Upon arriving (late July), I ask the waitress for a Lillet. What's that, she asks?
It's an apperatif, I tell her.
"We don't have it."
"OK. Do you have Dubonnet?"
"I don't think so."
"Please just go ask the bartender whether you have Lillet or Dubonnet," I instruct her. She returns with a frosty Lillet and nary a word of contrition.
It gets better.
I order the steak tartar. It arrives, sans frites or any other meaningful starch except a few cornichons. I suspect they will come out momentarily. When they don't, I ask Ms. Lillet, "Wasn't there supposed to be some fries with this?"
Oh no she assures me, they are not included. But she can sell me some a la carte.
I pass on the offer, conscious of the cost of our meal and the putitive health benies of a strict all protein diet, even speculating that such a diet may improve my memory as well since I coulda sworn....
On the way out, however, I can't help but glance at the menu posted by the door and, of course, it clearly says you should get freakin' frites with your tartar! Amazing.
So I politely call this oversight to the maitre d'hotel and he lamely hands me one of the place's generic business cards and mutters something about cashing it in for some sorta undisclosed goodies on my next visit.
I shoulda raised a ruckus there and then, but I also shouldn't have to. And needless to say, there won't be a 'next visit.'
Au revoir, Belleville.
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