Clementine

Parking is a pain, but once you step inside Clementine, you might as well be in Paris. It's a lovely little place, where all the staff speaks French and the chef comes to visit the tables, and they send you home with a rose, "merci et bonsoir." Here's what we had:
After placing our order, the chef sent out an amuse bouche of pork and rabbit rillettes on toast. Delish.
For an app, I had the fois gros chaud with toasts, thin apple slices, and a not-too-sweet apple gastrique. I followed the waiter's suggestion for the recommended Sauternes, which was sweet, but the right thing with the fois gras and gastrique.
For dinner, I had pig in pig - bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin with shaved brussel sprouts and a chestnut puree. Ben had the filet mignon with a peppercorn sauce, frenched green beans and pommes frites. We ordered two glasses of pinot noir, which was fine with Ben's steak, but was absolutely wrong for the pork - thankfully, at the first hint of a wrinkled nose, the waiter very quickly suggested I try the bordeaux instead, which was exactly right.
For dessert, Ben had the vanilla creme brulee, and I ordered the coffee pot de creme, which also came with a little pot de riz (rice pudding) and a langue du chat. Coffee all the way around and we were done.
The service was excellent without being obsequious. The manager handed me a rose as he held the door for me on our way out, and we were returned to the misty San Francisco streets, fat and happy.