I had to lobby for this review.
Not because Restaurant François isn’t one of the hottest reservations in town. Totally the opposite. Since opening last winter, the Downtown restaurant has racked up heaps of praise usually reserved for longstanding Austin institutions. However, my editor was pretty “meh” on the idea of featuring (yet another) restaurant seemingly designed for assholes with expense accounts.
So, I went on a press invite … and developed a hardcore crush.
The food was excellent, service was flawless, and the whole experience felt suspiciously charming. Worse, every article gushed that Restaurant François wasn’t just one of the year’s best openings but one of Austin’s best restaurants, period. I needed to know if I was looking at the place through rose-colored glasses. Eventually, I wore my editor down and got to go back, though I was nervous my new crush wouldn’t live up to the first date.
The latest venture from Guy + Larry Restaurants, the hospitality group behind ATX Cocina and Red Ash Italia, feels like stepping into another era. Heavy curtains usher you inside a dark, sultry 1930s supper club that looks pulled straight from Baz Luhrmann’s version of West Egg. Glowing globe lights float overhead, casting a warm amber glow over rich wood finishes and gleaming brass accents. The first thing you notice, though, is the aroma of bread and butter smacking you in the face. Although the space features an open kitchen and chef’s tasting counter, the cozy booths practically beg you to slide closer to your date, where you can still pretend your bank account isn’t wrecked yet.
The restaurant’s affection for old-school indulgence starts at the cocktail list. Martini drinkers will gravitate toward the Vesper François flight. It arrives on a gorgeous gold tray, balanced and freezing cold, complete with extra booze in a side beaker. The Free Man in Paris plays a refreshing riff on a Corpse Reviver, with a subtle rinse of St. George absinthe to sharpen the citrus. If you prefer darker liquors, the Pardon My French delivers a spirit-forward blend of rye, cognac, and Bénédictine served in heavy crystal glassware.
The menu gets rich quick. On my first visit, I learned you could get a half-order of the Comté cheese popovers, which is perfect for two people. They arrive as gigantic, airy crowns of cheesy pastry, fluffy, buttery, and roughly the size of a small child’s head.
From there, the appetizers reveal a few minor bumps. The chef’s special crudo on our first round was a wee bit fishy, and I wouldn’t order it again. However, the delicious steak tartare arrives topped with truffles and a chunky-sliced mayonnaise egg rather than a traditional raw yolk. The balance of tangy mustard and briny capers against the beef hits the mark, but the kitchen serves it with only a few meager crostini. You will run out of bread long before you finish the tartare, a frustrating trend that repeats throughout the meal.
There are no gimmicks here, no desperate attempts to reinvent dishes. Just a kitchen that understands exactly why generations of diners fell in love with this type of cuisine in the first place.
During that initial date, the escargot arrived capped in puff pastry. While delicious, I don’t love a puff topper – I prefer a crusty piece of bread to sop up all that liquid gold. (Little Darcie would be shocked to learn she’d grow up to have snail preferences.) The kitchen rectified this for the second round, replacing the puffs with a demi-baguette alongside the escargots in a metal dish overflowing with bubbling butter, parsley, and a hint of absinthe. The provided loaf is still no match for those deep herby wells – we immediately had to flag down a runner for an extra order.
Order the Belgian endive and green apple salad. Bitter chicory, sweet sultanas, toasted hazelnuts, and creamy Roquefort dressing come together in one of the restaurant’s most memorable dishes. Weeks later, I’m still thinking about the combo.
Unless you’ve somehow skipped every course leading up to this point, plan on sharing entrées. The wagyu short rib bourguignon abandons the rustic carrots of a traditional stew in favor of concentrated sauce and potatoes. The fork-tender beef collapses on contact, swimming in a full-bodied red wine reduction on a bed of silky pomme mousseline. My only quibble: The dish needs an element of texture to break up the velvet-on-velvet consistency.
The duck two ways doubles down on decadence, saved by a healthy dose of acid. One half of the plate features a crispy confit leg with deeply smoky, fall-apart meat. The other holds a roasted breast sliced to reveal a bold medium-rare blush. A tart cherry gastrique cuts through the fattiness, while Alsatian cabbage tastes like high-end sauerkraut and collard greens had a love child.
The restaurant offers steaks priced by the ounce, but they’re pre-cut and large. Because my non-red-meat-eating hubby wasn’t gonna help, I opted for the Kansas City strip, one of the smallest cuts. It was buttery and slightly funky from the dry aging, though the tableside au poivre sauce can lean a bit thin. My poultry-loving partner lucked into a coq au vin special instead. Served over house-made pasta with pearl onions and mushrooms, the red-wine sauce tastes like a classic brasserie. He hasn’t stopped talking about it since. The chicken special appeared on both visits and should, frankly, be on the regular menu permanently.
The kitchen maintains its momentum through the final course. My philosophy is to always order a soufflé, and I stand by that. On our first date, ours was amaretto. It was fluffy, eggy, gooey, and drizzled with crème anglaise. The flavors rotate regularly. For review purposes, I ordered the profiteroles on my repeat visit, and they did not disappoint. Five light choux puffs arrive dusted with powdered sugar alongside incredible French vanilla ice cream with dark chocolate sauce and fresh whipped cream on the side, creating a build-your-own fancy ice cream sundae. No notes.
Every crush eventually reveals a flaw or two. My first meal featured polished hospitality: Our waiter was friendly, attentive, but not intrusive. The servers wear crisp white tuxedo jackets, which adds to the formality, but our second waiter brought an almost used-car salesman energy to the table, aggressively pushing dishes before disappearing entirely whenever we needed something – usually bread. Drinks lagged behind the kitchen, and the sommelier was too swamped to consult.
My editor’s initial anxiety was correct: Restaurant François is pretty dang expensive, a high-priced playground built for corporate cards and milestone anniversaries. The city didn’t necessarily need another place like that. What Austin didn’t have was a restaurant that beautifully merges French classics with modern steakhouse excess. There are no gimmicks here, no desperate attempts to reinvent dishes. Just a kitchen that understands exactly why generations of diners fell in love with this type of cuisine in the first place.
The bill may leave you a little lightheaded. Part of me still resents how much I enjoyed myself. I went back looking to break the spell. Instead, I’m already wondering when the third date will be.
This article appears in June 26 • 2026.
