Chez Ta Grand-maman
Over the course of the last few months, I have eaten at Chez Brigitte, the hole-in-the-wall West Village French bistro, more than any restaurant. For me, this is typical: When it comes to decent, affordable establishments, I binge. The odd thing is, for most of my time in New York, I'd been a complete stranger to Chez Brigitte, which has been around since 1958. Then, last autumn, while I was in the neighborhood for some reason I can't now recall, I ducked in and sat down to eat a plate of chicken fricassee. And I was greatly unimpressed. This is what all the fuss is about? I muttered to myself on the way out, once again briefly pondering the many framed paeans to Chez Brigitte's indispensability posted in the tiny joint's front window. I vowed to express my bafflement the next time Chez Brigitte came up in conversation. That place is all reputation, I'd huff. Just like the rest of the West Village.