The Angry Eater

Every single time I’ve graced this establishment with my presence, I’ve been subjected to a bizarre auditory experience that’s anything but French. The last visit was particularly jarring, with Cumbia and Salsa music blasting at decibels that rendered conversation impossible. For a moment, I thought I had teleported to a Mexican restaurant. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good salsa, but when I’m promised a French experience, I expect Edith Piaf, not Celia Cruz. Disorienting, to say the least.

Let’s talk about the ambiance! The smell of the place was reminiscent of a public restroom on a hot summer day. Not exactly the appetizing scent you hope for when about to indulge in supposedly fine dining. And the seating booths? Cramped is an understatement. I felt like a sardine squished in a tin can.

Now, onto the pièce de résistance, the food. Calling it “extremely overpriced” would be a compliment. The only dishes that were remotely palatable were the Mushroom and Barley Risotto and the Steak Tartar.

In conclusion, if you’re looking for an authentic French or even New Orleans-esque experience, you’re better off watching “Ratatouille” at home.