Driving through Valley Forge National Historical Park is always a pleasant experience, despite the myriad deer that seem to have taken it over. But the other sunset-gilded evening, we knew there was a treat awaiting us at the other end—Majolica, the restaurant that has suddenly put sleepy Phoenixville on the map. Other reports had been stellar, and, dear reader, we were not disappointed.

It was almost like coming into someone's home, with a plush sofa in front and a big breakfront on the side, against an exposed brick wall. The other walls of this renovated old tavern are a pale water-nixie green, covered with black-and-white photos. Shown to our copper-topped table by a courteous waitress who took our wine—isn't the best food at BYOBs these days?—we were first impressed by the wine-friendly Spiegelau stemware, and then by the sophistication of the menu. Sarah Johnson, wife of chef-owner Andrew Deery, told us that Andrew comes by way of Savona, where he honed his obvious talents, i.e. homemade stocks, homemade desserts, and meticulous French technique. They are both natives of Phoenixville, and named their charming little restaurant Majolica in honor of the area's pottery-making history.

The amuse-bouche, a dab of rosy tuna tartar on a homemade chip, the crisp rolls and little pots of butter --all contributed to the European feel of the meal. That they naturally follow the seasons (we dined from the October menu) and pay such rigid attention to details like the little base of prune puree beneath the creamy rabbit rillettes—and the fact alone that there are rillettes on the menu—heightened my opinion even more. A gastrique with the foie gras, the finely chopped mirepoix that made the Pernod-infused juices in a large bowl of mussels explode with flavor, showed Deery's appreciation of French technique. We mopped up every bit of that juice, nibbled the rillettes and exclaimed over the garlic soup. First, elephant garlic chips are set in the bowl, and then the pale beige liquid is poured around them, a la francaise. The aroma enveloped us. However, the taste of garlic was not overwhelming, more like a whisper of something you can't quite identify, making for a subtle, delicious dish. The crispy, tender veal sweetbreads, on a tangle of wild mushrooms, were sparked by an emerald green nage coaxed from anise-y tarragon.

A delightful surprise was the entremets—a lovely sorbet of cucumbers whose cool, green flavor successfully cleared our palates for the entrees. They appeared, served on more of the multishaped white china plates, with the same loving detail. A large slice of Chatham Bay cod, tender enough to be cod pudding, had its flavor boosted by roasted red peppers and a drizzle of thyme oil, and sprigs of fried thyme arranged across the top. A confit of duck came mantled with a slice of duck fat and was classically bedded on Savoy cabbage and accompanied by fingerling potatoes and a sprinkle of caraway. Save for the slight saltiness of the confit, it was a perfect dish. I eschewed the hanger steak for the braised lamb, but it was not what I expected it to be, for they had taken the deliciously fatty and tender meat of the shank and made it into a timbale, topped with a cloud of grated Grana cheese. White asparagus were arranged beside it like toothsome little logs, and, for once, this country's white asparagus tasted all right. The whole dish was lightly scented with marjoram, and I took half of it home with me, for I was already too full.

It was this fullness that prevented me from having the Hendricks Farm cheese selection, but seeing it at the next table, I knew I was missing something. However, I can always manage dessert. We tried the coconut sorbet, so full of flavor that I felt like I was eating ripe coconut. It came with pineapple chunks to make a deconstructed pi–a colada and a savory macadamia nut tuille. A little cake of pine nuts was moist and nutty, with an apricot coulis making it more so, but it was the rosemary ice cream on the side that blew me away with a whiff of Provence. For once, I couldn't handle the profiteroles or the chocolate souffle, but oh, that rosemary ice cream.

Excellent coffee from the nearby Kimberton Coffee Roasters came with cubes of sugar and tongs, and a tiny bunny as a creamer—more of the little collectible touches that dot the room, like the copper basins used as wine coolers. The decor and the table appointments show as much thought and love as does the food. Deery and Johnson have a real hit on their hands, and I know they are up to it. Driving back through the darkened fields, I was already planning my next trip to Phoenixville. Like discovering a three-star restaurant in an unknown French hamlet, who would have thought it?