RN74 (Route Nationale 74) will take you and your Bentley through Burgundy, admiring villages like Morey-St-Denis, Nuit St Georges, Pommard, Gevrey-Chambertin and more.
You get tipsy just reading the map!
RN74 the restaurant is Michael Mina's "bargain" at the foot of the Millenium Tower. See my review of our meal at his main restaurant in town.
I had been led to believe that RN74 was a hip and happening place, but it fell way short of that. The clientele - albeit on a Saturday night - averaged 60 years old; a real blazer and blue rinse crew. At first I described it as cougar central, but Pavey reckoned none of the women was trying hard enough to warrant that label.
The food was perfect, more approachable and perhaps even better than the main Michael Mina place. My cauliflower, prosciutto, pecorino and potato appetizer was crisp and very tasty, while my Confit de Canard was straight outta Concorde (Paris); Pavey's Pork Belly and Clams were perfect, and her Sturgeon was meaty and marvelous. This all came as a pleasant surprise, because when you first look at the menu all you think is "where's the rest?" Compared with the wine selection, the food menu is strikingly gaunt.
If the food hadn't been perfect, I would've been really annoyed at the place.
First of all, it's overpoweringly and distractingly noisy. Immediately inside the door you're pitched into a melee of loud-mouthed drinkers; the bar area covers as much space as the restaurant. The shape of the room - long and kinda narrow - means the noise from the bar hammers along through the restaurant, making diners shout to get heard. Maybe this was RN74 at its Saturday night worst, but I can't see the place ever being described as romantic or relaxing. Or happening.
The strangest, and most annoying detail of all were the burly waiters. The regular staff wear blue shirts and white aprons. The "senior" staff manage the wine, and for some inexplicable reason they're all fat and wear their own ill-fitting semi-casual jackets, jeans or shabby pants, and sneakers. I could care less what they wear, but with these porkers milling around in the middle of the restaurant, constantly squeezing past the staff delivering food, the back of my chair was repeatedly knocked by one fat fart or another.
In one comical but out-of-place-for-an-allegedly-classy-restaurant episode, the waiter clearing our table stepped on my left foot, and one of the aforementioned corpulent sommeliers stepped on my right foot.
Maybe "sports bar sans TV" is what Mina is aiming for, but he'd better start advertising it as such in order to avoid disappointing his customers.
I had been led to believe that RN74 was a hip and happening place, but it fell way short of that. The clientele - albeit on a Saturday night - averaged 60 years old; a real blazer and blue rinse crew. At first I described it as cougar central, but Pavey reckoned none of the women was trying hard enough to warrant that label.
The food was perfect, more approachable and perhaps even better than the main Michael Mina place. My cauliflower, prosciutto, pecorino and potato appetizer was crisp and very tasty, while my Confit de Canard was straight outta Concorde (Paris); Pavey's Pork Belly and Clams were perfect, and her Sturgeon was meaty and marvelous. This all came as a pleasant surprise, because when you first look at the menu all you think is "where's the rest?" Compared with the wine selection, the food menu is strikingly gaunt.
If the food hadn't been perfect, I would've been really annoyed at the place.
First of all, it's overpoweringly and distractingly noisy. Immediately inside the door you're pitched into a melee of loud-mouthed drinkers; the bar area covers as much space as the restaurant. The shape of the room - long and kinda narrow - means the noise from the bar hammers along through the restaurant, making diners shout to get heard. Maybe this was RN74 at its Saturday night worst, but I can't see the place ever being described as romantic or relaxing. Or happening.
The strangest, and most annoying detail of all were the burly waiters. The regular staff wear blue shirts and white aprons. The "senior" staff manage the wine, and for some inexplicable reason they're all fat and wear their own ill-fitting semi-casual jackets, jeans or shabby pants, and sneakers. I could care less what they wear, but with these porkers milling around in the middle of the restaurant, constantly squeezing past the staff delivering food, the back of my chair was repeatedly knocked by one fat fart or another.
In one comical but out-of-place-for-an-allegedly-classy-restaurant episode, the waiter clearing our table stepped on my left foot, and one of the aforementioned corpulent sommeliers stepped on my right foot.
Maybe "sports bar sans TV" is what Mina is aiming for, but he'd better start advertising it as such in order to avoid disappointing his customers.
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