No, I’m not talking about disclosing one’s secret places or being honest in reviews or telling your best friend s/he has bad breath; I’m referring to answering the question – “how was it,” “it satisfied you,” “it was ?” when the waiter or worse, the chef asks. I’ll declare myself up front as a coward, a dishonest diner, a person without a backbone. Two examples.
A bit ago, at Mori Venice Bar, my French downstairs’ neighbor, Madame LeP., my exact age (so we get that out of the equation), told me that her white asparagus had a sauce so salty that it destroyed the flavor of the vegetables – we switched plates as we always do (I had ordered a Bresaola with salad – both of which were excellent) – and I sampled the asparagus – yuck, gag, inedible, I couldn’t eat more than a bite – quick passing back of the dishes. Second course, she had a fantastic, perhaps the best I’ve ever had, blanquette of veal (spoiled only by, yet again, something over-salted, in this case – potatoes.) I, on the other hand, had a fabulous dish of seiches (cuttlefish) in black ink with an (you got it) over-salted polenta. But me, I put the polenta on top of the seiches and wouldn’t you know, the combo – a seiches/polenta/ink sandwich, was spectacular. The meal ended and our cheerful waitperson approached to ask the dreaded/traditional/expected question – “did you like it.” Oh, man, I shuddered, while struggling with what to say. By the way, I’m no more courageous in English, where I usually respond – “Thank you” – at which response, my wife’s eyes approach the ceiling. But Madame LeP. looked him straight in the eyes (no hiding behind euphemisms here) and with a big smile said – yes, everything was fine, except you might want to inform the chef that someone in the kitchen has a heavy hand with the salt. Oh magawd, this is my guest, my friend, my neighbor – the earth will shake, the Guignol’s imitation of a divine being will send down a thunderbolt, and we’ll be thrown out. No. Not at all. Instead the elegant waitguy said “Thank you Madame, I’ll inform the chef.” And indeed, that’s the way to do it. No anger, no petulance, no BS; the facts, Mam, just the facts.
However, now we get to Tale #2. I ate at a place recommended by two esteemed, seasoned, good judges of food in Paris – Le Charlain in the 9th. It’s the nicest setting, with the nicest chef and hostess, with a nice menu and “menu;” a nice no-smoking room, all nice locals – problem, the food was
neither nice nor tasteful. I had a cassolette of escargots and girolles, ordinarily an intense, richly flavored dish with a heart-stopping butter sauce – nope, tasteless escargots, stringy girolles and a very, very thin sauce (surely much too heart-friendly.) Then, thinking I was smarter than any resto folk and could order defensively without fail, I ordered a confit de canard and potatoes, knowing that the first would be a bit salty and undercooked and the second, garlicky and sumptuous – wrong ! The first was bland and overcooked, the second bland and without character.
End of meal (at least for me – after that, I’m not about to tempt fate by trying a dessert.) So the chef, with whom I had talked quite a bit on being seated and whom I really liked, approaches and I sink into my chair. Am I a man or a mouse? Can I do what my friend the day before did? Am I going to help the chef save his resto, No way! I tug my forelock (well, in my mind), tell him how much I enjoyed being in his restaurant (not exactly a lie,) say I will remember the meal forever (not a lie at all,) and beat a hasty retreat. I rationalize all this cowardice with the explanation to myself that I’ll write the experience and place up, whether for money or not, in order to warn others off from experiencing eating such bad food at such incredibly high prices.
But let’s face the truth. The way Mme LeP. handled it was correct and I was a wimp. As Jesse Jackson said after an extra-marital indiscretion – “The Lord is not done with me yet.” That’s really chickening out, but, hey that’s also 99.99% of us.
My fave is :
Mori Venice Bar 2 rue du 4 Septembre, 2nd (Metro : Bourse)
T: 01.44.55.51.55
Closed Saturday lunch and Sundays
A la carte 40-60 €.
