Thoumieux Peut Faire Mieux: Thoumieux Can Do Better
Today, an unfortunate trend has crept into French restaurants, and I would like to signal it to the discerning traveler who is still in search of a good meal. A case in point, is the chain of restaurants created by the Costes brothers, who have managed to snag some of the finest real estate in Paris and serve up mediocre food accompanied by indifferent service.
Case in point: Thoumieux, the latest Costes venture, is a remake of an old address on Rue Saint Dominique. For years, it was known and beloved by locals and tourists along for serving traditional, reasonably priced food. In more recent years, it had fallen off that level of quality, and the decor was both shabby and dirty. In short, the owners were milking the joint for all it was worth.
Along come the Costes, in the form of Thierry Coste, who had the brilliant idea of refurbishing the restaurant and making it into a so-called cutting-edge brasserie. Moreover, there is a new chef in the kitchen: Jean-Françoise Piège, formerly the chef at the Crillon Hotel’s restaurant Les Ambassadeurs. In short this was not going to be standard Costes fare.
The night we arrived, our car was parked by a “voiturier” as if we were Hollywood stars. Inside, we found a mixed crowd of golden boy traders in suits and open shirts, wannabe models in minis and shorts, as well as people like ourselves, curious to check out the place and have a good feed.
At the table we are served warm, country-style bread and a spread made with French-style cream cheese and anchovies. Since it was a warm night, we decided to split a mesclun salad with fresh goat cheese, and order the Bresse chicken with morels and a slice of polenta. While the salad was tasty and ordinary, the chicken was a tourist-piège or trap (a small thigh, three morels, a tablespoon of luke-warm sauce, and a makeup sponge size of polenta. Costes was putting us on a diet at 30€ the dish.
Then came the Thoumieux version of profiteroles: one small puff pastry with coffee ice cream, a thin disk of chocolate on top and a pot of hot chocolate sauce. The pastry was doughy and clearly not worthy of the much publicized Piège reputation.
When I complained about the lack of service and the meager portions, the maitre d’ offered me a glass of champagne and shrugged his shoulders Gallically. The man who took our coats at the door, where Piège’s latest cookbook is boldly visible, agreed that the restaurant was failing to live up to its press.
As I left the restaurant, I couldn’t help noticing golden boys eating their fries and their fried fish with their fingers. Was this the rich man’s version of “Fingerlickin’ good Kentucky Fried Chicken?”
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