Category Archives: au RESTAU

Venice

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The water changes everything. Light is refracted, reflections magnified. Movement becomes vertical, as well as horizontal. Sound is absorbed. Winding, narrow alley ways create architectural canyons, with a peacefully comforting uniformity. The regular drum of passing cars is replaced by irregular bursts of sound. You are not in a city or in the country, you are somewhere else. Somewhere wonderful.

Mr French and I arrived early Friday morning. “Its much more dramatic arriving by train,’ he informed me. I nodded naively, having only ever arrived by bus after a short flight from Paris. We grabbed our bags and headed out the door to the quais in the pouring rain. It was the first time that either of us would be arriving by water taxi. The rain stopped and chipper captain greeted us from his vintage, wood trimmed motor boat, shooing us from the front deck into the back of the boat where the roof top slid open, allowing us to stand and enjoy the breathtaking view.

Our chauffeur had a brief errand to run on the island of Murano, and asked if we’d mind a detour. We were thrilled with the free ride and our unexpected stop at a boatyard. Pulling up to the dock of the hotel was luxurious experience and within minutes we were ready to hit the town.

First stop, the Punta della Dogana, the large warehouse space that houses the phenominal contempory art collection of François Pineault (CEO of the Gucci Group, now known as Kering). Getting there would require a long walk or a quick trip by vaporetto. Knowning Mr French and his inability to get from point A to point B without stopping at every other church, museum, and shop window and knowing Venise, with its plethora of churches, museums, and shop windows, I insisted on boating it. We didn’t have tickets, or any idea how to acquire tickets, so we just walked on and hoped for the best. Turns out, local authorities rarely check for tickets and we could have gotten free rides our entire trip.

The museum was closed until June 1. So we hopped on another vaporetto to check out the Fortuny Museum, featuring the fabrics of the Art Deco artist. The museum was closed until June 1. We walked a few blocks back towards the canal when the Plazzo Grassi, the second Pineault museum WAS open. A huge palazzo that belonged to the Fiat family before being acquired by the Gucci gang, the Grassi is gorgeous. For the first time ever, the museum was displaying the work of a single artist; Rudolf Stingel. The artist commissioned a ginormour oriental carpet and used to cover all the walls and floor of the entire palace. The effect was mesmerizing, and like it or not, it was art.

Our quest for art had left us both famished, which made us both a tad grumpy and we got lost looking for our next destination. Just when we started to bicker we came upon a square with a restaurant that had several tables under large white parasols. Mr French grumbled that it looked like a horrid tourist trap. While my stomach was doing sumersaults of joy. We had stumbled upon Aquapazza, one of my top favorite restaurants on the planet. Mr French was somewhat skeptical of my enthusiasm, but was quickly seduced by the fries courgete flowers with a light-as-air ricotta stuffing, while the linguine with lobster was just as good I had remembered. Italians are not known for their dessert, and coming from Paris, we often head straight for the espresso, but this was Aquapazza, where they have fruit gelati served in their original shells;  from chestnuts to walnuts, medlars to strawberries, it is all simply divine and served with a frost encrusted bottle of house-made limoncello.

We spent the rest of the afternoon meandering the medieval labyrinth of the city, ending our evening over bellinis at the mythic, historic, Harrry’s Bar.

Quel chou !

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That’s French for “What a sweetheart!” It also means “Which cabbage?” But ever since this weekend I’ve been thinking about yet another definition,”What a great puff pastry!” On Saturday mon chou, Mr French, and I were strolling through the Place de Furstenberg near St Germain des Pres when he espied La Maison du Chou. In this heavily touristed, bakery deficient zone, he had spotted a bijoux of a pastry shop with checker tiles floors, stone walls and pastries. Gorgeous, golden puff pastries in pristine glass jars, on marble counters and in a large woven basket. We had a hard time believing our eyes, as just weeks ago it seemed that the space had been a tiny art gallery.

The place was so darn, well… chou that I had to go in and learn more. Turns out we weren’t imagine things, they had just opened shop. And what a shop! Meilleur Ouvrier de France and Michelin 2 star chef, Manuel Martinez is the mastermind behind this new concept and I intend on becoming one of his biggest cheerleaders.

Lately, I’ve had a bone to pick with all the English language foodies who come to Paris because they simply love French food and then start raving about food trucks and taquerias and cupcakes here in Paris. Not that I have anything against food trucks or tacos. I love ‘em both, but I’d never stand in a long line for them and I see so need to share the idea in the English language press. Not to mention that they are both better in the US (or Mexico). I’d rather encourage anglophones to support local delicacies and with La Maison du Chou, I get to do just that.