©2006 John A. Talbott
No, I’m not talking about disclosing one’s secret places or being honest in reviews or telling your best friend s/he has bad breath; I’m referring to answering the question – “how was it,” “it satisfied you,” “it was ?” when the waiter or worse, the chef asks. I’ll declare myself up front as a coward, a dishonest diner, a person without a backbone. Two examples.
A bit ago, at Mori Venice Bar, my French downstairs’ neighbor, Madame LeP., my exact age (so we get that out of the equation), told me that her white asparagus had a sauce so salty that it destroyed the flavor of the vegetables – we switched plates as we always do (I had ordered a Bresaola with salad – both of which were excellent) – and I sampled the asparagus – yuck, gag, inedible, I couldn’t eat more than a bite – quick passing back of the dishes. Second course, she had a fantastic, perhaps the best I’ve ever had, blanquette of veal (spoiled only by, yet again, something over-salted, in this case – potatoes.) I, on the other hand, had a fabulous dish of seiches (cuttlefish) in black ink with an (you got it) over-salted polenta. But me, I put the polenta on top of the seiches and wouldn’t you know, the combo – a seiches/polenta/ink sandwich, was spectacular. The meal ended and our cheerful waitperson approached to ask the dreaded/traditional/expected question – “did you like it.” Oh, man, I shuddered, while struggling with what to say. By the way, I’m no more courageous in English, where I usually respond – “Thank you” – at which response, my wife’s eyes approach the ceiling. But Madame LeP. looked him straight in the eyes (no hiding behind euphemisms here) and with a big smile said – yes, everything was fine, except you might want to inform the chef that someone in the kitchen has a heavy hand with the salt. Oh magawd, this is my guest, my friend, my neighbor – the earth will shake, the Guignol’s imitation of a divine being will send down a thunderbolt, and we’ll be thrown out. No. Not at all. Instead the elegant waitguy said “Thank you Madame, I’ll inform the chef.” And indeed, that’s the way to do it. No anger, no petulance, no BS; the facts, Mam, just the facts.
However, now we get to Tale #2. I ate at a place recommended by two esteemed, seasoned, good judges of food in Paris – Le Charlain in the 9th. It’s the nicest setting, with the nicest chef and hostess, with a nice menu and “menu;” a nice no-smoking room, all nice locals – problem, the food was 
neither nice nor tasteful. I had a cassolette of escargots and girolles, ordinarily an intense, richly flavored dish with a heart-stopping butter sauce – nope, tasteless escargots, stringy girolles and a very, very thin sauce (surely much too heart-friendly.) Then, thinking I was smarter than any resto folk and could order defensively without fail, I ordered a confit de canard and potatoes, knowing that the first would be a bit salty and undercooked and the second, garlicky and sumptuous – wrong ! The first was bland and overcooked, the second bland and without character.
End of meal (at least for me – after that, I’m not about to tempt fate by trying a dessert.) So the chef, with whom I had talked quite a bit on being seated and whom I really liked, approaches and I sink into my chair. Am I a man or a mouse? Can I do what my friend the day before did? Am I going to help the chef save his resto, No way! I tug my forelock (well, in my mind), tell him how much I enjoyed being in his restaurant (not exactly a lie,) say I will remember the meal forever (not a lie at all,) and beat a hasty retreat. I rationalize all this cowardice with the explanation to myself that I’ll write the experience and place up, whether for money or not, in order to warn others off from experiencing eating such bad food at such incredibly high prices.
But let’s face the truth. The way Mme LeP. handled it was correct and I was a wimp. As Jesse Jackson said after an extra-marital indiscretion – “The Lord is not done with me yet.” That’s really chickening out, but, hey that’s also 99.99% of us.
My fave is :
Mori Venice Bar
2 rue du 4 Septembre, 2nd (Metro : Bourse)
T: 01.44.55.51.55
Closed Saturday lunch and Sundays
A la carte 40-60 €.
©2006 John A. Talbott
