REVIEW - Bistro L'Eiffel (Chicago)

First of all, you need to know that Bistro L'Eiffel isn't in San Francisco. It isn't even in Chicago proper. It's in Barrington, Illinois, a dull, overpriced and suffering from the housing market implosion suburb of Chicago.

That said, it's a perfect example of what most American suburbanites have to put up with when it comes to eating out, and an equally useful example of why it's better to save up your dining out experiences until you're lucky enough to be in New York, San Francisco, or even LA.

I know that's horribly biased, but what else do you expect from this reviewer?

Bistro L'Eiffel's failings were possibly minor, when taken individually, but when lumped together into one night out, were nevertheless impossible to overlook.

First, the restaurant suffered from the American suburban disease of being located in a mall. Not quite a strip-mall, but it was indisputably a mall.

Second, inside it was laid out like a mall property. A large featureless expanse divided into smaller attempts at Parisian coziness. Needless to say, fail #2.

Next came a high note. Because it was Monday evening, and the normally quiet suburb was about as busy as a wet night on Pluto, all wine was 50% off. This made our choice infinitely more interesting, and as I said, one high note for le restaurant. The ensuing Sancerre was nectar.

My dining companion was a vegetarian co-worker. I don't know whether the fact that he's a co-worker made his choice dull, but his vegetarian-ness certainly didn't contribute any pazazz to the menu selection. In my experience, ordering vegetarian food in a French restaurant is about as interesting as ordering tap water at a wine bar in Champagne.

I shouldn't be so critical, as I showed little imagination in ordering the slow-cooked lamb en croute (which was excellent, if a little buttery in the croute department), chef's salad (I'll never diss a California-sourced salad again), and the chef's platter (which consisted of a tired melee of duck breast, a miniscule quail, and rubbery, andouillete sausage).

All in all, the food could've come from a chef of any nationality in any strip mall in any suburb in most of America.

And that was what confined this escape-to-Paris-wanabe into an ordinary, mid-west business dinner. The middle-of-the-road-ness of it all.

REVIEW - Parallel 37

It's difficult to imagine that anything could be cursed by being situated inside one of San Francisco's most elegant hotels, but that's what The Ritz Carlton on Nob Hill does to Parallel 37.

The setting, the food, the service are all top class. The vibe is non-existent.

It may be that we both travel too often for business that a restaurant in a hotel reminds us too much of work, stealing whatever atmosphere might be there just like opening the hatch on a spacecraft.

Last night's Veal Tortelloni and Kampachi Sashimi appetizers, and slow-cooked Pork and baby Chicken entrees were but brief alternatives to the ... to the .. nothing. The restaurant had no life, no dynamism, no spirit.

Compare that with Bar Agricole, Salt House, or RN74 - places with a surfeit of stuff going on, as well as a knack for preparing great food.

There's little that Parallel 37 can do about it. It's doubly cursed, as not only is it just off the lobby of a hotel, but that hotel - unlike the ones that are home to Michael Mina or Prospect - is atop San Francisco's steepest hill.

Bummer.

REVIEW - Le P'tit Laurent

Not worth the schlepp out to Glen Park, especially as we have so many great French restaurants in the City (L'Ardoise, Chez Papa, Chez Spencer, Garcon et al).

P'tit Laurent doesn't impress with its food, ambience, or decor. It looks like it's been laid out by a decorator with Tourettes and a box of leftovers from a day trip to Paris. There's a mass-produced French poster (Lillets, Folies Bergeres, Tattinger, you know the derivatives) on every inch of wall, and where there isn't, it's filled with Pastis and Ricard ads.

Musically, the French have never led the field, and last night the owners didn't even try to set the scene. No Edith Piaf. No Yves Montand. No Maurice Chevalier. No, they had Country & Western! I'm no expert on any of these, but I'm pretty sure those last two have no place in an allegedly French restaurant.

The tables were jammed into what space is left by the intruding bar, and with that being full of eaters and drinkers it gave the impression we were eating in a French pub.

That would have been OK, if we were eating decent French food. 

We shared (correction: I ordered, and Pavey stole) the Foie Gras pate, which was OK but was accompanied by some cold, dark onions that belonged in a 2 day-old burger. For our entrees, Pavey had the halibut (again "OK" but was joined by a dollop of "too-buttery" mashed potato) and I had the Casoullet (duck, pork, and Toulouse sausage, with beans), and while it too was OK, it didn't come within a yard of the last Casoullet I had, at Bistro Jeanty in Napa.

It sounds like it deserves a RANT, but that would be putting it down too much, and ignoring the fact that I was there with my other, better, beautiful half. 

It was her choice, so I have to give it a bit of stick.

REVIEW - Hunger Games

I was all prepared to pummel this with my lacerating wit and put it down like a, like a, like something that is really down deep. But in the end it was an OK film, albeit targeted fair and square at the 12 to 18 year old demographic that will lap up this sort of adventure-lite.

The story may be a little different than most of the tripe targeted at this group: To memorialize a crushed rebellion 70 odd years earlier, this society has devised a game where each of the 12 provinces pick one girl and one one boy between the ages of 12 and 18 to fight to the death in The Hunger Games.

Just why that was deemed an appropriate memorial was not explained, nor explainable perhaps.

It was way better than I expected, but still somehow lacking. There was nothing that tested the intellect, and it was too obviously set up for the sequels that represent each of the books in the series.

All in all, about as much as the little beggars deserve.

RAVE - The Waterfront

Once in a while I guess we need to shrug it up and dine at one of the touristy spots in San Francisco, even though that could admit us to some tacky places.

Using this inevitable piece of logic, brought on by the burning need to sit out in the glorious sunshine today, we dined at The Waterfront on the - duh - waterfront.

The outside patio has a glass wall around it, which - on a day like today - makes it warm as toast inside.

Our brunch was somewhat exotic, including oysters, shrimp, lobster sandwich, seafood Cobb salad, crab cakes, and steak hash with poached eggs. 

It was a bit over the top, with wait staff dressed like they were on the Titanic, but aside from that the place was a treat.