The borders are lined with begonias, bleeding hearts fling their oddly shaped leaves up from the beds, and elm and ailanthus—the tree that grows in Brooklyn—spiral upward toward the darkening sky. It's Saturday evening and every table is filled in the candlelit backyard at Gavroche. The food, too, has a verdant quality about it. My half-roast chicken ($17) arrives festooned with sprigs of chervil, rosemary, and thyme, which form a small forest that not only adds impromptu savor to the pink sauce, but also delights the nose. The crisp-skinned breast has been sliced and neatly arranged on a bed of mashed potatoes and, aping the trees, the drumstick and crooked wing point skyward. Planks of zucchini and carrot lie in the copious lake of sauce, rendering any vegetable sides superfluous—though it's hard to resist ordering the gratin dauphinois ($4.50) that comes in a bubbling ramekin, flinging off odors of sharp cheese and... More >>>