I have always wanted to eat at Balthazar. After many years of
fruitlessly trying to go to Balthazar, I finally succeeded. Maybe it
was the way the restaurant teased me over these past few years that I
had become thoroughly intrigued: The restaurant’s Parisian frontage and
the crowds of diners seen through the windows beckoned me. Maybe it was
the promise of la vie Bohème. From afar Balthazar has that
je-ne-sais-quoi look, but from up close it seems just a bit faux and
overdone. I think the restaurant tries too hard to look authentic with
its crackled mirrors, dark paneling, and dim light fixtures.
To
make sure I got in this time, I made reservations almost three weeks in
advance, but I still could not get the specific time I wanted. Still
the eventual time was suitable enough for a stress-relieving Friday
night out this past week with my friend Amanda of the Undomestic Goddess.
When we arrived, one of the many hostesses confirmed that indeed the
reservation was made, but then told us to wait for the maître d’ to
direct us to our seats. A little confusion followed in which we were
stormed by a large group coming from the bar area and then another
group entering. We almost didn’t get served—a somewhat sordid start to
an evening meant for relaxing.
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Balthazar
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