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The New Yorker Thinks Dirty French Is Too Much Like a Vegas Night Club

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Amelia Lester visits Dirty French expecting a restaurant, ends up at a night club.

Dirty French
Dirty French
Daniel Krieger

The New Yorker's Amelia Lester visits Dirty French in the Table for Two column this week and comes away most unimpressed. She finds the salmon both "charred and raw" as well as cold, the crêpes in an otherwise serviceable chicken dish "dismayingly leaden," and beignets the size of an iPhone 6 Plus — far too large. She also has complaints about the service, the other guests, and the music:

Another overpowering element that night: the group in the booth next door, who at one point filmed themselves on their phones singing along to "Papa Don't Preach"...With everyone determined to have a wild time, it felt a little like Vegas.

Cringe. The verdict from diners seems to be that they either love it or hate it. We'll file this under the hate column.

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