Technically, if we were to check a clock, it’s lunchtime. And, theoretically, the sun is shining outside—though we can’t be sure. Because at Dirty French, Miami’s trendiest windowless basement, it’s as if closing time is perpetually imminent and the world is forever set to late-night party mode.
At the next table, a gentleman already on his second martini fumbles the olive skewer he’s been twirling and tipsily shrugs off the clank, just audible over the disco soundtrack. It’s safe to assume he’s not due back at the office—or, if he is, the accounting department is going to have to audit this afternoon’s numbers.
Don’t assume this scene on a random Friday is unique. This is, after all, the whole point of Dirty French, a restaurant designed to feel like the sort of place a baller, 1980s banker would blow through on a legendary bender.
Dirty French arrived in Brickell courtesy of Major Food Group, the folks behind many of Miami’s hottest restaurants right now, like Carbone and Contessa. While there’s a Dirty French in New York, the oiled wood-clad Lower East Side version evokes a French brasserie theme. In Miami, the Dirty French is very decisively a steakhouse, one where designer Ken Fulk massaged the old Morton’s into a time capsule of the Sex Pistols era.
A hard right turn through a comparatively sedate, dark hallway reveals a lounge that’s a cacophony of colors and patterns. A tray ceiling as bright as gold bullion matches the gilded bartop, fern leaf lamps and leopard print barstools. Tufted leather runs along the underside of the bar, and floral wallpaper assures there’s not a single thing in the entire lounge that’s not outrageous. Like a package store corner bar from yesteryear, Dirty French looks like a place for making dubious late-night decisions.
Continue on and the hallway arrives a flamboyant dining room with more gold tray ceilings, nail-polish-red walls and zebra print chairs—a space to celebrate your record going platinum, clearly.
Servers here match the decor, wearing pink tuxedo jackets, ruffly white shirts and big bow ties that look borrowed from someone’s great-uncle. Designed by one of MFG’s founders, Mario Carbone, the tuxedos are made by Michael Andrews Bespoke, the New York tailor known for crafting suits for CEOs. At our Friday lunch, our server had a Brooklyn-esque brogue and a curtness to his speech that seemed cast by Hollywood to match the place. But don’t mistake that New York attitude for bad service; the staff here are pros, from snap-to-it water refills to a deep knowledge of the menu.
Like how great restaurants of the past did it, those menus don’t arrive until after we’ve ordered drinks. (A dirty martini and a rob roy, please, because none of us in this room are getting work done this afternoon.)
A steakhouse at its core, Dirty French’s food is mostly familiar-sounding steakhouse fare. It’s also quite pricey: A two-person wagyu tomahawk, among the extravagances, rings in at $275. It’s also all executed well, with a few surprises from dishes you won’t find elsewhere. The best example of this might be the Mushroom Millefeuille, wafers of pressed mushrooms with the texture of thin-sliced flank steak, all sitting upright like a tart, on top of a sauce of madras curried corn good enough to be scraped clean and eaten with the serving spoon. It comes along with the wedge, each ingredient lined up in pretty rows cobb-salad-style on top of half of a head of iceberg, a tart dressing cutting the richness from smoky lardons of bacon.
At dinner, someone at the table is probably ordering the house special, the prime rib ($75 for one, $155 for two). At lunch, it gets sliced and stuffed into a fluffy bun, the whole affair cut in half and served lengthwise on its side to show off the rare beef, nearly as tender as the horseradish sauce oozed on top of the cut sides. Holy ghost of Major Tom, that sandwich is good. We order a chicken paillard salad, too: a good, simple version comprised of a well-seasoned, cut-with-a-fork cutlet below a tangy, leafy salad.
By the time we finish our plates, we can only assume, by theory, that it’s now late afternoon. Or maybe if we step outside, for all we know, we could catch an epic sunrise. What do you say we just keep this party going and retire to the lounge?
