0.5 La Canaille, 4, rue Crillon in the 4th, 01.42.78.09.71, closed Saturday lunch and Sundays is a place my FFFF suggested we eat at and I readily agreed since he is spot on 99.9999% of the time.
Now disclosure and disclaimer – disclosure: he’s not going to write our meal up for complicated reasons but said I could an quote him – disclaimer: we mean no evil to the chef or owner, the latter of whom told my pal it might not be so good. Its location is weird, in the Bermuda triangle between Sully-Morland, the Gare de la Rapee and the Bastille.
What must have been here 50 years ago? Metal works? Print shops? Shipping offices? I dunno, but the street was godforsaken. I entered a tad before my host and the wait guy was drole, suggesting I sit on an isolated chair by the coat rack to wait or by the etched antique glass partition in front on a “Defense d’Afficher” thing and weird posters and art on the wall – OK, I lack the French sense of humor.
We looked at the carte and there were two - Noon and Night - and a chalkboard. We were able to order what we wanted however and shared throughout.
We started with the nem (not nems) of vegetables with bean sprouts in a strange sauce neither of us hardened sauce experts could identify and boudin noir tarte (of all things); both of which came with great salads with strangely sweet dressings, however. We both left portions unfinished.
At this point, he looked at me and said “I’m sorry; I should never, oh golly, oh gosh…..” I replied that it was better than starving.
Then I had ordered the pintade stuffed with apples and something else (a rollatine) which came with great vegetables and he had the canette with sour cherries (good) and hot-table vegetables (awful). He said “John, please, don’t, I, well, maybe, oh……” I said “Gimme a break, it’s not that bad. We’ve got dessert coming, recall in the 1960’s when the firsts and desserts were superb and the meal only fell down in the middle?” He said “I wasn’t born then.”
So he got the cheese and said “What’s wrong with this?” I guessed - “it’s been standing too long? Ah, it’s been in the frigo?” “No, no, touch it.” It was warm to the touch – heated camembert, just like they used to serve at fancy Manhattan parties in the 1970’s. Yikes.
And my supposed millefeuille of apples was barely edible and he wouldn’t touch “his” half. (And he’s not writing this place up because his beat now is upbeat)? Oh my.
Well the coffees came, not as ordered, and with only one spoon and while he was gracefully saying his goodbyes, I shuffled out the door. We split without discussing it any further.
The bill – 92.60 € - they should have paid us that, although the wine was OK, the bread not so. Sad, sad, sad.
Go? You not only don’t read to the end, you don’t get nuance.
Recent Comments