Every table at Routy carries a small red lamp, throwing off just enough light to read a menu and study the person across from you. The banquettes run olive and white stripes against walls of near-black fluted panelling. The tablecloths are pressed white linen, the sconces are polished chrome half-tubes, and the art is loud in a way the rest of the room isn't: big framed prints in red and yellow, one hung under its own picture light. The bar is black brick and warm wood, lined with rows of ribbed coupes and rocks glasses. Thankfully, at thirty-four seats available for four nights a week, nobody is turning your table in two hours.
All of this would be a nice trick if the food didn't hold up its end. It does, and the reason has a lot to do with a shop in Aix-en-Provence.
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