Over the years, I’ve been to most if not all of those little places on rue de Montparnasse, too, and could never declare a best. If I smell butter from the doorway, I go in. People writing in electronic media lavish praise on one place, others follow, and before you know it lines form at one place only, while plenty of others are just as good.
When I saw people arriving by taxis and lines for those who didn’t reserve, I decided to eat at the one hyped crêperie in Montparnasse on my next trip. In my case, a poorly trained employee heaped too much filling into my galette, throwing off the taste and balance. Finishing it became a chore. Beware of what is hyped as the best. If you smell the butter, you’re in the right doorway.
FYI: galettes are from Brittany, not Normandy. Hrumph. They are like rice for an Asian, or bread to a French person, the base of the Breton diet and for many they were most of the diet until living standards started improving about 50 years ago . My Bretonne mother-in-law thought we were crazy to pay a restaurant to feed us galettes with ham, cheese, and egg. I’m sure she was thinking “silly kids, city folk, beware.”