“It’s the wrong time and the wrong place
Though your face is charming, it’s the wrong face ………………………………………………..
And it’s alright with me.”
(Cole Porter 1953)
We all remember that wonderful song and I was humming it halfway through my trip through Italy last month because I’d made an incredible mistake. I’d certainly been to the “wrong place.” Here’s what happened:
After carefully researching a “slow food” place in Foligno (PG) in Umbria for dinner, Colette and I made reservations, hopped in the car and drove through the pouring rain to downtown Foligno from our suburban hotel. The streets of the town, like those in so many cities in Europe, are now purposefully and haphazardly one-way, so it’s torture to get in and out of the old town centers. Drive on we did until I found the via Garibaldi, peering out the foggy windows for street numbers. Finally we spied a hotel and I hopped out and consulted the desk-person – “just down the street Sir on your right, past the church square.” We drove past the square, found a parking spot and jumped out and practically through the restaurant door. Whew, not too wet! I gave my name to our white-maned host who was delighted to see and seat us. Though only 8:30, the place was packed and he turned away the next couple who came knocking. Soon afterwards he came to the table and gave us another warm welcome, smiling, tie and handkerchief just right; a pour of white bubbly, perfect – what a find! And, we congratulated ourselves, it possessed three primo indicators in the Osterie d’Italia Guide; the cheese, wine and slow food (snail) symbols. The antipasti delivered (unrequested) were generous: proscuitto, foccacia, cheese bread, meat in bread pastry, ham in bread pastry, stuffed zucchini and tomatoes and beans – all in very rich, almost greasy products. Colette was the first to express doubts; the antipasti starches were too rich, too much like lard, she declared “enough already.” Then the lights went out and the power was off. When the power blinked back on, I looked over at the bar and saw a sign that said Broseccheria and my bird brain must have recognized that this place was not the Bacco Felice we’d reserved at and headed for; but wait, hadn’t I asked the concierge, who drew a map; the neighboring hotel,
indeed our host, when we entered? But I was snowed, even after a one-hour wait for the pasta – hey, said I, this is slow food, you want McDo’s, you go there, this is real food. For a first, one was forced to choose between two pastas, the most interesting one having a “kind of broccoli” and arugula – but tasteless, call for cheese, a bit better, but still pretty pathetic. Now it’s dawning on us that this place defines the bottom of the scale, all food in Italy is not great, some is dreadful, even for 45 €. Out! Lesson learned: What a difference 26 street numbers on the via Garibaldi in Foligno make.
Another error I’ve made twice in Paris is calling a place I’ve been to a dozen times before and half on autopilot hearing the “Nunnn, nunnn, bon soir” and making a reservation only to arrive at the place and find, in one case, that it was now an Italian pizza/pasta place not a French resto with the chef’s name up in lights and in the other case (Grande Rue), that the beloved bistro had just disappeared and in its place was sitting a rotisserie/wine bar/beer garden. In the case of the former, I had a backup place, for whatever weird reason, to which we quickly decamped and in the case of the latter, my downstairs’ neighbor and I quickly calculated that Thierry Burlot was only a few blocks away and never fully booked. Lesson learned: Always have a backup place.
My final gaff, made several times, is when the chef at a restaurant leaves but you’re not really informed about it. This happened most notably at l’Histoire de…., a neighborhood place that opened with little fanfare a few years ago and quickly became a nearby favorite. As I said, we ate there several times and introduced friends to it and loved it. One night I went back alone and it just didn’t seem the same, in fact it was pretty horrid. My hawkeyed neighbor, who gets his exercise walking these very streets in the early AM, noticed that suddenly the bottom of the carte no longer had two chefs names because one had been “whited-out.” Happy ending: Last year a new young chef came in and the food is once again great for a local place.
Mega-lesson: If it’s “the wrong place,” sometimes “it’s alright with me,” but more often it’s not.
However two places you’ll have no problem finding are:
Thierry Burlot
8 Rue Nicolas Charlet, 15th (Metro: Pasteur)
T: 01.42.19.08.59
Closed Saturday lunch and Sunday.
Formula 26 €, menu-carte 32 €, degustation menu 52 €.
L’Histoire de…
14, rue Ferdinand Flocon, 18th (Metro: Jules Joffrin)
T: 01.42.52.24.60
Closed Sundays
Lunch menu 29 €, a la carte about 35 €
©2006 John A. Talbott
“It’s the wrong time and the wrong place
Though your face is charming, it’s the wrong face
………………………………………………..
