Marché a stressful and unappetizing experience

If you want small portions of bad food brought to you in an obnoxious atmosphere, go somewhere else. On the other hand, if you want small portions of bad food that you have to walk around and get yourself, Marché is the place for you.

After surviving a meal there, I've concluded that Marché is all the things you hated about Europe: the crowds, the over-pricing, the smell, and the confusion caused while trying to order pommes frites. It is located in the Prudential Center.

Marché's angle is to provide the eaters with a fun and cultural experience at a cost just slightly less than chartering a jet to Prague for the real thing. Upon arrival, Marché employees – looking every bit like members of the Basque separatist movement – handed me and my date each a "passport," a card with a grid of empty squares to be stamped as we collected food. The hostess made sure we knew the way Marché worked and admitted us into the restaraunt. Thus began what was to become the most stressful dining experience of my life.

It was a Thursday night, and the staff to patron ratio was a good 1:1, yet the task of finding a table was difficult. Everything seemed to be covered with dirty dishes or protected from us with a "reservee" sign. We finally claimed a marble and wrought iron table and chairs near an unattended spill and ventured into the heart of the establishment.

Before going further, I should explain Marché's set up. It is a cafeteria. Think Carney's with food stations closer together and wooden trays and replace the tent with a canopy of fake plant life. Now add blaring European pop music, and yes, even higher prices and you're there.

This was overwhelming. For a while I just made my way through the labyrinth of stands and counters, crossing a footbridge and walking on uneven terrain. There were cases of raw meat, crates of fruits ands vegetables, stir-fry items, oysters, sushi, a salad bar, soup, pasta and pizza, crepes, and a full bar, all in close proximity. One of the difficulties of Marché is that very little is appetizing when the aromas of seafood mix with salad dressing, barbecues chicken, and crepes. Nothing smells as it should.

While doing preliminary reconnaissance work, the other 12 people at the restaurant each ran into me at least twice. My palms began to sweat; I was losing hold of my tray. Was this some sort of cruel joke on us Americans by the Canadian owners for all those years of wheat tariffs? I crossed the bridge back to the meat and potatoes. My plan was to get French fries and regroup.

The lone man in front of me was ordering a steak. After a few seconds, people started lining up beside him. The counter worker proceeded to serve the svelte and high-booted girls to his right. My inquiries of "Hello? Bonjour? French fries?" were met with looks of confusion, scorn, and disappointment.

Empty trayed, I met my companion back near the unattended spill. He had had some luck with a small pizza and two bottles of pop. Just like any given European city – the effect Marché seemed to be going for – the beverages were room temperature.

I took a deep breath and tried again for French fries. The same thing happened the second time.

I went to the omelet station, and after 10 minutes of being run into some more. touched down at the table with a good-looking ham and cheese omelet. Fries were waiting for me as well! I inquired and found that my date's ends were just, but his means ruthless.

In a place where just obtaining food means facing more hardship, obstacles, and frustration than the Lewis and Clark expedition, you'd almost think that eating would be the fun part. Nay, Marché had invented a fresh Hell for this.

The fries were little more than just warmed-over slices of potato, the pizza was miraculously sauceless, and the omelet could hardly be called that. I recognized the shape, the ham, cheese, and egg parts. Even the texture was there, but there was no taste. Marché did the unthinkable. In an environment where flavors infused themselves in all the wrong places, they somehow crafted the most insipid omelet I had ever tasted.

Still more shocked than disgusted at this point, we made our way to the checkout. A sign greeted us there which explained the 12 percent "players fee" for the staff which was automatically added to the bill. Were we the players in that situation? Or did Marché know that as we paid good American money for a monumentally bad omelet, seven undercooked French fries, a small dry pizza, and two warm bottles of Coke, truly we were the ones being played?