Seoulscapade

Near Les Invalides, close to the Ecole Militaire Metro station, at 54 Avenue Bosquet to be precise, is where I had my worst ever restaurant experience in Paris. The restaurant in question goes by the name of La Fontaine De Jade, although it has Restaurant Chinois Thailandais emblazoned above its windows. It’s a Thai restaurant that I will never return to, and I urge everyone to avoid it.

My wife and I had passed it the day before we went there, and we had agreed that it would be a good place for a meal after a hard day’s sightseeing around Paris. As we walked passed, I had imagined I would order large bowls of saffron colored jasmine rice and a sumptuous vegetarian green curry dish. That would be just the thing!

We hadn’t properly noted where it was, and were not familiar with the area, so after our hard day’s sightseeing the next day, it took some trouble to find the place again. That extra traipsing about added to our weariness, yet gave us even more of an appetite. Unfortunate, really . . . for the weariness and the appetite only sharpened the bitterness of the experience.

The place was empty when we walked in, and all staff were at a back table having dinner. The waiter seated us and delivered our first disappointment: the menu. The expectation that a Thai restaurant would offer up a range of vegetarian choices was not to be. We could find only two besides rice, a vegetable chop suey dish and a fried noodle side dish. Would those be enough for two to share? I inquired. The waiter former a small oval with the hands, indicating that it was not likely to be enough. To be fair, he was kindly and honest.

I resort to seafood in situations like this, where vegetarian eating is not catered for, so along with the chop suey and noodles, we ordered a prawn soup each at over 8 Euros a serve. Surely, they would practically constitute a full meal. Guess again. The soups came in decorated bowls, each of which would best be described as about the size of a coffee cup, though not as deep. The waiter seemed almost apologetic when serving them.

The soup was good, but anything would have been given how hungry we were. It could easily have been made from a packet. In my soup was the end of a baby corn, a sliver of mushroom, remnants of the kind of peeled tomato you find in a can, and prawns. The soups were downed pretty quickly. When the chop suey and noodles came, we apportioned them out and we got about a handful each from each dish.

The main ingredient in the chop suey was aged bean sprouts. I spotted amongst it what looked like another section of my baby corn—perhaps the other part to the baby corn piece in my soup—and there was another sliver of mushroom. A sliver of carrot was also in evidence. The noodles had bean sprouts as well. Yes, we had more than enough bean sprouts to go round. It was woeful.

Maybe we were even getting the left overs of what the staff had been eating when we walked in

After we ate that few cents worth, which cost us many Euros, I was still hungry, but I wasn’t going to order any more to eat from this place. However, I had been craving a coffee all afternoon, and so I ordered us one each.

After the coffees, we asked for the bill and it was delivered not by the kindly waiter but by a Thai gentleman who slithered up with it. Yes, human beings can slither. You don’t see it often but when you do, it is unmistakable and cannot really be described in any other way.

He had a really serious look, too, this guy, a look I’d seen before in Thailand. It is a look borne of a mix of aggression, impatience, fear, insecurity and envy, and it is at its most intense when its bearer is on the verge of clasping money, and when the only thing in the way of that money is you, the customer. You could swear guys like this are trying their best to stifle screams of exasperation at such a critical juncture. All they want is for you to disappear.

The bill came to 45 Euros, believe it or not. He bought back the tray with the change in a hunched but swift manner, after I’d already indicated no change was necessary, since a tip is customary. I said “That’s for you.” But he just kept muttering, “merci, au revior,” or something of the sort, repeatedly, in a dismissive way, as he slunk around behind me.

Then we were farewelled at the door by a waitress with a forced smile. I was getting the impression that they had been prepared for trouble.

I’m not the type, and instead simply vote with my feet, or put the word out. So here I am, putting the word out that, for me, out of everywhere I’ve ever eaten in Paris on my several visits there, La Fontaine De Jade, has the distinction of being the worst.