And it’s alright with me.”
(Cole Porter 1953)
We all remember that wonderful song and I was humming it halfway through my trip through Italy last month because I’d made an incredible mistake. I’d certainly been to the “wrong place.” Here’s what happened:
After carefully researching a “slow food” place in Foligno (PG) in Umbria for dinner, Colette and I made reservations, hopped in the car and drove through the pouring rain to downtown Foligno from our suburban hotel. The streets of the town, like those in so many cities in Europe, are now purposefully and haphazardly one-way, so it’s torture to get in and out of the old town centers. Drive on we did until I found the via Garibaldi, peering out the foggy windows for street numbers. Finally we spied a hotel and I hopped out and consulted the desk-person – “just down the street Sir on your right, past the church square.” We drove past the square, found a parking spot and jumped out and practically through the restaurant door. Whew, not too wet! I gave my name to our white-maned host who was delighted to see and seat us. Though only 8:30, the place was packed and he turned away the next couple who came knocking. Soon afterwards he came to the table and gave us another warm welcome, smiling, tie and handkerchief just right; a pour of white bubbly, perfect – what a find! And, we congratulated ourselves, it possessed three primo indicators in the Osterie d’Italia Guide; the cheese, wine and slow food (snail) symbols. The antipasti delivered (unrequested) were generous: proscuitto, foccacia, cheese bread, meat in bread pastry, ham in bread pastry, stuffed zucchini and tomatoes and beans – all in very rich, almost greasy products. Colette was the first to express doubts; the antipasti starches were too rich, too much like lard, she declared “enough already.” Then the lights went out and the power was off. When the power blinked back on, I looked over at the bar and saw a sign that said Broseccheria and my bird brain must have recognized that this place was not the Bacco Felice we’d reserved at and headed for; but wait, hadn’t I asked the concierge, who drew a map; the neighboring hotel, 
indeed our host, when we entered? But I was snowed, even after a one-hour wait for the pasta – hey, said I, this is slow food, you want McDo’s, you go there, this is real food. For a first, one was forced to choose between two pastas, the most interesting one having a “kind of broccoli” and arugula – but tasteless, call for cheese, a bit better, but still pretty pathetic. Now it’s dawning on us that this place defines the bottom of the scale, all food in Italy is not great, some is dreadful, even for 45 €. Out! Lesson learned: What a difference 26 street numbers on the via Garibaldi in Foligno make.
Another error I’ve made twice in Paris is calling a place I’ve been to a dozen times before and half on autopilot hearing the “Nunnn, nunnn, bon soir” and making a reservation only to arrive at the place and find, in one case, that it was now an Italian pizza/pasta place not a French resto with the chef’s name up in lights and in the other case (Grande Rue), that the beloved bistro had just disappeared and in its place was sitting a rotisserie/wine bar/beer garden. In the case of the former, I had a backup place, for whatever weird reason, to which we quickly decamped and in the case of the latter, my downstairs’ neighbor and I quickly calculated that Thierry Burlot was only a few blocks away and never fully booked. Lesson learned: Always have a backup place.
My final gaff, made several times, is when the chef at a restaurant leaves but you’re not really informed about it. This happened most notably at l’Histoire de…., a neighborhood place that opened with little fanfare a few years ago and quickly became a nearby favorite. As I said, we ate there several times and introduced friends to it and loved it. One night I went back alone and it just didn’t seem the same, in fact it was pretty horrid. My hawkeyed neighbor, who gets his exercise walking these very streets in the early AM, noticed that suddenly the bottom of the carte no longer had two chefs names because one had been “whited-out.” Happy ending: Last year a new young chef came in and the food is once again great for a local place.
Mega-lesson: If it’s “the wrong place,” sometimes “it’s alright with me,” but more often it’s not.
However two places you’ll have no problem finding are:
Thierry Burlot
8 Rue Nicolas Charlet, 15th (Metro: Pasteur)
T: 01.42.19.08.59
Closed Saturday lunch and Sunday.
Formula 26 €, menu-carte 32 €, degustation menu 52 €.
L’Histoire de…
14, rue Ferdinand Flocon, 18th (Metro: Jules Joffrin)
T: 01.42.52.24.60
Closed Sundays
Lunch menu 29 €, a la carte about 35 €
©2006 John A. Talbott
