“A Table Down The Street” follows Howie Southworth, author of A Taste of Alexandria, one local barstool at a time. No reviews. Only encounters. The bartender chasing perfection, the chef with a story, the regular who swears this place was better before you found it. Food and drink may be the excuse. People are the point. A corner seat can tell you everything.
I slide into a corner barstool. They have the best sightlines for strangers becoming compatriots and I immediately catch the sparkle of celebration. A couple, newly licensed across the street and through the breezeway at City Hall. Shoulder to shoulder, two flutes of something French and effervescent between them. They toast to whatever comes next. Josephine, it seems, is now part of the marriage. Paris might claim lovers, but Alexandria knows a thing or two.
And then it hits me. This is Paris. Or as close as you need on a Thursday afternoon in Old Town. These days, we don’t need novelty menus to feel transported, Hanoi a few blocks away. Barcelona down by the river. Cairo around the corner. Alexandria has always traveled well. But when a French brasserie lives down the street and gets the details right, the light, the glassware, the quiet confidence of a room that knows exactly what it’s doing, that’s something else.
Josephine is a pure brasserie, yes. But more precisely, Josephine holds that je ne sais quoi without the plane ticket. The room leans toward Belle Époque formality, brass railings, mirrored surfaces that catch soft reflections. There are accents dotting the walls, little architectural gestures you only notice when the shadows shift. Even the absinthe drip sits on the bar like it has always lived here, patient, ceremonial.
Behind the bar is Cesar. Expansive tattoos, piercings, loquacious enough to break the myth of the Parisian barman in one anecdote. He tells me about his first ink because I ask. Masterfully placed where parents wouldn’t notice. A common story, he laughs, and then grins like a man who got away with something and then just kept going. He talks food and drink with French precision, but carries himself with neighborhood ease. Left Bank technique, Alexandria heartbeat.
I order trout rillettes and a ruby glass of Beaujolais. The rillettes arrive pink and cool with the texture of patience, like something fished upriver that spent the afternoon meditating. The Beaujolais is crisp, a quiet red that doesn’t argue with the trout, just sits down next to it, comfortable, confident enough not to compete.
Upstairs, there’s a hidden bar that seals my Paris theory. A nook to be sure. A dim little room where time misbehaves and conversation forgets to end. A single page torn from A Moveable Feast, tucked quietly into our town. The ceiling lowers itself, the lights soften, and the sound of the street fades as if someone shut a door on reality. Perhaps my next visit.
Chef Matt Cockrell runs this kitchen, a veteran of acclaimed local French stoves, keeping the classics honest. Roast chicken, bourguignon, the staples that define brasserie cooking. He knows better than to gild French tradition too heavily, though he admits a modern flourish here and there. A sauce, a seasonal soup, a wink. The sort of chef who could fancy things up but knows restraint is its own art.
What hits me isn’t just the technique, it’s the comfort. French food can be intimidating in the wrong hands, but here it settles into Alexandria with quiet purpose. By-the-book cuisine with the soul of a friendly hometown dining room. A little Continental formality upfront, but that screen fades quickly, replaced by easy chatter and the sense that you’ve joined something local.
Cesar circles back, plate cleared, glass nearly so. We talk of more ink, we talk food, and we talk about how people arrive at bars. Anniversaries, promotions, a marriage license minutes old. Across the pond, you might imagine a quiet bistro where the bartender is politely distant. Here, he leans close, laughs big, and pours with intention. Democratized hospitality. Paris without the posture. Fine dining and no velvet rope.
I take my last sip. The new fiancées toast again. The room settles into that late-afternoon hush when no one is in a hurry. Warm light. Low voices. Old brick meeting new life, right there in the glow. Outside, the street keeps moving, ordinary, familiar. Inside, the glass is empty, the moment finished, and whatever comes next feels a little brighter for having paused here in a place that understands both where it came from and where it’s going.
Dining and Cooking