1.0 Chez Marcel, 7 rue Stanislas in the 6th (Metro: ND Champs or Vavin), 01.45.48.29.94, closed weekends, sounded like the perfect "date setting" for me and my terribly discerning pal from the 5th. Open forever, heavy with cuisine from Lyon, recently "madeover" and loved (3/5) by one Emmanuel Rubin, it met all my desired objectives.
Back-story (related for no reason at all). I was in a fog, got on the bus from my place in the opposite direction from the Metro I should have taken, was absorbed in a Figaro article by F. Simon on eating at the Lutetia for -40%, looked up and realized it was 12h30, the time of my rez, several clicks away. Metro would take 30 min; buses chancy with all the rain and construction; taxi - that's it (Sorry Colette). Descend, pouring rain on the Champs-Elysees; 2 Russkie oligarch bimbos pushing in front of me at the Taxi rank. No way. Forlock-pulling time when I arrive at the resto late 30 minutes for sure. Get on Metro; arrive 13h00. No "date" there. She calls, "I'll be late, go ahead and order." Ach. All this rushing for naught.
We both go for classics (no patagos today): me, the Lyon sausage with potatoes - sausage she deems "dry", I think "flavorless", potatoes bathed in water, even with mustard, barely finish 1/2; she, eggs mayo, banal, unimaginative, puhlease!
For mains, two more Lyon classics: she had the andouillette which indeed had the requisite uriniferous taste while I had two white thighs of quenelles with a cute little red langoustine poking up between them - well - let's say neither of us commented on this at length anyway. Neither distinguished itself.
Go? Are you reading the lines or between the lines or over the lines? Heavens no.
