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C'est Bon

Katherine Feeney

French

Everyone makes mistakes.

We can but hope ours occur when no-one is looking. On occasion, the revered will muck up in full view. At this juncture, either feign ignorance or make a point.

Because it is not the mistake that counts. It is the recovery.

C'est Bon is one of my favourite neighbourhood dinner spots. I'm spoiled for choice in Woolloongabba, where hip pubby spaces mingle with grown-up diners and cheap, themed Asian chow stops.

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But this snug French restaurant tucked away at the untrendy end of Stanley Street has always appealed for its balance. Modern looks match a menu of classic flavours. Celine Damour keeps front of house accented and attentive. Gregarious owner and chef Michel Bonnet presides his place with verve.

So Saturday night's dinner reservations were made with that cosy anticipation that comes with returning to a loved locale.

It is a shame, then, that this time, we were watching.

Arriving on time for our 8.30pm reservation (made days ahead) we were discouraged to discover ours was worst table in the house.

It happens. The small restaurant was full. The few spare tables were being cleared from the first seating and quickly filled. But ours barely fit in the corner near the door, so much so our first waitress (a rotating roster served us throughout the night) asked the group of four whose space encroached ours to stand, shuffle and sit again, that we might actually take our seats.

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Having done so, we discovered the otherwise spotless white table scattered with what we took to be loose ground pepper. Dusting them aside was an exercise in dexterity, his elbows risking connection with the disgruntled party behind, mine with the hinge of the very busy front door.

A nothing-special duck pate amuse-bouche arrived with menus, the wine list and water. I'm not sure whether I was heartened or disappointed to see that scant changes, if any, had been made to the smallish menu since our last visit months ago.

Though tempted by favourites, we settled for entrées of gnocchi au potiron and salade de canard confit (both $14.90), followed by lapin aux figues ($33.90) and côte de boeuf ($35.90). Having ordered, we tucked into slices of baguette, the bread delicious but the butter cold and unspreadable.

Wine arrived shortly before our first course, glasses of 2009 Cotes de Provence rosé and 2006 Bourgogne Blanc Rodolphe Demougeot (both $10). I'd been in the mood for a buttery white to match my courses and was disappointed Damour's recommendation didn't match my expressed desire, or the dishes. The list, brimming with Gallic drops, does have a selection of domestic grapes perhaps more suitable, though few are available by the glass.

Given the pressure the kitchen was under (two full seatings and a private function upstairs), the food made it to table in good time.

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Individual components of the starters were fine, yet the overall effect of each was underwhelming. Sweet and soft were the only real impressions left by the pumpkin gnocchi; the port sauce not managing the contrastive kick it needed. Similarly, the caramelised apple and mango failed to lift the confit or cut through the thick avocado flesh.

Mains were more satisfying, both meats cooked simpole and well. The hand-cut chips with the beef were mouth-meltingly good but the red wine sauce lacked robust flavour. The rabbit was juicy, the figs tongue-tingling and all nicely rounded with polenta and spinach.

Bonnet's desserts are legendary among sweet-toothed Gallic traditionalists, with crème caramel and crème brûlée solid favourites of regular diners.

Already confronting a candy hangover thanks to the saccharine nature of the meal thus far, we settled for tarte tatin ($13.90). Our hoped-for citric-hit fell afoul of the heavy caramel sauce, though the light, crisp pastry and vanilla ice-cream were delightful. Less so was the wait to leave; several signals for the bill were ignored by staff preoccupied with resetting vacated tables.

It may have well been due to the notable absence of captain Bonnet or fatigue from a very busy night, but we departed feeling full, generally satisfied yet more than a little deflated.

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Like an anti-climatic rendezvous with an old friend, we almost wish it hadn't been that night, of all nights, we'd arranged to review.

But, alas, so it goes. C'est la vie.

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