If a neighborhood is an emblem of change, where businesses come and go and independent storefronts get swapped out for chains, inside the four walls at La Poule au Pot, it’s a time capsule. A fossilized French hideaway that has come to define West London since opening in 1964. The restaurant is often cited as among the city’s most romantic, and the 45 off-kilter seats have seen no shortage of first dates, marriage proposals, and anniversary celebrations. The menus are reassuringly written only in French, and the homey, low-key cooking is treated as an art form. A quick scan of the surrounding tables reads like the index of a Julia Child cookbook—dense blocks of paté rest against trays of moules frites and sautéed potatoes. And then there’s the poule au pot itself, a one-stop shop of chicken thighs, potatoes, zucchini, and carrots served in a deep dish of Provençal earthenware. La Poule au Pot is a delightful reminder that sometimes the best change is none at all. —Bridget Arsenault