The perils of researh

Yesterday I decided to take my daughter with me for a “research” lunch at a tiny restaurant in the Quartier des Banques (the Bank Neighborhood). I’ve often walked past the window of this very narrow establishment, and have been intrigued by the name (“I Feel Bio”) and the menu, which seemed sparse but healthy and refreshing. We were warmly greeted by a host/server and asked if we had a reservation. When I replied negatively, he managed to find us a seat at the end of a long elevated table next to two German women, the one next to me with pointy elbows who was annoyingly edging towards my very limited, personal table space. The day’s menu featured a chicken curry (I was making chicken satay for dinner), a fish pastilla which raisins (not a fan of raisins), a vegetarian, almond sushi plate (serisously?) and a brown basmati risotto. I had to go for the risotto, and stirred my daughter in the same direction. The “brown rice” should have been a red flag for me. When the dishes came out, my daughter looked incredulously at hers and said “is it oatmeal?” Visually it was already not at all enticing, and the taste and most of all texture just confirmed that neither of us was going to finish our plate. What I couldn’t understand was that they charged CHF 26 ($27.50) for this vegetarian dish with no first course or salad – nothing. And the place was packed! I was appalled and apologized to my daughter on behalf of the kitchen. We were both embarrassed to leave our dishes full as I asked for the bill and when the server asked us how our meal went I just muttered that we were in a hurry, incapable of pronouncing how I really felt. In any case, the other people in the restaurant seemed happy, so perhaps ours was just a fluke, and everything else they serve is downright delicious. I like giving places (and people) a second chance like that.

Fortunately just around the corner is a temple to French pastry which would surely wipe any disappointing culinary experience away, at least for my daughter (who was taking notes on her little notebook about the meal she had just experienced). There she had a selection of macarons, one of her favorite treats, and I had a delicious cannelé, a small French pastry of vanilla dough spike with rhum in a tiny bundt form with a crutsty caramelized outside and a soft, chewy filling (delicate to bake, due to temperature, timing and resting period). Our brown rice risotto nightmare was behind us. The thing was, the restaurant was packed and the pastry shop was empty, albeit for three white-haired ladies and us. What did we learn from this? Folks can’t live on pastry alone…