I don't know if, welcomed between the scents of garbage cans and the flowers of smoke bombs, the tourists are back but, last Friday, at lunch, they were numerous.
At least the Japanese.
All in Saint-Germain, rue du Dragon.
At least, at number 8. All at Baillotte, which has just taken over from Altro.
At least, on its ground floor where the very exposed beam and the tavern staircase still give a Latin side to a district that loses it from one season to the next.
At the back of the room, the kitchens offered their concession at the time by being displayed as a flat screen.
It was then easier to understand the Japanese at the table since, behind the glass, two of them were phlegmatizing the stoves.
According to the waitress, one came from Bocuse, the other went through Georges Blanc.
Japanese chefs, blue-white-red cuisine, we now know the song.
Watching them eat, the customers of the Rising Sun dropped their necks.
All studious, diligent, bent over the plate.
Since the Germanopratine beams…
This article is for subscribers only.
You have 68% left to discover.
Want to read more?
Unlock all items immediately.
TEST FOR €0.99
Already subscribed?
Login