The best way to test any cuisine is to eat it in the company of a fastidious sixteen-year-old girl on a perpetual diet.

Le Veau d’Or was, and remains, Manhattan French. Reviews written thirty-five years ago (it opened in 1937 and has changed hands only a few times since) confirm its unwavering nature: those same banquettes, the same Paris street signs, and a bar up front where a few people murmur and drink vermouth. Men in sweaters and women in longish skirts make up the clientele these days, and, if they seem not exactly meatpacking-district chic, they still lean into each other happily on a cold night, obviously in the presence of a treat.

The menu is mostly unchanged, too—but does this make it timeless or merely dated? The best way to test any cuisine is to eat it in the company of a fastidious sixteen-year-old girl on a perpetual diet. There will be no polite mmms—each mouthful means too much to fake it. With one such teen-ager in hand, we test first the classic starters, asparagus with vinaigrette and a simple green salad. The vinaigrette, distinctly mustardy yet custardy, too, is good enough to induce a sigh in memory of Paris brasseries. You order duck breast with cherry sauce—because who sees that anymore?—and it is delicious, a sliced grilled breast, with the cherry sauce just a little sour. (Are cherries remotely in season? That is a question for another kind of place, and another time closer to this one.) The chicken en cocotte is tasty: if its sauce is a little dull, the unpretentious gratin of potatoes alongside is just what it ought to be, cheesy-sharp but creamy-rich.

You order dessert in threes, and here the sixteen-year-old cannot deny herself: the îles flottantes with crunchy burnt caramel, meringue with coffee ice cream, and a hot apple tart. (“Super good,” she says, between mouthfuls.) Add a half bottle of Beaujolais for the adults, and if that and an espresso and Calvados cannot make you happy, nothing will. You leave and hope that the place continues as is, justifying the ways of a Manhattan fantasy of France to future generations of sad and hungry shoppers.

Adam Gopnik pour The New Yorker, décembre 2015 (Photograph by Lauren Lancaster)