I like that they veered away from the usual hipster decor and went the posh, old-world route in terms of ambience. I would have almost doffed my top hat and peered through my monocle had I not remembered that I am an Asian female and thus incapable of growing a handlebar mustache.
The wallpaper at the far end of the cafe is printed with a faded black-and-white dining area scene to make the room look bigger, with empty chairs at an empty table. Maybe if I visited frequently enough, my image would eventually reappear on one of the seats on the wallpaper, a la the final scene in The Shining.
As lovely as the place may be, I am one of the bourgeoisie who have trouble digesting ambience alongside my food.
The food. My croissant was flaky, my mendiant rich yet light, and my coffee full-bodied and strong. But the bread and brew arrived at my table verging on the side of tepid, just a little warmer than the audience reception to Chris Rock's monologue at the Oscars. THAT was tepid.
Their clubhouse sandwich had enough flavor, but lacked identity. If you serve exactly the same sandwich at another cafe, you wouldn't know that it came from The French Baker. The same goes for the potato chips that comes along with the sandwich.
Now, I have this personal revulsion against restaurants that serve an expensive sandwich, then throw a handful of store-bought crisps beside it. (One such incident from 2004 that seared itself into my memory was this Makati restaurant that served me a PhP500+ burger, with a single pack of cheese-flavored Piattos as a side dish, topped with parsley; another served their clubhouse sandwich with a side of freshly unpacked Tostillos).
While the potato chips at The French Baker didn't come from a grocery brand, they were obviously supplied from elsewhere because they didn't taste fresh, obviously dehydrated, and coated in neonish fake cheese powder.
(TIP: Pay attention to a restaurant's 'throwaway' food -- the side dishes, garnishes, even the freebies. If they insist on maintaining high quality standards with their cheaper fare, you can be assured of even better standards with their specialties).
An old lady at another table stage-whispered to her companion, "You know, I can make a much better version of this at home -- this is nothing! Come visit me and you'll see." I dislike hearing loud remarks of the sort at any food establishment, but in this case I tended to agree with her, whatever she was having. For all I know it could be the house water.
But the kicker was my utensils. Prior to being served, I noticed that my fork and knife had a thin film of caked-on food on them. If I had used them, it would be like inadvertently French-kissing the customer who used them before me.
Despite my less-than-stellar experience, however, I'd still return to give them another chance, mainly because this is one of those quieter spots I can disappear into for a few hours, or maybe disappear into the wallpaper forever. Gosh, I'm so old. read more