Forget cupcakes, head to La Maison du Chou where the choux are filled to order, a pastry chef injecting plain, chocolate or coffee flavoured cream on demand as customers wait in line. Mature, stoic, elegantly clad Parisians, looking over the counter like hungry school children. Its fabulous. And the pastries are not filled with just any cream. Instead of the traditional pastry cream, these choux feature an original fromage blanc mousseline. Simply delicious.

London Eating

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As much as I love French cuisine, one of the highlights of every trip to London is the food. This wasn’t much of a draw 20 years ago, but today, with fresh ingredients and heirloom vegetables getting pride of place, things have changed considerably.

For years now, I’ve been curious about the Wolseley on Piccadilly. The posh looking establishment simply oozes old world elegance, greatly enriched by its location just steps  from the Ritz. The windows are covered with bistro curtains, and every time I’d pass, I’d look longingly into the italian inspired decor where a chicer-than-thou crowd seemed to be having the time of their lives at the bar.

Fortified by my new umbrella, and Mr French’s company, this trip I felt chic enough to breach the entrance. A formally clad valet met us on the sidewalk and guided us inside. Inside I quickly observed that the bar was merely a tiny box in a very large, opulently Italianate, art deco restaurant. The Wolseley had been a car for the rich who were not quite rich enough to afford a Rolls, and this had been the showroom. A very handsome and charming host showed us to the bar, informing us that the dining room was fully booked, but they did have tables for walk-ins, if we were interested. “Yes, please!” I replied, completely seduced by this place.

It was only noon and the bar was hopping. One of three very professional barmen put his everything into mixing the perfect martini for Mr French, while I was thrilled to find that they had hot lemon juice on the menu. I got to have something that felt infinitely more grown up than Perrier, while staying fit.

We were soon seated in a small dining room and a funny thing happened. The waiter spoke to us in French. He had heard us speaking, and being French himself, it did not occur to him to address us in English. The menu was French as well, with dishes like coq au vin and croque monsieur. But there was also roast beef with yorkshire pudding and wild Scottish salmon. The food was good, but nothing I’d run back for. The scene however, simply fun, as we sat next to two Sloane rangers and a very wealthy local Indian family. I think next time I’ll come back for tea time, or perhaps  I’ll try for something more wild at the bar…

For dinner, I had done some research, ie I sent a tweet to @jeffreyinmotion a professional in the UK hospitality industry. He gave me the name of a few places and the Harwood Arms was the first on the list to have availability. The menu looked good, and that was good enough for me, so good, I never bothered to looked at where the Harwood Arms is on a map.

Its in Fulham. You’ve heard of it, non? Well, me neither. Mostly because it is a bit remote and far from the tourist path. In Paris that would not be a big deal; have metro, will travel. In London, it’s a deal. We got off at a station to change trains and learned over the loudspeakers that our train would not be stopping at that station over the weekend. Back on the train we tried to connect at another station, but there were five different terminus possible and I got us on the wrong train. We went one stop and got back on to go back where we’d come from. A one stop error cost us 40 minutes of our time and I was very happy we’d planned on arriving early to enjoy a drink at the bar.

Getting out of the tube at Fulham we were in London, but had the impression that we’d stumbled into a sleepy little suburb. Mr French looked at me skeptically, teasing, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” I had no clue, but I wasn’t going to tell him!!

Following the street maps that were helpfully posted every 100 meters, we soon found ourselves on a quiet residential street. I started to panic, but Mr French noticed some bright lights ahead. As we got closer and closer, he became confident that we were in the right place. And we were, in so many ways.

A light, airy restaurant that simply oozes with a relaxed, friendly vibe. The decor is quaint, with wild flowers on the tables, a deer’s head mounted on the wall and black and white photography of ammunition. It was the British version of Brooklyn Hipster. After a weekend of good behaviour, I was ready for a truly London cocktail. I was at the wrong bar for that and instead I had a lovely glass of white wine. A really large glass, because it turns out that a British “glass” is 1/3 more generous than a Parisian “verre”! Behind us burned a cheery fire, with guests nestled into leather couches. They were snacking on outstanding bar food; a venison scotch egg, honey roasted nuts with rosemary, cauliflower croquettes with picallili and garlic potatoes that made me melt with hunger from tables away.

