Etherhuffer's Synaptic Chasm

More Eatin Fun

World Wrapps 

Category: Sandwiches            
Neighborhood: First Hill

Jesus, why do they have to call a burrito a 'wrapp?'   For god's sake, its a flour tortilla made with spinach, maybe green dye, maybe soylent green. Don't know, don't care. I really despise places that have to make up some faux ethnic lets hold hands and save the world while eating chicken grown in Arkansas but nobody's gonna check cuz we're corporate and we can all get rich and eat tofu fo eva. Whatever. Why not hit a nice White Center roach coach for a real burrito? Maybe Thai Star up the street for real Thai? This place reeks of food-intellectual laziness.

OK. In a pinch, its better than McDonalds across the street. And to its credit it doesn't reek of fuckin hippy cumin and lentils. But the kids from O'Dea High School at McDonalds are way more fun to hang in line with than all the uptight food Nazis who need a "natural" lunch at Wrapps. Burp.

Where Was I?

Lost to the world I guess. Too busy to type away on all sorts of nonsense. How about a nice restaurant review!

Andre's 

Category: French

Looks like the other reviewers have never been to France per se. We went to this joint(!) expecting French style dining. It was basically your local steakhouse, albeit a good, with lots of folks hanging around acting serious. Lacking a week's bowel movements I could easily imitate these stuffy waiter wanna be's. A waiter in France is your pilot and guide, going where you tell the pilot to go, but always giving you a tour that fits your flight path. These folks were all faux accent and stupid stern faces. French waiters don't need stern faces, they are in command de facto and don't need to show it.

The first thing to tip us off that this was faux French was the lack of Badoit water on the 'menu d'eau.' Any Frenchman worth his fizzies knows that God himself springs forth from the bubbling cauldron of Badoit. Drink Badoit and all other clear liquids not alcoholic will pale like a gay pastel-adulterated tempera mixed with day-glo and tarted up under a black light.

The waiter, frustrated at being unable to car-jack us with bottled water, asked if we wanted "drinks.:"   How about asking us about an 'apertif', "DUDE!".   Yes, we start with an apertif, preferably a nice Pernod. Nope, straight to 'what would you like for starters?', Damn, I might have felt all loose and ordered the table a round of Kir Royales, but instead had to forego this,and head straight to.......the dinner wine!

What, no white with our nice foie gras with quince(the foie gras arriving in a rather morgue like chill)?.  Look, no white with pate or foie gras and I am ready to kill the little idiot. He wants into my wallet, which is trolling for food like a Parisian whore carrying a French Bulldog in the Bois d' Bologne trolls for trannys but NO! The guy with the pine cone kicked up his rear rushes us for the dinner bottle. Woe is me. And mind you, he didn't ask if I wanted my salad midway, just trotted it out with the rest of the starters. Shitheaded savage.

The mains arrived and the dish covers came off with a flourish and a shouted "Voila!" to get us going. Gee, thanks, I think. By this time I am washing my tonsils on a passable Margaux our friends decided on. The main courses were good, but only steakhouse good. The lamb was rare as asked for which was nice. I was getting a glow on as the sleazy guys in silk shirts with pneumatic girlfriends started to roll in. That was the AHA! moment! They are catering to guys who have a wallet and want to show it so everyone can see. They don't want French, they want a tarted up steakhouse to impress the silicone leaden floozy they plan groping soon after! Mais Oui! Now I get it!

The dessert souffle was indeed well done, but it must be said that if you told a French chef that the last course had made the meal, or god forbid the cheese course, he would be gravely insulted. Why? Its a left handed compliment against the main course. Get it?

Hilariously enough we trotted back to our hotel on very light feet after the helium intense effect on our wallets and tried to order a whisky cask aged ale. And guess what no merde? The waiter was a young Frenchman! He apologized profusely that the taps were bust on this keg. We asked his choice instead and he confidently stated that while France was not a huge beer country, we might like to try the Kronenburg beer. We knew the beer and agreed. When he brought them out we asked his home of origin and he noted that his city was famous for pastis, Henri Bardouin, if I remember correctly. We spoke a bit about our favorites, from the Henri to the basic Rickard or Pernod. He was so happy that we had heard of this that he comped a couple of Pernods! We told him that while its odd to drink with beer, the kindness was appreciated. And it truly was.

So avoid this place unless you just hit the big one and have the bimbo of your dreams at hand. If you want real French, come visit Rover's in Seattle, or even Campangne. You won't get the stuffy BS, and you will get good food without the attitude. Bon Chance!

11/25/2007