Le Petit Fourneau sur Saint-Arnoult-En-Yvelines

Nothing to say about the quality, but when you order a honey goat cheese, I would like there to be honey. And especially that the cooks in the kitchen discreetly say "don't put too much honey". In any case, the goat cheese was good, I hope that next time the honey will be too

That day, I wandered, gloomy, without a star in the sky of my thoughts. Then I passed the storefront—simple, modest, but its scent rose like a warm prayer in the evening air. And there… Oh miracle! The Kebab. In a bun as soft as a child's dreams, the meat was spread out, sublime, shredded, burning with desire. It melted on the tongue with the tenderness of sincere things. Each bite—a psalm, a dizziness, an ecstasy. The fries, golden like wheat in July, crackled gently, divine and earthly at once. Everything was loaded. Too much, the lukewarm would say. But I saw abundance, a gift, a plenitude. This kebab was not a simple dish: it was a star. It pierced my routine like a flash of absinthe through the boredom of the century. It brought light to my stomach and meaning to my existence. Yes, I say it without shame: this kebab saved me. It loved me more than life itself.