Sébastien Gorius runs this French outpost — half delicatessen, half brasserie, named after his grandmother Augusta.
Almost nothing is cooked here, and almost nothing needs to be: between the chilled counter and the floor-to-ceiling shelves, a small oven and good source material do the work. Across the 30 tightly packed seats arrive cold charcuterie platters, croûtes au fromage and one of the better cheese fondues in town, plus raclette in single portions and the occasional duck confit. Wine you pull from the shelf yourself — paid at retail with a modest corkage on top, which makes the list deeper than any classic brasserie.
