The waiter, a stout middle-aged man with a limp in his gait, walked away from my table and disappeared into the kitchen.
The restaurant itself was not large. The establishment consisted of one room with ten to twelve tables and a kitchen at the back. I arrived right when they opened—19:00 on the dot—because I didn’t have a reservation and I wanted to be sure I could get a table. As I first walked in, the decor immediately took me aback. Front to back, side to side, the restaurant was decorated in the theme of a Spanish television series on Netflix called La Casa de Papel (in English, the show is called Money Heist). The show was an action thriller about a criminal mastermind who assembles a team of people to pull off a heist. But I didn’t know this at first, I was unfamiliar with the show. Only when I sat down at my table did I have a chance to decipher the strange, unsettling, and somewhat ominous decor surrounding me. Allow me to set the scene.
Sitting at my table, tucked away in the front corner of the restaurant, I stared at a mural that covered the entire far wall. It depicted three figures wearing red jumpsuits. In the center, a woman is sitting in a leather arm chair, lighting a dollar on fire with the end of a lit cigarette. To her left and right are two men whose faces are obscured by hoods.
Mannequins are positioned throughout the restaurant—some are stark naked, others are wrapped in string lights, while one wears a puffy fur coat. One mannequin in particular, donning a mask and jumpsuit like the characters in the show, stares at me menacingly. The mask itself is supposed to resemble the face of Salvador Dalí, iconic handlebar mustache and all.
Chairs hang from the ceiling (I have no clue why, is this a part of the show?), and the ceiling, as well as all of the chairs, are crimson red. There is a chandelier that hangs from the ceiling, but only one, and it is placed near a collection of four mannequins. There is no music playing, and seeing that I had arrived right when they opened, there is an eerie silence that fills the restaurant. Only one other couple was in the restaurant when I arrived, and two women in their twenties walked in right before me.
The waiter, limping from table to table, works alone, playing host, waiter, runner, and busser all in one. For a brief period, another man, tall and gaunt, appeared from the kitchen to support him. But just as quickly as he appeared, he seemed to disappear. His friend had shown up in front of the restaurant, so he walked out to smoke a cigarette.
As the skinny man strolled down the street chatting with his friend, a dog barked incessantly from the sidewalk. The high pitched yelps filled the silent restaurant. At this point, more and more people start to show up at the restaurant. I thought to myself—how on Earth is this place drawing so much business?
And then it hits me. Escargot.
As I scanned the restaurant, I realized that it was filled with tourists looking to do the tourist thing and eat snails in France. Almost every single table had the escargot dish, featuring six little snail shells arranged in a tight circle. I often try to avoid tourist trap restaurants, but it’s sometimes hard to find authentic cuisine in a city that is frequently visited by tourists. I finished my sub-par meal, dabbing bread in roquefort cheese sauce and feeling a bit disappointed.
The guy who went out for a smoke reappeared after ten minutes with a small espresso cup in his hand. The waiter took a phone call as he rushed in and out of the kitchen. A teenage boy entered the restaurant carrying a table. The waiter shouted at him in French, prompting the boy to abandon the table by the front door. As people began to gather outside, awaiting a table, I found myself wanting to warn them that the meal was surely not worth the wait. But I refrained.
Having finished my lemon meringue pie for dessert, I settled the bill and wandered onto the street. A shroud of chagrin enveloped me on this cloudy evening in Nice.
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The waiter, a stout middle-aged man with a limp in his gait, walked away from my table and disappeared into the kitchen.
The restaurant itself was not large. The establishment consisted of one room with ten to twelve tables and a kitchen at the back. I arrived right when they opened—19:00 on the dot—because I didn’t have a reservation and I wanted to be sure I could get a table. As I first walked in, the decor immediately took me aback. Front to back, side to side, the restaurant was decorated in the theme of a Spanish television series on Netflix called La Casa de Papel (in English, the show is called Money Heist). The show was an action thriller about a criminal mastermind who assembles a team of people to pull off a heist. But I didn’t know this at first, I was unfamiliar with the show. Only when I sat down at my table did I have a chance to decipher the strange, unsettling, and somewhat ominous decor surrounding me. Allow me to set the scene.
Sitting at my table, tucked away in the front corner of the restaurant, I stared at a mural that covered the entire far wall. It depicted three figures wearing red jumpsuits. In the center, a woman is sitting in a leather arm chair, lighting a dollar on fire with the end of a lit cigarette. To her left and right are two men whose faces are obscured by hoods.
Mannequins are positioned throughout the restaurant—some are stark naked, others are wrapped in string lights, while one wears a puffy fur coat. One mannequin in particular, donning a mask and jumpsuit like the characters in the show, stares at me menacingly. The mask itself is supposed to resemble the face of Salvador Dalí, iconic handlebar mustache and all.
Chairs hang from the ceiling (I have no clue why, is this a part of the show?), and the ceiling, as well as all of the chairs, are crimson red. There is a chandelier that hangs from the ceiling, but only one, and it is placed near a collection of four mannequins. There is no music playing, and seeing that I had arrived right when they opened, there is an eerie silence that fills the restaurant. Only one other couple was in the restaurant when I arrived, and two women in their twenties walked in right before me.
The waiter, limping from table to table, works alone, playing host, waiter, runner, and busser all in one. For a brief period, another man, tall and gaunt, appeared from the kitchen to support him. But just as quickly as he appeared, he seemed to disappear. His friend had shown up in front of the restaurant, so he walked out to smoke a cigarette.
As the skinny man strolled down the street chatting with his friend, a dog barked incessantly from the sidewalk. The high pitched yelps filled the silent restaurant. At this point, more and more people start to show up at the restaurant. I thought to myself—how on Earth is this place drawing so much business?
And then it hits me. Escargot.
As I scanned the restaurant, I realized that it was filled with tourists looking to do the tourist thing and eat snails in France. Almost every single table had the escargot dish, featuring six little snail shells arranged in a tight circle. I often try to avoid tourist trap restaurants, but it’s sometimes hard to find authentic cuisine in a city that is frequently visited by tourists. I finished my sub-par meal, dabbing bread in roquefort cheese sauce and feeling a bit disappointed.
The guy who went out for a smoke reappeared after ten minutes with a small espresso cup in his hand. The waiter took a phone call as he rushed in and out of the kitchen. A teenage boy entered the restaurant carrying a table. The waiter shouted at him in French, prompting the boy to abandon the table by the front door. As people began to gather outside, awaiting a table, I found myself wanting to warn them that the meal was surely not worth the wait. But I refrained.
Having finished my lemon meringue pie for dessert, I settled the bill and wandered onto the street. A shroud of chagrin enveloped me on this cloudy evening in Nice.
