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This French mini-chain of no-booking, no-choice steakhouses knows how to pack ’em in. When we arrived at the Marylebone branch at 6.40pm, there were two couples queuing in front of us. There’s a perception that the salad-starter and steak-frites main is a bargain. We wouldn’t agree, but that’s immaterial because we’re not keen to return. Tables are packed so close together that we felt self-conscious about conversing, and our neighbours would have had to move their table if we’d wished to visit the loo. Our food was variable. The vinaigrette was good, but it dressed a salad containing too high a proportion of insipid iceberg lettuce. The steak was tasty and accurately cooked, yet chewy. It’s served in two rounds, and that brought one of the few high points in our meal: a second helping of the divine frites. Also in the realms of the divine: the desserts, especially a mind-blowing praline ice-cream. The low point of the evening was the service, which started out brisk and efficient but swiftly descended into a combination of neglect and rudeness. The house wine is cheap. By the time we left, the queue looked like being a one-hour wait. Some people clearly love this place – but not us.