My experience so far of Parisian cuisine is that anywhere which has been designed to look like somewhere a tourist would feel comfortable is a place worth avoiding like the plague, and Buffalo Grill was absolutely no exception.
In hindsight it was a little optimistic to think that Parisians would have any inclination to make this a positively memorable experience, and being an American-themed place directly opposite the Moulin Rouge suggests that their prime focus is going to be mopping up slightly sozzled merrymakers visiting from other parts of the world.
That probably explains why the burgers were flaccid, wet, anaemic apologies-on-sugary-supermarket-buns, which conjured up some of the more terrifying parts of Eric Schlosser’s “Fast Food Nation”. The fries were a limp, sweaty, tasteless affair, and about the only redeeming feature of our meal was glancing down and noticing that a previous diner had tried to scratch a warning into the table: “Get out now, it’s s***”.
If only we’d spotted that before it was too late. Perhaps if they rendered it in the large neon lettering favoured by other businesses in the area then we’d have stood a chance.