0.0 Le 51, 51, rue de Bercy in the 12th, 01.58.51.10.91 (in the Cinematheque francaise aka the failed American Center/Library built by Frank Gehry), a la carte 35-60 E depending on how much tolerance you have for bad food, badly prepared and badly served. I went because (ah, tell the truth John, I went because at the end of August there are no alternatives of new places I haven't yet tried that are open, OK, there you have it).
Desperation made me do it. But also Colette Monsat and Sylvain Verut of Figaroscope listed it fourth among their 21 recommendations for August.
It is described by all the big boys and girls as a sort of snack/salad plus roast chicken place that is an ideal place to pause between film showings. And it's largely situated between the building and the lovely park, full of children and runners and sunners and on a lovely day like today - what could be better?
I arrived early, having had multiple problems with my Navigo on the RATRAP and figuring my invitee hadn't responded to my invitation due to pressing matters, I proceeded to order: a gaspacho, cochon de lait and some Morgan.
Just as my wine and soup arrived, so did she, fresh as a rose, having cab'd over from her place because by public trans you can't get here from there. So I halted, mid-taste (after determining the gaspacho needed a serious jolt of salt, ground pepper and chili) and she ordered the roast 1/2 chicken, which BTW, all the big boys and girls mentioned.
We sat, we talked, it was one beautiful day, we sat some more, we talked, and her chicken arrived - ah, it was a breast - which she detests. She starts to eat, I say no, ask for the thigh, she says OK. And she does (now this is me, who never says boo, and she, who always stands up for her rights). Hummm.
She gets the thigh, pours salt on it, says this is so dry and declares it the worst she's had in 10 years - surely an exaggeration but not by much.
I finally get enough salt, pepper and Tabasco to make the gaspacho a pale imitation of Colette's or mine, but edible.
Then I get my piggy thing and I use the term advisedly. It had once been some sort of a pork chop but was now a desiccated pencil strip of white something. The potatoes and salad were alright but not much of a much.
Dessert? You jest. If they cannot rotiss chicken and pork, who trusts them to make patisserie?
Two coffees and the bill for 58.40 E and we're outa there.
Go? If you're between films at the Cinematheque, buck up and starve.
OK, John, you've covered the thighs and breasts but what about the eyes? Actually that title came to me on the subway on the way home when I was sitting across from a female person who had her eyes over-mascar'd, her legs far apart and her cleavage in my face, who was either an old hooker trying to look young or a young adolescent trying to look old.
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