(The article begins with a captivating introduction, highlighting the negative experience at Le Cinq.)
There’s nothing worse than a terrible meal, especially when served by waiters who seem oblivious to the culinary disaster unfolding before your eyes. That’s exactly what I encountered at Le Cinq, the flagship Michelin three-star restaurant of the George V Hotel in Paris. It was the worst dining experience I’ve had in my 18 years as a food critic, which is quite an accomplishment, even if it’s a negative one.
(This paragraph discusses the author’s initial expectations and the reality of the experience.)
I intended this visit as a reality check, a response to reader complaints about the exorbitant cost of dining out. I envisioned it as an observational piece, filled with moments of luxury and indulgence, the kind that only exorbitant amounts of money can buy. We’d all laugh at the extravagance of the wealthy and then return to our everyday lives, a little wiser. Le Cinq, the brainchild of Christian Le Squer, named Chef of the Year by his peers in 2016, seemed like the perfect choice. I anticipated whimsy, maybe even outrageousness. But never did I imagine that the shamefully terrible cooking would leave me speechless.
(This paragraph describes the opulent and extravagant atmosphere of the restaurant.)
The dining room, situated deep within the hotel, is a cavernous space with high ceilings, ornate moldings, and thick carpets that muffle any sounds. It’s decorated in various shades of beige, cream, and a blatant “fuck you” attitude. A touch of gold here and there serves as a reminder that this room is designed for people who are unfamiliar with the concept of guilt. The room screams “money” in much the same way that football fans scream at the referee. There’s even a stool for a lady’s handbag. Of course there is.
(This paragraph delves into the exorbitant pricing of the menu and the author’s initial reaction to it.)
Menus, towering like Richard Osman, are presented. My dining companion, who made the reservation, is given a menu without prices. The waiters look bewildered when we complain, but eventually, they provide a menu with prices. However, after seeing those prices, I suspect many diners would wish they’d never laid eyes on them again. Starters and main courses are priced roughly the same, ranging from €70 to €140. That’s £121 for a single plate of food at the current exchange rate.
(This section showcases the author’s observations on the various dishes served and their overall underwhelming quality.)
Canapés, Amuse-Bouches, and the Illusion of Luxury
All this comes with a plethora of canapés, amuse-bouches, pre-desserts, bread, and a hefty dose of attitude. Almost all the enjoyable things we eat come from the pastry section. The flaky brioche, served with cool, salty butter, is particularly noteworthy. Among the canapés, a tart made with paper-thin pastry filled with whipped chicken liver mousse topped with diced cornichons stands out as a delightful surprise. I could easily eat that again. And the chocolates served at the end, though not surprising given the prices, are quite pleasant.
But other dishes are truly therapeutic. The first canapé, a transparent ball served on a spoon, looks like a Barbie-sized silicone breast implant. It’s a “spherification,” a gel globe made using a technique perfected by Ferran Adrià at El Bulli about 20 years ago. This particular spherification bursts in your mouth, releasing stale air with a hint of ginger. My dining companion winces. “It’s like eating a condom that’s been left lying around in a dusty greengrocer’s,” she quips. Spherifications of various kinds – bursting, popping, deflating – appear on many dishes. It’s their gimmick, their shtick, their big idea. It’s all they have.
Another canapé, a tuile enclosing scallop mush, introduces us to the kitchen’s love of acidity. It’s not a bright, light, aromatic acidity like that found in, say, yuzu. It’s a harsh, blunt acidity, the kind used to polish dull brass coins.
A Cascade of Culinary Disasters
This excessive acidity continues in an amuse-bouche that doesn’t really amuse: a halved and refilled passionfruit, the sharp passionfruit augmented by a watercress purée that tastes only of the plant’s most bitter notes. My lips purse, like a cat’s rear end that’s brushed against nettles.
The cheapest starter, gratinated onions “in the Parisian style,” is said to have the flavor of French onion soup. It makes us crave a genuine bowl of French onion soup. It’s mostly black, like nightmares, and sticky, like the floor at a teenager’s party. The onions are present texturally, but the dominant flavors are burnt notes and spherified balls of onion purée that burst jarringly against the roof of the mouth.
A dish of raw marinated scallops with sea urchin ice cream is a blast of iodine. It’s the most innovative dish of the meal, though hardly revolutionary. Sea urchin ice cream was featured on Iron Chef America back in the 90s.
A main course of pigeon, requested medium, arrives so pink that it might just fly again with a few volts. It’s accompanied by brutally acidic Japanese pear and more of that flavorless watercress purée. A heap of couscous, paired with a meager portion of lamb for €95, also lacks flavor. It’s served with rubbery purées, unpleasant spherifications of lamb stock, and mushy, one-note “merguez” sausages that are nothing of the sort. A sad, over-reduced sauce coagulates on the plate.
(The author’s review concludes with a detailed account of the desserts, the overall cost of the meal, and a comparison to another restaurant.)
Dessert Disappointments and Final Thoughts
A dessert of frozen chocolate mousse cigars wrapped in tuile is decent, if you overlook the elastic flap of milk skin draped over it, like something that’s fallen off a burn victim. A cheesecake with lumps of frozen parsley powder is not fine. I ask the waitress what the green stuff is. She tells me and says brightly: “Isn’t it great!” No, I say. It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever eaten. It tastes of grass clippings. Parsley is a great pairing with fish. But in cheesecake? They take it off the bill.
With our mint tea, we are served an on-trend kouign amann, a laminated caramelized pastry. It’s burnt around the edges.
We each drink one glass of champagne, one glass of white, and one glass of red, chosen for us by the sommelier from a wine list that includes bottles at €15,000. The booze bill is €170. The overall bill is €600. Every single thing I ate at the restaurant Skosh for a sixth of the price was better than this. It’s bizarre. Not that the older gentlemen with their nieces at the few other occupied tables seem to care. The restaurant is never more than half full. Pictures of plates are snapped. Mind you I also take pictures, but mine are shot in the manner of a crime scene officer working methodically.
I’ve spent sums like this on restaurant experiences before, and I haven’t begrudged it. We each build our best memories in different ways, and some of mine involve expensive restaurants. But they have to be good. This experience will also leave me with memories. They are bleak and troubling. If I work hard, one day, with luck, I may be able to forget.
