Honestly people, with the emotional outpouring caused by my negative review of Montsouris the other month, you’d think I came to your house and ate your dog. I mean, nervous encouragement is all very well when you’re trying to make yummy sounds at your five-year-old’s mud pies, but is that treatment really necessary for an upscale French bistro? Surely not; and if the phrase ‘…but they worked so hard’ was an acceptable excuse for failure, Rumsfeld might still be employed (tho I might not be).
But just to set the record straight, this weekend saw me return to the scene of the crime. I’d promised I wouldn’t, but circumstances and visiting Midwesterners prevailed. My one stipulation – insist on a seat at the cozy and elegant front instead of the rather pathetic back area when making the reservation.
It began on a low note – On arrival the front-seat promise was haughtily disavowed. Instead of walking out or, say, bursting into tears, we agreed to an awkward table wedged next to the reception desk. Really, anything is better than the back at Montsouris , even the disapproving sniffs of a maitre D.
But the tone was soon improved with witty French banter from our server, and some surprisingly tasty food. The Pate de Campagne was that charming combo of meat and pure grease that only French and Chinese food can get away with. The frites were slim and crunchy, the rib-eye thick and juicy. The Kobe beef, while not reminiscent of all that beer-fed cow can be, was acceptably flavorful. I didn’t try The pork special but I hear it was more than alright.
Am I withdrawing my previous scorn? Must I admit that Montsouris should have been given the benefit of the doubt on my first painful visit? Alas no. The proof came four hours later when all three of us who’d eaten steaks became violently ill, a rather delicate situation in a single-bathroom apartment. No meal should have to end with half your party needing to find the locker room in your building’s gym because both of your own drains are already occupied.
Too much info? It’s tough to tell after a meal like that. Perhaps it is as my critics insist, that the staff at Montsouris carefully lies in wait for my reservation before they break out the scary. But I’m really really not going back; I mean it this time. Really.