Every once in a while, when I'm tired of eating tomato soup and popcorn, I remember that I'm worth a really good meal. Not just any meal, but a great French meal. And not "French" as in odd bits sticking out of tiny patches of food like miniature cows that had been speared by potato needles either. I'm talking mussels that willingly sacrificed themselves to a rich garlicky broth that makes bread weep when it is soaked. Fada serves a plate of traditional steak and frites that would challenge a Texan to fault the French. And my husband always has me order Fada's chocolate cake (fondant) -- warm and oozing in the middle -- because he thinks it is funny that I can't eat it without gasping and closing my eyes.
Entering Fada you've stumbled upon a hip French bistro (with a back garden!) where it is difficult not to drink too much good wine. When you leave, you'll have a hard time not speaking French to the cab driver.