Comme Chez Maman, coordinates given before, has been a favorite of ours (and good friends who live upstairs from it) since it opened and the French woman whom I most admire and knows the most about food in France agreed this was a "dandy" idea for a Sunday lunch. When Colette and I arrived, she had
done the American "thing" and ordered some Bordeaux and we plunged into the carte and "menu."
She (the French woman whom I most admire.......etc.) ordered the oeufs Mayo and they and my ceviche of langoustines (third pix) were both prepared just before serving, not yesterday, and thus warm and delicious and Colette had the carpaccio of mushrooms which were equally good. Great start to a great meal - well, "Minute Papillion."
Then, CRASH, everything came tumbling down. Madame, the French woman whom I most admire.......etc. had the entrecote which was by itself OK, but ruined by a strange mustardy-tasting sauce; Colette had a piece of farm chicken with a sauce that was strangely spicy; and I had sauteed girolles (at 14 E mind you) that were overcooked to crispitude.
But we were not about to be defeated by Wim Van Gorp, whom our friend the French woman whom I most admire.....etc., informed us, had, at Market, used the same goofy-off-putting sauces, so we ordered some strawberries, and when the orange-green pots of creme appeared I thought we were on our way to heaven; but halt, stop, achtung, stoppen, without said cream and lots of sugar, they were not much of a much.
So there we were, charged the equivalent of 118 E a couple and our wait-guy completely reversed our bills. It was at this point that our friend, the French woman whom I most admire.....etc., who had previously said she would not write this place up negatively on her blog or guidebook, looked at me and said "let 'er rip."
