Part of the fun of France is that you can battle, bullshit, or sneak your way into an establishment that’s some sort of super-hip in foodie palace, infested with local celebrities and the art gallery crowd (greatest contribution to human civilization: standing around, champagne glass in hand, looking snotty, pretending you have a chance of sleeping with with the wispy young thing in the weird short dress made of soda can tabs halfway paying attention to you), looking down their noses at anyone who dares presume that they might actually obtain a table when our group has been waiting for two hours already. Said establishment may even come across as being operated by the biggest, most arrogant rat finks in town, judging by their demeanor on the phone when you call them, perfectly nicely, to ask whether you can reserve a table – and yet, you try, thanks to the assurance of your friends that really, the food is brilliant and they’re really nice people.
Jaja, Paris – the prix fixe menus, which allow for some choice of dishes, are a mix of meat, vegetarian, and seafood, light and creative, and attractively served.
You’re in trouble when first the waiter looks at you confused when you order an extra dry vodka martini, then mumbles something about Martini Rosso, then confers with the bartender for about five minutes, then leaves the barman looking equally confused, fiddling with a collection of dry, sweet, and red vermouth bottles, at which point [...]
Supposedly it’s the shiznits in San Francisco right now, the nonplusultra of awesome places to go eat at. Never mind that, during two weeks in SF we ate our way through about a quarter of the top 100 restaurants in the City, according to one local newspaper. Works for me. So, when mom not-too-subtly hinted [...]
The honking gets to you after a while, especially after a long day banging around Hanoi, which manages to leave you gritty and dirty from the humidity and dust and miscellaneous unidentifiable culinary delights smoking from improvised sidewalk coal stoves, despite the still-overcast skies and comparatively cool temperatures (“oh, it’s usually never like this.” Gee, [...]
Seano said Dublin was now a toilet, with unemployed scoundrels thronging the bread lines every since Ireland’s economy imploded. Seano is also on crack. Dublin, at least the city center that we were selectively exposed to, seems to be doing its best to deny the fact that Ireland’s economy is supposed to be imploding. “What? [...]
I don’t really know how to categorize this place — it’s modern and slick, but still comfortable and inviting, the staff are enthusiastic and friendly, and Antoine Heerah, the big, imposing chef, is very gracious and welcoming. Not to forget the food, which is amazing.
I recently learned that “Bobo” is a vaguely derogatory term for some sort of young, slightly snooty, cash-laden yuppie scum. At least that’s the impression I got from the sniffy L’Internaute post about Music Hall, claiming the restaurant is a refuge for this demographic. While I’m quite possibly reading too much into it (one of [...]
So, according to various guides, 90% of the people in this place are French movie stars. If we actually watched French TV, we might have cared. As it stands, this is one of the best restaurants I’ve been to in a while, if not for the food at least for the overall experience.
