I made my way through the demilitarized zone called a ?neighborhood? to find Chez Vincent, a hapless yet arrogant grease trap. I heard good things about the restaurant, but in hindsight that was from people who were friends with the owner. The decor is early nineties Pier 1, about as authentic French as part of the ?It?s a Small World? ride. Our waiter arrived and he was everything you?d expect from the French ? rude, dull, malodorous. He immediately started out on the wrong foot by delivering my gin and tonic with his thumb in it. Being excited to dine in a French restaurant, I decided to order the escargot which, when prepared properly, are a must have. When they?re not, you get what I ate ? salty bits of gristle. My wife was craving scallops, but when they came out the stench was even telling my adventurous side that it wasn?t worth the dysentery she was going to get. I couldn?t believe how the waiter still served them after smelling them during the whole trip out from the kitchen. But then again, they probably smelled better than he did that night. When he took her plate away (completely untouched) he didn?t even remark that she didn?t eat any, and I?d swear that was because he was busy ogling her cans right in front of me. The rest of the meal was a comedy of errors ?leathery cuts of meat with off scents disguised by heavy-handed spices and oversalting. Mushy vegetables, watery cocktails, a haphazard wine list that tries solely to cover the restaurant?s mortgage payment, more stolen glances at the wife's knockers. The pie for dessert was so bad I probably would have given it a better rating if I were hitt in the face with it. In summary, I wish I could defecate on a plate and invite Vincent and my snooty waiter over to eat it. Then I?d be returning a favor.
Pros: Vincent has some real guts putting his name on the building
Cons: An unlicensed Chinatown street vendor is probably more sanitary
more