So when you read that it too had been taken over, this time by a veteran of the Paname bistro and got 2 hearts in Figaroscope, sucker that you are, you go. Emmanuel Rubin says “one has the thought that one has eaten here in 1972, 1966 or 1955.” M. Rubin - we think alike, alas.
It is indeed the same place, not a poster or bottle changed – charming, reassuring and yet frightening. Sit down at the jammed tables. Why jammed? Who knows, there never are more than 6 customers, all locals, puzzling, eh?
The “menu” is cheap, two dishes for 20, three for 26 €, but you soon find out why. I had the salmon tartare and started off thinking it was pretty good, on a par with the Bistro du Dome, my gold standard, and the dressing on the fresh well-chosen greens tartly offset the Omega3 fats, but like brandade is to my buddy P., after a few bites it was simply too much.
Then the confit de canard – standard test – can I do better cooking that I get at Galeries Lafayette? Yup. And the potatoes, which should be gloriously greasy and garlicky and evil – were inedible.
Finally the chocolate mi-cuit (moelleux really, with a nasty spin) – again, get out the ruler – can my daughter, the one we didn’t send to cooking school, do better? Right again. So there we go.
Except the bill arrives – 82 €, did I mention I was bowling alone? yes, my erstwhile friends had abandoned me, smart folks they. 82 €, now Rubin had prepared me for an inflated bill, but not for resuscitation. But happily, just like in the US when they lose your hotel reservation, the waitperson explained that it “was the computer.”
Airplane and train phobics stop reading here. “The computer?” Pilot error, I’d say.