Frances

Frances doesn't chase trends, and that restraint is the whole point. The fennel soup and the pillowy housemade sourdough set the tone early: plain-spoken food that's been thought through completely. The reginette is simple and exactly as good as pasta needs to be. The black cod, paired with crisp asparagus, is the kind of dish that looks unremarkable on paper and then isn't. Save room for the lumberjack cake with cardamom ice cream — it's the rare dessert that actually earns the fuss.

The room backs this up. White walls, a neighborhood feel, service that mostly runs warm and attentive even when the tables turn fast. Some nights the pace slips and a dish lands less sharp than it should — the kitchen isn't infallible — but the floor is small enough that it rarely compounds into a bad meal.

A James Beard Best New Restaurant finalist nod in 2010 and a spot in the current Michelin guide confirm what the neighborhood already knew: this is a restaurant that's been doing the fundamentals right for a long time, without needing to reinvent them. Go on a weekday if you can. Go regardless.