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Maybe Alain Ducasse is mortal after all. New York outpost of venerable French chain can't seem to find its footing. Neighborhood brasserie is the goal. Daily specials nod at chef Chef Pierre Schaedelin's Alsatian roots. Come Tuesday for coq au riesling with spaetzle, or Sunday for tête de veau (who can resist calf's head?). Blond wood, arcing mirrors, cloud mural on the ceiling straight from the Paris fleas. Dark bar in front. The whole shebang really feels like France, but then that's not always a good thing.
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