St. Tropez Soho

French. From the moment I stepped into St. Tropez Soho, I was cradled in cozy. Don’t know whether it’s the rich, brown wood ceiling, exposed brick walls, or general vibe, but the space could not be more inviting.

That is, until you meet the server, just as warm as the room and genuinely invested in your utter satisfaction.

So the positivity is rampant and we haven’t even begun to talk food.

My entry was focaccia Provençale, a creation of parmesan, pesto, arugula. And with props to its south of France provenance, a tantalizing topping of ratatouille.

Also delirium inducing, the St. Tropez burger. Black Angus beef, aged cheddar, sun-dried tomatoes, truffle mayo, red onion marmalade and arugula all conspire to elevate each and every bite. Plus an unadvertised side of crunchy, french fry perfection.

I stepped out of my reverie to indulge in the loup de mer (grilled branzino, ratatouille, olives, virgin sauce). As with the focaccia, ratatouille is in the mix. You need not be veggie-centric to pledge your loyalty. This enhancement is truly next level.

When you’re dining French, the question of dessert is a non-question. I tried both the tarte Tropézienne (shout out to the motherland) and mousse au chocolat (their rich, classic, dark chocolate mousse).

The tarte, brioche with an infusion of orange blossom pie, is sweet genius.

The mousse, unadorned chocolate heaven. They do not mess with the OG.

Turns out, St. Tropez has another spot in the West Village. Which means twice as many chances to be transported to a farmhouse in Provence.

Something you will not, for a second, regret.