My mom has the hots for Anthony Bourdain. And I get it. What's not to love about a dirty-mouthed, chain-smoking, world-traveling bad-ass with a fearless appetite?
If she were in New York right now, I imagine she'd rush to Les Halles, the French brasserie where Bourdain reigns as chef-at-large, in the off-chance that he'd be the one searing her hangar steak. Me? I came for the frites.
So I got the frites. And the duck confit. And a frisee salad. And some mighty tasty truffled potatoes. Yeah, you heard me right: two servings of potatoes. That rumbling sound you hear is Robert Atkins turning in his grave. My dining companions chose beer sausage, rabbit, and a salad that included even more potatoes, gizzards (whoa) and a chicken liver dressing. That bright light in the distance is PETA's founder bursting into flames.
Sadly, Chef Bourdain did not make an appearance on Park Avenue tonight. He was probably off eating sheep testicles in Morocco.
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