That is the what I repeated asked myself when Froggy and I dined at Afaria. Paris, like all major cities and some not so major ones, has a devoted clique of foodies. These people, myself included, tirelessly trek to remote and no so remote parts of the city to find that hidden gem of a restaurant with great food and a great story. Since it opened, Afaria has been trumpeted by some of the best critics and bloggers in the city as a must-eat, much welcome, addition to the gastro-bistro scene.

So I admit. I was excited and my expectations were high when we pushed our way through the massive crowd at the door . We had a reservation after all. A harried waiter scurried past. An aloof waitress nodded at us and disappeared. So we watched. We watched as the crowd grew at the door. We watched as the previously harried waiter tried to seat a group of seven at a table for four. And we watched as the waitress announced to a table of lingerers that their time was up, reservations were arriving and it was time for them to go.

Considering the chaos, it actually didn’t take long for us to be seated. Which was good, because it was hot by the bar and I was hungry. Eagerly, I opened the menu. Froggy crinkled his brow.

“That’s all."

“Yup. That’s all." I wasn’t as bothered by the relatively sparse menu as I was by the confusing layout of the card. If a restaurant does what it does well, there need not be a myriad of options. However, it's annoying when the price is the only indication of whether a dish is an appetizer, entree or dessert. In fact, the menu is grouped by theme, each theme having a single appetizer, entree and dessert. As cute as this may seem, it’s not. And apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought so, because the first question our scantily clad waiter asked us (more on that below) was “Do you have any questions about the menu?”

No. But Froggy had a question.

"What is that guy wearing?”

I was not in the mood to be the sartorial police. “A t-shirt. Big deal.”

"No. It's an undershirt. You don’t think that’s strange for a waiter in Paris”, Froggy pressed.

“Mmm.”

Ten minutes later, I understood why.

This restaurant is hot. Uncomfortably so. I watched women around the room, removing layers, become progressively nude. One suffering soul dared to bare down to her camisole. I, on the other hand, with my lack of foresight and layers, suffered in my sweater. But the truth is, I would suffer the depths of hell for great food. And by all accounts, that was what I was in for.

Froggy, with his intrepid spirit, tried the pumpkin soup. I had my eye on it, but couldn’t bring myself to do it given the muggy heat. Instead, I had the Lebanese style bulgur topped with lemony oysters and roquette. Tracks of hummous striped my plate. It was nice and fresh and whetted my appetite, as any good appetizer should do. Froggy’s veloute was rich but had a nicely balanced base.

Not wowed, but not bad. So on to the next course.

I ordered the slow-cooked cod and mussels. Froggy had the stewed lamb. My cod was over-cooked, the broth singular and one note, reminding me – in taste, colour and consistency - of Campbell’s Vegetable Soup. It was an unfortunate comparison, although one further supported by the frozen (or gasp canned?) peas floating around my plate between logs of undercooked and otherwise bland potatoes. However boring Froggy’s lamb was, it was palatable.

Truth be told, my excitement had waned and I was not eager for dessert. But we trudged on. Froggy ordered what turned out to be a soupy bowl of crème anglais with slices of brioche. I had a a kiwi puree with pomegranate brittle and whipped cream. Both were well-executed and pleasurable. Dessert was easily the most interesting part of the night.

Pleasantly full, but more than a little disappointed, we asked for the bill. We were ready to go. The restaurant had died down. Most of the tables had left. A welcome breeze sliced through the humidity in the room. Yet we waited and waited for our bill. Finally our waiter returned (now fully dressed), sans bill, to proudly present us with shot glasses of Armagnac and fresh raspberry puree . This in lieu of petits-fours? Was this what we had been waiting for? Nice touch. Problem is, Froggy and I don't do Armagnac.

In a nutshell: Over-hyped mediocre food, fashionably smart crowd

Price : Appetizers: 7-12 euros, Entrees: 17-22 euros, Desserts:8 euros.

Reservations: Recommended