Cremerie-Restaurant Polidor on the Left Bank of the Seine typifies the classic Parisian bistro: wood-paneled walls and wainscoting, red-checkered tablecloths, Belle Epoque posters, varnished columns. The likes of Ernest Hemingway and James Joyce were regulars in the early half of the 20th century. The food told a different story though. The starter salad was overdressed. The beef in the Steak Frites tasted old and tinny, like liver. The lemon tart for dessert was cavity-inducingly sweet. It seemed like the cooks were trying to cater to an American palette.
Wasn’t Paris an uncompromising food capital of the world? Why were the dishes mediocre? Especially glaring since the Polidor had been in existence for more than a century.
The restaurant had probably fallen into the old-age conundrum; the assumption that since the establishment had been around a long time, the owners must have been doing something right. When, in actuality, the restaurateurs had done very little since patrons were unwillingly to offer criticism, less they appear vulgar. And so the bistro dished one ho-hum meal after another.
