Anthonny-R S
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Was that French Food?
It sounded vaguely like something I’d eaten before—just not in France. Maybe somewhere in the country. Maybe. But definitely not on the Rue Anything.
Still, the place had a certain je ne se cois. A sense of occasion. In Wichita, people actually dress up to go to dinner, well “fancy” places. Not tuxedos or tiaras, but the sort of outfit you'd wear to church if you were trying to convince God you’d finally pulled it together. The difference being: at dinner, nobody falls asleep mid-sermon, unless the wine list is unusually long.
Instead, they feast. They laugh—sometimes even at their friends’ jokes. They tilt their phones to catch the light just so, capturing their fat fries and mid-laugh expressions for the Instagram gods. For most, it was just a moment: a bite, a scroll, a sip, a snort.
When I arrived, I caught a couple trying to smuggle out a doggie bag as if it were contraband. Like it’s some kind of felony to leave a single fry—excuse moi, a French fry—behind?. Or half a serving of poutine, which even in its prime has average consistency – a forgetful dish.
The Food?
Pretty good. Nothing to moan about—no involuntary groans, no eyes rolling back in ecstasy—but good enough to consider coming back. Solid. Dependable. Like a Honda Civic with a dash of aioli.
The standards? Exactly what one might expect from Wichita: napkins and table linens still holding the creases from the packaging. Not freshly pressed so much as forgotten in the dryer after a night out, then given a lazy shake and a silent prayer.
While waiting for our table, a group of girls floated past us in a cloud of perfume, sequins, and optimism. They were dressed like they’d just stepped out of a Ross commercial: all sparkle, all smiles, absolutely thriving. They sat at the table next to ours and looked like they were having the time of their lives. We briefly considered following them to wherever the real party was, convinced their food must have come seasoned with joy.
The Service? Also “fine,” in the way a shrug is fine. The waitstaff couldn’t tell a red wine glass from a white if their lives depended on it. Let’s just break it down to the basics: stem, bowl, liquid. I like to think the kitchen staff broke all the proper glassware in some tragic dishwasher incident and management just said, “We make do.”
It was, as the youth say, a hot mess. Maybe we were underdressed—just enough to signal “second-tier service” but not enough to be escorted out.
The birthday boy ordered the branzino—his first—and when it arrived, he looked at me like I’d opened his third eye. “Thank you,” he whispered, as if I’d just reintroduced him to joy. I offered the kind of nod that says, “Yes, I am your god now,” and let him bask in the glow of his own grilled epiphany. As one does when taking credit for someone else's spiritual awakening. He offered me a bite, and I declined—not out of politeness, but self-preservation.
I explained that I once had a Branzino in Beverly Hills so perfect, so transcendent, I’m still not entirely sure I didn’t hallucinate the entire thing during a nervous breakdown. It was buttery and light, but ever since, I’ve refused to eat Branzino anywhere else.
I wasn’t about to overwrite that with a piece of fish that arrived looking confused, sweating oil, and garnished with something that I didn’t recognized. So I sat back, watched him take his final bite, and smiled—happy for him, really. No longer a branzino virgin, and like most people after their first time, politely pretending it had changed his life.
George, I was not impressed. But I’ll see you again, if only in the hope of crisp linens, the right glasses, and a properly stirred martini—one with just enough melted ice chips to make me forget I’m still in Kansas, and gin smooth enough to remind me why I chose Hendrick’s in the first place.
