On the head-to-head of the young chef in his young decor of a young restaurant in a young neighborhood, there is now every chance of falling on the head of a neo-bourgeois 9th, with the room not very wide in scraped stone like on the farm, the therapeutic bench treating scoliosis, tables from the sawmill, the kitchen very gaping to entertain the
stories
and the aforementioned young chef very much in the new culinary “at the same time”, all at the same time anxious to proclaim himself free, author , with a very food conscience, without forgetting the severely Michelinized CV and the visits to the great schools of great chefs.
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We were, rue Lamartine, 9th, in this first solo address of a certain Geoffrey Lengagne, a young chef announced as uninhibited, creative, spontaneous, in love with micro-seasonality just as much as ex-Gagnaire, ex-Keller, ex -etc.
Until the plates here come out face down.
Something rather rare in these little games of fooling period tastes, these really have the means...
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