5.3 Le Charivari, 143, blvd Raspail in the 6th, 01.46.33.82.02, open 7/7, opened in one of the Oh Poivier sandwhichier places (mercifully the chain must have over-expanded, but the spaces they occupied are semi-cursed). This new incarnation has received mixed reviews (the print guys largely damning it with faint praise; the webbies rather liking it).
You'd think with the name and menu items - tomatoes & mozzarella, risotto, tiramisu, it'd be italian but they had stuff like basque boudin and Belle Ile fish. The clientele was mixed as well: 7 un-wedding-ringed, presumably heterosexual 60 year old women from East of here, rapper Dudes, businessmen in ties, a gay couple on their presumably first date, visitors and locals. And the service was mixed as well; most waitguys smiling, trading stations but one clueless woman.
I'll quote Mr Lung here a bit (so as not to over-reach copyright rights): "but thank god, now everything is in the right place thanks to the Charivari. Wooden tables, original tiles old fashion menu, everything is frenchier than thou." I mean cool carte cover and all, eh?
Mr Lung is quite correct when he says that the "selection of Belle Îloise sardines [is just].....a can of sardines. And even if they’re reputed the best in the country, served with Poujauran bread, I just don’t want to pay 6,90€ for a can." OK, fair enough, but I went in with my eyes wide shut and I rather liked them, esp. when Breton butter with grains of salt were schmired on the toasted (on one side; a nice touch) Poujauran bread. And the marinated raw carrot slices and spicy onion slices with cardamom seeds (or were they bay seeds?) were a perfect offset.
I fussed over my choice of a main forever, but finally settled on a filet of bar (from the Dome fish store, a few meters away if one J-walks). It was perfect product, perfectly cooked, perfectly crisped skin and very imperfectly dressed: the olive oil and herb sauce was horrible; the veggies, luckily, were blanched, and so long as they didn't get near the sauce, were fine (however not nearly up to the C'est Mon Plaisir level).
I held off finishing the vegetables, since my mother's no longer around to hound me, and moved to dessert. I was impressed by the caramel beurre sale and moka from Ethiopia ices and they, with the tuile, were a quite fine end to the meal.
They had a equally divided list of open (glass, small and large carafe) and to-be-opened bottles of wine and with that, minus bottled water but plus a coffee, I exited only 45.90 E lighter.
Go? As I said - Like* no.
*An explanation. Recently, I've gotten to know a real English Professor and it has started me thinking about what would have happened to me if I'd gotten a PhD in English rather than taking the easy way out by going to medical school; these were my career choices at 22. In musing about this, as I walked from the resto to an exhibition of previously unseen photos of Marilyn Monroe (about which, more later) I was passed by 4 girls, sorry, they were girls not women, privileged, probably rich, bright, well-educated in Ivy-League schools, well-dressed in the sloppy way of such types, speaking 1980's Valley Girlspeak; every word or phrase had the verbal tic of "like" or "ya'know" or "like" or "whatever" or "like" - before and often after it. I crossed to the other side of the street. Where are their mothers, English Professors, inner Jiminy Crickets?
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