The slow, steady decline of a once noble restaurant is hardly something we take pleasure in witnessing. But this week’s story in CityLife about the whys and wherefores of Pamplemousse’s recent tribulations (and its refusal to keep up with the times) is a fascinating study in obliviousness on the part of the owner (who refused to be interviewed), a clueless manager/maitre ‘d, and a poor chef soldiering on against all odds, cooking food that was dated twenty years ago.
We are privy to more information about this sorry state of affairs than we can divulge (being as we’re a lawyer-at-law at all that jazz), but suffice it to say that, like Andre Rochat before him, owner Georges La Forge is content to live in a fantasy world of his own creation — in which it’s always 1980 — and Englebert, Tom and Debbie are beating a path to his door.
As long as these guys can hang on, and squeeze every last nickel out of a bought and paid for building, they care little about actually selling something people might want to buy. And like fans watching the lights slowly dim on an aging athlete or fading movie star, we wish someone would tell them it’s time to give up the ghost while they (and their business) still have a reputation worth preserving.