Balthazar

For nearly 30 years now, the French brasserie Balthazar has commanded Spring Street like a dreadnought anchored in a bay. Not that it’s imposing or uninviting—just the opposite. Its trappings and window-framed boulangerie evoke the quotidian Paris that we Yanks tend to romanticize. It’s the place’s sheer size, the current of diners, and its biblical name. Balthazar flies its banner with confidence.

That sense of presence eddies in the busy vestibule and swells in the dining room proper. For a place of its size, with so many seats, the service at Balthazar is impressive. The crew is attentive, seemingly relaxed, and won’t push to turn your table. There’s a steady hand at the helm here. 

The dining room is loud and lively. It isn’t enough to scuttle conversation. The red booths, chandeliers, and mirrors one expects from a brasserie are all present. The food follows suit: casual French favorites plus a raw bar. Of note are the goat cheese and caramelized onion tart topped with canelles of olive tapenade; funk, salt, and sugar in balance. The steak frites is well-tended and comes with a generous pile of fries, perfectly crisp and salty but with just enough inner fluff to swab a plate clean. The bar produces both tidy classic cocktails and streamlined inventions; the Vesper (vodka, gin, Lillet, lemon) ticks all the boxes, and the Gimlet De Provence (gin, lime, Herb de Provence) is perfumey and feels moored to drinkability over ‘wow’ factor.

I clocked a scalawag dining in a Hooters t-shirt—no prohibitions there. Get a reservation for dinner or you’ll find yourself marooned at the bar (not such a bad thing). SoHo prices for very good but not innovative or stunning brasserie fare may trim one's sails a bit. Leaving aside the restaurant’s attached bakery offering bread and pastry on the go, Balthazar’s dining room remains a sturdy vessel for power lunches and your more cosmopolitan but still casual dinners.