled cookies.

The grilled rack of lamb was exactly what you hope for when you ask for rack of lamb. The same was true of the duck confit entrée, which was neither fatty nor oily and "fell off the bone," as our waiter had promised it would. The lamb was paired with a roasted head of garlic and a bright jelly consisting of candied hot peppers-a Southwestern touch thoughtfully tamed by a thoroughly French red-wine thyme sauce. Less successful were the grilled wild boar loin with habahero sauce (it seriously lacked salt) and the seafood medley, which involved nothing more exciting than pieces of fish and a single scallop baked in a plain cream sauce, saffron and lobster infusion notwithstanding.

The wine list is of the fine-French restaurant variety, a fat book filled with the very best-and most expensive-from France and California. While whole sections are devoted to Petrus, Mouton-Rothschild and Chateau d'Yquem, less pricey but still interesting bottles dot the list.

In a throwback to the formal restaurants of yesteryear, Vincent's boasts no fewer than three well-appointed carts (a liqueur cart, a cheese cart and a dessert cart), which merrily clamor in and out of the separate rooms during the course of an evening. This is a place where, happily, everyone orders dessert, something you don't often see these days. The selection is grown-up and appropriately lavish -- three-layered Belgian chocolate mousse cake with a tart raspberry purée, strawberries Provençal stewed with lavender and honey and paired with a gorgeous bread pudding, and, of course, soufflés.

Most nights, those with iron willpower aren't allowed to leave without at least sampling a dessert. Chef Guerithault and staff prepare dozens of individual warm, molten chocolate cakes for the sophisticated crowd, and guests usually receive their very own. That's on top of the dessert they've ordered. Some things should never change.