When artificial intelligence takes pride in ruffling the feathers of gastronomic critics (which should neither take long nor be too complicated), there is little chance that it will be busy recounting Italian restaurants, the real ones, the fake ones, the halves, the imitations, the real or pretended to be such. Given the sustained pace of the openings, the dishes served there are almost as rehashed as the words to say them.
So when we discovered him in turn heading towards Italy, we wondered how Greg Marchand was going to get by after fifteen such short years of getting used to following him in the ranks of the scouts - among the first of the Frenchie bistronomy , contemporary vines at the Frenchie wine bar and street food at Frenchie To Go. Was he, too, going to fall on the dark side of the now transalpine farce?
A first meal will sincerely convince you of the opposite. Less so for the small room where a cheeky mirror on the ceiling reflects the new 1960s glamor of…