I can’t really speak French, maybe 10 words or so, which all fall from my mouth in a confusing language pile. But in the sexy French bistro that is Wormwood, logic and skill are no match for the way it makes you feel. I am fluent. I am not me, a person raised in the cultural khaki-pants-ness of suburban Southern California, wearing but-of-course jeans and a button up that suggests an active distaste for fashion. My no-name clothes are Gautier and I may well be Proust, casually sniffing the air for bone marrow and French 75s.
Fuente: https://sandiegomagazine.com/food-drink/wormwood-restaurant-review/