As I was led to my table by one of three siren hostesses in black dresses and white pearl necklaces who had greeted me with a beauty so strong it felt like a wall, not a welcome, the seated women followed me with their Westchester blue eyes, flicking their tongues over the teaspoons of crème fraîche that accompany any good tarte, as if to say, “The man I am with is wealthier, more handsome and more successful than you. Nevertheless, I’d be down for a quickie, if you want to meet me in the restroom.” I too was in paradise.

The New York Observer review of Lafayette. 

And I thought all the fooderatis’ “post it or it didn’t happen” low-lit french fry photos were going to be what drew in the masses.