You will find yourself anon in the kitchen, almost literally:  walking in, a dark wood bar is the only divide between the patron and the vigorous galley; I wondered if I hadn’t gone in the back door by mistake. A table found it’s way to me directly, sans reservation, by a host in plainclothes. Oddly, albeit kindly, the menu was explained twice, as though it were a map to empyrean experience unknown and they wished for no turn to be missed.

These people take dining, well, seriously.

Serious, in respect to a fine eatery without presumption; I peered round to find some and came up happily wanting. It’s dark, sumptuous – sexy even. A tiny glass beetle imbedded into the table and church pew benches (which were beautiful but hard as stone; pillows mon ami?) dislodged my lingering skepticism. Servers were helpful and thoroughgoing but left me quite to myself, in the best of ways.

Beer selection is negligible, a steadfast flaw of Capitol Hill, but mixed drinks are posh and plentiful. I didn’t want either – fine food calls for a bit of wine (bad food calls for more). The wine list claims nine wines by the glass, dozens more by the bottle, variegated in price, region, and style to humor the masses.

Ah, and the menu. I was raring for inventiveness – and to be fair, the starters and sides bespoke of the kitchen’s talents – but the mains (called “plates”) were lackluster, at least by title. Roast chicken, pork chops, steak, and the token vegetarian entrée whimpered humdrum. A summer salad and ceviche splintered the monotony, but just. Listed specials offered a few more for the files, one of which I (unwisely) ordered: five-cheese ravioli with fresh pesto and pine nuts. I cringe to even think of it; the crimeless cheese imprisoned in a mess of undercooked noodles, floundering in a watery pond of blasé. It went straight back to the kitchen, to be replaced by the most perfect roast chicken I’ve ever prejudiced. Squirreled underneath was a mess of faro with roasted grapes (!); the hazelnut sauce made for a happy ally, being creamy where the chicken was crispy, and gave purpose to a pile of charred treviso. A sidecar of the aforementioned ceviche was fresh and light, an occasional punch in the face coming from diced green chilies and a heady dose of lime, all vehicled into the mouth with crisp-fried plantain chips. Superfluous to say, I forgave them like the pope for the erstwhile flub.

Let it be noted: If you have not yet reckoned, this place isn’t exactly cut-rate. Sure, a bargain for upscale goin’ out  – but entrees lean towards twenty, with few options (besides snacks) for less. If small pockets can’t keep you away, go for a short-lived (5 – 6:30, Tuesday – Friday) but worthwhile happy hour; Monday, the exception, boasts a ‘special feature’ menu – perhaps this is when the chefs cut capers?

Despite the incidental ailments, I was nonetheless charmed; La Bête is a fine little corner of swank. Go, have a fling.

Why we’d go back: Culinary heights without the pretention. Service is what you would hope for at a fine establishment – you can dine here – but don jeans and a flannel and you’ll be none the worse for it.