In an alternate universe, the French invade Poughkeepsie. Before the cheese-eating surrender-monkeys are run out of town by patriotic Poughkeepsians, they open a shrine to French gastronomy on Main Street to remind them of home: white-tiled walls, a long red leather banquette fronted by cafe tables, a tin ceiling, Kronenbourg 1664 on tap. The raw bar is suitably briny: A dozen bluepoints don't disappoint. The spinach salad with hot bacon vinaigrette and poached egg (adding oozy goodness to the dressing when broken open) sets the tone for refreshingly nonhealth-conscious fare: escargot with green garlic butter; duck confit with crispy gnocchi; a side of home-fry-style Lyonnaise potatoes; mussels swimming in a tasso/leak cream served with an abundant cone of fries and begging for mopping-up bread; steak frites with béarnaise. Despite deep-rooted Francophile tendencies, certain concessions to eclectic American tastes are made at Brasserie 292: PBR tall boys are available for $5; cocktails like the Bee's Knees, made with Warwick Gin and local honey; a few pasta dishes, and English speaking waiters. You are in Poughkeepsie, after all.
