Upon entering La Parisienne, I was immediately concerned that I was at the wrong restaurant, as the odd, curly-haired maitre’d welcomed me to “Frenchy’s.” Thankfully, he confirmed that my reservation was accurate, and, as he ushered my party to our table, informed us that the restaurant was under new management.
Based on my experience, I have dire concerns about this new management.
The restaurant’s decor is a bit showy — I would go so far as to call it pretentious — conjuring the impression of a parlor favored by French aristocracy. The surroundings clashed jarringly with the appearance and bearing of my waiter, a gruff, weathered man with a bowl-cut hairstyle who asked, “What can I get for you bums?”
Though taken aback, I ordered a bottle of Nouveau Beaujolais, a bowl of ragout d’huitres, and the oie rotie avec lardoons.
The waiter stared at me, dumbfounded, until I explained my order in English. When I mentioned the entree, the roast goose, he asked how I wanted it cooked.
“Properly,” I retorted, at which point he shouted into the scullery that “Frenchy wants the gander cooked properly.”
“Oh,” the rotund, bald cook shouted back, “a proper gander,” causing our waiter to shake his fist with barely concealed rage and mutter, “Quiet, you.”
Already, my guests were growing concerned, and it was clear that no one had much interest in discussing the merits of director Michael Haneke’s catalogue, as was our original intent.
The waiter departed and returned with the Nouveau Beaujolais and my ragout. He opened the bottle of wine, which I realize now that I should have noticed was unmarked, and poured a glass. As he handed it to me, I noted that a strange mist was rising from the wine’s surface, akin to dry ice, yet the waiter insisted I drink. Fearing retribution, I took a sip.
So potent was the “Nouveau Beaujolais” that suddenly, as if by forces beyond my control, I began spinning in my chair, my bowtie flapping about! Never before or since have I experienced anything similar, and I often lay awake at night poring over the incident.
I sent the wine back, poured myself a glass of water, and attempted to cleanse my palate with the ragout.
I delicately placed a single cracker upon the surface of the thin oyster stew, and, when I turned to lift my soup spoon from the table, I heard a small snapping noise. Upon rotating back to the stew, I discovered that my cracker was gone. Undaunted, I placed another cracker upon the surface, again turned to retrieve my spoon, and once more heard the snap. Again, the cracker was gone.
After this continued seven or eight more times, I discovered that the chef had somehow managed to prepare an oyster stew containing a live oyster, which, rather than feeding on plankton, as is the oyster’s custom, had developed a taste for the small, octagonal soup crackers which bear its name.
After the oyster comically spit a stream of stew into my startled face, I summoned our waiter and demanded he dispose of the ragout.
As he wandered away, quietly referring to me as a “dope,” our maitre’d returned and began to play the violin, quite loudly, directly into my ear, in order to “set the mood,” as he put it. Though he was skilled with the instrument, it had become clear to me that I would not be recommending La Parisienne.
Before my oie rotie avec lardoons could arrive, a series of events took place which I can only describe by that hackneyed cliche of “the perfect storm.” Firstly, the scullery door banged open and the cook emerged, merrily pushing a tray of banana cream pies and singing to himself in a high-pitched falsetto.
Secondly, an aged dowager entered the restaurant, a pair of opera glasses at the ready, and began berating the three staff members, claiming that they had “bungled (her) restaurant just as they had bungled (her) painting project, (her) plumbing, and (her) ostrich farm.”
Within seconds, the three began hurling pies at the dowager and each other, driving her screaming to her knees between shouts of “Well, I never!” and “You dunces!” and so forth.
It was at this point that my guests and I left La Parisienne.
While I cannot recommend the fare, it is perhaps worth pointing out that several of the male customers at the venue seemed to enjoy the spectacle of the place if not the cuisine. However, I do not recommend it to women, as the few female patrons I saw did not seem in the least amused by the antics of the three restauranteurs.
Based on my experience, I have dire concerns about this new management.
The restaurant’s decor is a bit showy — I would go so far as to call it pretentious — conjuring the impression of a parlor favored by French aristocracy. The surroundings clashed jarringly with the appearance and bearing of my waiter, a gruff, weathered man with a bowl-cut hairstyle who asked, “What can I get for you bums?”
Though taken aback, I ordered a bottle of Nouveau Beaujolais, a bowl of ragout d’huitres, and the oie rotie avec lardoons.
The waiter stared at me, dumbfounded, until I explained my order in English. When I mentioned the entree, the roast goose, he asked how I wanted it cooked.
“Properly,” I retorted, at which point he shouted into the scullery that “Frenchy wants the gander cooked properly.”
“Oh,” the rotund, bald cook shouted back, “a proper gander,” causing our waiter to shake his fist with barely concealed rage and mutter, “Quiet, you.”
Already, my guests were growing concerned, and it was clear that no one had much interest in discussing the merits of director Michael Haneke’s catalogue, as was our original intent.
The waiter departed and returned with the Nouveau Beaujolais and my ragout. He opened the bottle of wine, which I realize now that I should have noticed was unmarked, and poured a glass. As he handed it to me, I noted that a strange mist was rising from the wine’s surface, akin to dry ice, yet the waiter insisted I drink. Fearing retribution, I took a sip.
So potent was the “Nouveau Beaujolais” that suddenly, as if by forces beyond my control, I began spinning in my chair, my bowtie flapping about! Never before or since have I experienced anything similar, and I often lay awake at night poring over the incident.
I sent the wine back, poured myself a glass of water, and attempted to cleanse my palate with the ragout.
I delicately placed a single cracker upon the surface of the thin oyster stew, and, when I turned to lift my soup spoon from the table, I heard a small snapping noise. Upon rotating back to the stew, I discovered that my cracker was gone. Undaunted, I placed another cracker upon the surface, again turned to retrieve my spoon, and once more heard the snap. Again, the cracker was gone.
After this continued seven or eight more times, I discovered that the chef had somehow managed to prepare an oyster stew containing a live oyster, which, rather than feeding on plankton, as is the oyster’s custom, had developed a taste for the small, octagonal soup crackers which bear its name.
After the oyster comically spit a stream of stew into my startled face, I summoned our waiter and demanded he dispose of the ragout.
As he wandered away, quietly referring to me as a “dope,” our maitre’d returned and began to play the violin, quite loudly, directly into my ear, in order to “set the mood,” as he put it. Though he was skilled with the instrument, it had become clear to me that I would not be recommending La Parisienne.
Before my oie rotie avec lardoons could arrive, a series of events took place which I can only describe by that hackneyed cliche of “the perfect storm.” Firstly, the scullery door banged open and the cook emerged, merrily pushing a tray of banana cream pies and singing to himself in a high-pitched falsetto.
Secondly, an aged dowager entered the restaurant, a pair of opera glasses at the ready, and began berating the three staff members, claiming that they had “bungled (her) restaurant just as they had bungled (her) painting project, (her) plumbing, and (her) ostrich farm.”
Within seconds, the three began hurling pies at the dowager and each other, driving her screaming to her knees between shouts of “Well, I never!” and “You dunces!” and so forth.
It was at this point that my guests and I left La Parisienne.
While I cannot recommend the fare, it is perhaps worth pointing out that several of the male customers at the venue seemed to enjoy the spectacle of the place if not the cuisine. However, I do not recommend it to women, as the few female patrons I saw did not seem in the least amused by the antics of the three restauranteurs.