The best restaurants scare you. You wouldn't set foot in the place unless a trusted friend took you there first. You're a little nervous during your first visit, but after that you relish the chance to be the person bringing your friends there, to watch them while they nervously shift in their seats and wonder, 'What the hell am I doing here?" These places are never crowded, but always seem to be open. You leave for long periods, neighborhoods change, but the scene inside is always more or less the same.
The Grillmaster knows of a few such places, and had the chance to dine in one of my favorites this past Friday. Martick's Restaurant Francais has a bit of a deceptive name. Continental? Sort of. Classy? Eh, well, no. Sophisticated? After a fashion.
Martick's is a Baltimore landmark, and anybody who has the chance ought to get the to appreciate it before the octogenarian crank who runs the place hangs up his apron. He's Mr. Martick (his dad was THE Martick). He was born in the place. It was a speakeasy during Prohibition, a bohemian hip spot after that, a dark shell while Martick fled to France to learn to cook, and now a run-down speakeasy look-alike that just happens to serve some of the best French food in the area code.
You walk up to the door and wonder if you're in the right place. There are no signs of life, just a broken looking doorbell. When you give it a ring you'll either be greeted by a muffled bark or else just silence. After a little while the heavy wooden Prohibition-era door will swing open. If you're lucky, an eccentric host or hostess will ask you what the password is. If you're not, Mo Martick will be there in his boxers asking you what you want.
As your eyes readjust to the dim light, you can hardly believe your eyes. Baroque nude statues. Snakeskin wallpaper. Velvet curtains. Tile floors and a tin roof. The odds are that a half dozen other patrons of varying degrees of uniqueness are scattered across the small room. The menus are handwritten, the air is still, and you swear you don't know where the hell this place came from.
Then the food comes, and you realize why your friend brought you to what upon your arrival you took for the anteroom to Hell. It's French country cooking at its best. Fairly simple, moderately priced, hearty, and fantastically good. It still doesn't make sense, this infernal place with heavenly food. But that's what makes it great and rare. That kind of unsettling juxtaposition is tough to find, especially in these days of exurbs and urban renewal. Take the time to enjoy it while you still can. And try not to let it show that you're a little bit scared.
