Open secret, the critic is a solitary bird.
Alone at the table, alone facing his plate.
The small mythology of the profession is amused by it between
The Wing or the Thigh
and
Ratatouille
, the antics of Louis de Funès, the morgue of Anton Ego.
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At
Le Figaro
, we push honesty to rub shoulders with it as a duo (who really goes to a restaurant alone?) but we might as well recognize that it's not such a common affair, at the moment of the chronicle, to find yourself in number - four on the counter - in one and the same address.
That's all the happiness (or misfortune) of this Alfred, a fresh bistro in the beautiful neighborhoods with pretty Mondrianesque walls where four brothers try to prove that egg mayo (even twisted with lovage and trout eggs) is now soluble in near Saint-Honoré.
Read alsoArdent restaurant in Paris, kitchen with apathetic embers
Approach in grouped flight which therefore and suddenly offers a lot of wandering à la carte.
Four starters, four dishes, four desserts on order, i.e. the almost complete, the almost total, the fine comb, the search in order...
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