After a long drought of decent French bistro food, it's cheering to know that you could stand at the busy corner of Main Highway and Commodore Plaza in Coconut Grove, throw a crouton in any direction and have it land in a hot bowl of onion soup au gratin.

Call it Bouchon du Grove-itis. That tiny, much-loved eatery has spawned a wave of competitors, making the Grove a great place to get a taste of the City of Light without taking out a mortgage.

Le Bouchon co-owners Shirley Huon Ducatillon and Regis Ducatillon opened Le P'tit Paris just down the block from their long-running, pocket-size bistro and within a few hundred feet of ex-partner Georges Eric Farge's lively George's in the Grove. Le Moulin du Grove still expends great effort across the way, and even Green Street affects a slight French accent.

So far, the most authentic and reliable experience at Le P'tit Paris is breakfast, when you will find patrons conversing in distinctly Gallic accents and clamoring for the fresh, crusty, super-buttery croissants with a lovely café au lait.

Lunch and dinner are iffier. Afternoon servers are kind but clueless and dishes are uneven. A thin slab of tuna suffers from an overly creamy green peppercorn sauce that has already formed a thick skin by the time it hits the table. Salad on the plate is sagging. Individual quiches are cheesy and rich but a bit flabby.

Tiny black mussels are as petite as I like, fresh and plump but soaked in a salty, bouillon-cube-like broth. Bread is slightly stale and sodden salads are composed of weepy bagged lettuce weighed down by heavy dressing and sorry cucumber rounds.

Pastas are rich if overcooked, and crepes are thick and leaden baked deals with too much greasy cheese and heavy filling.

We had an especially bad experience one night when the kitchen was clearly in crisis. Tiny, black and crumbling crab cakes tasted of propane, as if they had been scorched by an amateur grill jockey. In fact, nearly everything that evening was dramatically over- or undercooked.

The seafood we tried, including snappy grilled shrimp, was fresh enough and tasty but uninspired. Steaks are a better option, including a big, meaty filet nicely marbled and gently scorched but still juicy and red in the center.

Thick, golden, perfectly crisp pommes frites promised to save the evening if only a surly waiter hadn't ignored and argued with us by turns. Waits for entrees extended to half an hour or more -- a trial that might have been eased by a refilled glass or at least an acknowledgement that the kitchen was having difficulty.

And it was. A visit to an unkempt, oddly out-of-the-way bathroom gave us a view of a true hell's kitchen, engulfed in smoke, where sweating staffers screamed at each other. Even our petite hostess could be seen elbow-deep in soapy water, trying to help out. (She pinch hit as a server, too, but her overpowering perfume ruined my husband's appetite.)

The space (formerly Mambo's) is anchored by a claustrophobic interior with red and black accents and dominated by a huge sidewalk space where a seat under a broad umbrella is dreamy on a balmy night. A glass of wine from a cheap, French-dominated list is a simple pleasure not easily spoiled. Rosé, cote du rhone and rugged Bordeaux are worth sipping for the price.

Lunch specials offer drinkable house wines for as little as $3 a glass that, along with a simple sandwich such as a sweet and eggy croque monsieur, can ease a crazy day. Follow it with a straightforward chocolate tart and life is good.

On a bad night, though, this sliver of Paris is about as enjoyable as being stuck in a Eurotunnel traffic jam in a Renault.

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