Once you step into this Adorable French Bistro, you’ll feel as though you just ducked out of the rain after winding through the ancient cobblestone streets of Paris, even though you’ve probably never been to Paris because you’re poor and uncultured and, frankly, would stick out like a sore, fat American thumb. Though located in America (gross), this little bistro is as authentic as they come and will transport you straight to Nice or Marseille or some other place you’ve probably never even fucking heard of, you plebe.
I started with the beet salad, which included thick hunks of roasted as well as thin slices of raw beets, all topped with a generous glob of creamy goat cheese and a delicate vinaigrette to finish it off. It was delicious, even though we had to eat it right off the plate because the third time we asked our rude but authentically French waiter for share plates, he mumbled something about Americans under his breath and stormed outside to curse the moon.
For my entree, I ordered the shakshuka or, as it said on the menu “chakchuka,” with fries. My companion, a native French speaker who nevertheless decided to order with an American accent so as not to seem pretentious, asked for “a Croque Monseiur with an egg” and the waiter immediately corrected him “Croque Madame.” I watched their ensuing physical altercation while sipping on a perfectly balanced Mimosa, the champagne pleasantly stinging my tongue as the two men circled each other will balled up fists.
Once they both realized they were pussies who’d never been in a real fight before, my companion and the waiter settled down. Soon after our entrees arrived, mine with a salad instead of the fries I had ordered. When I pointed out this error to the waiter, he wordlessly took my entire plate away and disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing 10 minutes later with the same “chakchuka” and a plate of french fries and informed me that I had most definitely ordered a salad instead of fries. I let the comment go without pointing out the obvious to the waiter: that I, a woman, would never forget a move so bold as ordering french fries for fucking breakfast. The food was cold but delicious, and my companion enjoyed his Croque Madame, wounded pride and all.
The helpings were generous and I asked for half of my meal to be boxed up so I could finish it later. Our waiter took my plate into the kitchen and came back out immediately, empty-handed. I waited about 10 minutes before asking him if he had my leftovers, and he told me to wait while he sauntered back into the kitchen. When he returned another 10 minutes later, hands empty once again, he said simply, “It’s in the garbage.”
At that point, our bellies full and satisfied with the delicious meal, my companion and I took the hint and asked for the check. When it arrived 20 minutes later, the bill for our modest brunch amounted to a confusing $250. Rather than asking the waiter, our sworn enemy, how it could possibly have cost that much, we simply stood up and ran out of the restaurant as fast as we could. Several members of the restaurant staff tried to chase us but, the French being notoriously heavy smokers, they all gave up after half a block, heaving and wheezing on the freezing cold sidewalk, and we slowed to a stroll so that we could enjoy each other’s company after such a romantic meal.
All in all, it was a unique and inspiring dining experience, and I give it five stars. Head to this Adorable French Bistro for the food, stay for the rude bordering on threatening service — then fuck off, you dumb piece of American shit.