Never in my life have I seen so many cougars and salt and pepper finance guys trying to hide their affairs with their Euro trash counterparts whilst attempting to prove to society (and themselves) that they are still hip and happening enough to endure the eardrum-bursting-ly loud music, as I did at Bagatelle yesterday evening (or technically this morning due to our 11pm reservation). If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to have dinner in a club, look no further than this pretentious meatpacking eatery. Yes, the desserts come with sparklers, as if you have just splurged on a $1,000 bottle of Moet at Kiss and Fly, there is a snobbish bouncer out front with a list of table reservations, and the Euro trash runs rampant enough for Bagatelle to function as a transatlantic dumpster. I actually felt guilty that evening for not working out earlier in the day not as much because of the food, but due to the aforementioned eardrum-bursting-ly loud music that made every ounce of fat on my body actually vibrate.
When I heard Bagatelle, perhaps it’s the French in me, but I heard Baguettes. (I later Googled the meaning of the word “bagatelle,” which ironically is a “short piece of music, typically for the piano, and usually of a light, mellow character.” Such lies.) To my disappointment, there was hummus and burned pieces of bread instead, which I happily ate anyway (again, it was an 11pm reservation). Despite that though (and of course the decibel), the rest of our meal was actually delicious. Granted, I had difficulty reading the menu, because of the epileptic seizure-inducing strobe lights, so I just ordered every truffled morsel on the menu (really, how bad could anything be with truffles?). To start, M and I shared the Gnocchi À La Parisienne ($16). This homemade gnocchi with black truffle pesto filling and truffle butter sauce melted in my mouth and was actually some of the best gnocchi I’ve ever had. For our entrées, we split the Homard Rôti Du Maine Et Macaroni ($30), Poulet Fermier Rôti Et Truffé ($28), a side of Truffled Creamed Spinach ($8), and a whole lot of champagne. The roasted Maine lobster was served with candele pasta gratin, while the chicken was complemented by delectable country style potatoes, which soaked up just the right amount of truffle oil throughout the meal.
You have two options upon arriving at Bagatelle: You can either embrace the fact that you will not be able to hear your dining partner and as Lady Gaga says, “Just Dance” or you can hate on it while texting each other from across the table. To be honest, M and I did a little of both.
Call me the oldest 23-year-old on the planet, but unless it’s your bachelorette fête and you are planning on partying like it’s 2012, I’d recommend rounding the corner and heading to Nero d’Avola (46 Gansevoort Street), where you can actually eat and have a conversation instead.
409 W 13th St | Btwn Washington & Greenwich St.
(212) 675-2400
