We need to take a moment to celebrate a life. A life that made some of our favorite N.Y.C. brunches possible and introduced us to the best French toast we’ve ever had the pleasure of enjoying. If you’ve ever been to Bruxto, the sliver of an eatery , and enjoyed the sometimes surly, often en francais, always entertaining banter with the French café’s namesake owner and chef, then you’ll be just as sad as we were to hear that he passed away over the weekend.
If Bruxto wasn’t outside taking deep drags off a cigarette while still wearing his apron, he was behind the counter, whipping up authentic dishes like cassoulet and baguette sammies, with his long, scraggly hair tucked under a baseball cap, effusing that Frenchie cool he carried in spades. A seat at one of the handful of barstools put you front row and center for his display of personality and culinary prowess; the excellent dishes he served just made the experience even better.
When we first discovered Le French Diner, we knew that we’d stumbled upon a rare gem of a spot, and somewhat selfishly kept it to ourselves. Though we constantly shuttled out of town guests there, often forcing them to order the aforementioned French toast, simply so we could watch their face reveal a state of bliss as the amazingness of the first bite set in. Without Bruxto at the helm, the fate of the tiny diner is unknown, but we will always hold dear the many Saturday and Sunday mornings we spent there, sipping coffee and enjoying life well into the early afternoons. Au revoir Bruxto, you will be missed.