The dinner menu changes with the seasons. Now here is the sad part. I forgot to take a photo of the menu and I was somewhat tipsy from the wine so, I don’t exactly remember everything we ate. Mr French had deer, I had fish then we shared a light rhubarb desert and there was a lot of ooh-ing and aah-ing. It as all truly delicious. Mr French (who was completely sober) assures me we’ll be going back!

Rock the Casbah

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Hakkasan photo from their website (no lighting!!!)

Actually, its London Calling, but that was just obvious, I couldn’t, simply could not do that to you. Last Friday Mr French and I headed to Londontown, which explains why there was no Friday@Flore. It was Friday@LaGare for me. The freezing cold gare, that I was very happy to leave as we stepped into the train.

Taking the Eurostar usually makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland, as I fall into the iconic, diesel infused Paris metro, and resurface to bustling streets with black cabs, red buses and traffic going the WRONG way. Yes, all my British friends, if you have to post signage at every single street corner in your city, telling pedestrians which way to look before crossing, well, its safe to say, your way is slightly twisted.

This trip was even more surreal, as we stayed in the station, taking the glass elevator directly to the lobby of the monumental St Pancras Renaissance Hotel. A Victorian fantasy, this hotel is a gothic jewel, with stunning public spaces and exceptional service, unfortunately the rooms are your standard international business travel fare and I did not fall in love with the neighborhood, although, to be perfectly fair, I didn’t give it much of a chance as we checked-in and immediately hopped a cab for the familiar (to me) Mayfair district.

It was 21h and we had reservations at Chinese restaurant Hakkasan, which I had found rather by accident. I had really wanted to go to the Indian restaurant, Amaya, my favorite restaurant in London, and one of my all time top ten on planet earth, but Mr French had pleaded for something different, and I complied, because really, it is bizarre that a chick who dedicates her life to exploring the planet is obsessed with returning to the same addresses time after time!

Before getting in the cab, though, we had a problem. The lock on Mr French’s suitcase, the one that is integrated into the luggage, had jammed. We’d had to call security and get a rather large, knowledgeable gentleman to break it open for us. Over the weekend we also had problems accessing the gym and I left a rather large package behind. The hotel staff know us rather better than they should and really earned their tips! While helping me postpone our reservations (because of the locked lock) the concierge assured me I’d made the right choice in trying Hakkasan, it was the best Chinese in the city.

I had wanted a restaurant that served very spicy cuisine, like I can not get in Paris, and attracted the super cool London crowd. You know, the places with dramatic lighting and intriguing spaces that you see in movies with stars like Hugh Grant and Rene Zellweger. Hakkasan fit the bill. The food was spicy and elegant, and perfectly prepared. So well prepared, in fact, that they’ve earned a Michelin star. We had dishes with lily bulbs and morning glory greens, and whole chilis and all kinds of favorites I can not get at home. The pièce de resistance was the beautifully presented dessert of a dozen different exotic fresh fruits which satisfied my relentless sweet tooth without giving my any guilt.

The crowd was worth watching, too. Young folk covered in studs, men who were better coiffed than I have ever managed, girls with heels so high they teetered and had to grab the railing for support, co-workers getting smashingly drunk over an extravagant TGIF and nervous mid-life couples out on a first date. It was dinner and a show!

Street Art

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There is a fine line between Street Art and vandalism, and I really have no idea where to draw it, but for most of us, we know it when we see it and this weekend we saw a good share of it at the Musée de la Poste (the Post Office Museum), just up the street from chez nous.

Small and not exactly known for exciting exhibitions, very few people know where the Musée de la Poste actually is. I know exactly where it is because it is less than half a block from my favorite crèperie, Ty Breizh, in the shadow of the Tour Montparnasse on the boul de Vaugirard.

“There is no boul de Vaugirard!!!” exclaimed Mr French, its “rue de Vaugirard!!!”

Lets just say, that it took us 20 minutes for a 5 minute walk. But getting lost in Paris has its rewards; we discovered a very high end stereo store perfect for Mr French  and stumbled upon a great looking restaurant, Le Quinze, that features sustainable fish. We’ll be trying it just as soon as I am eating again (Detox. More on that tomorrow).

Before we knew it, we were at the museum and enthralled with the art. The collection was surprisingly international with some of the best graffiti artists today. There were the accidentally counterfeit bills by Banksy. Space Invaders done in Rubik’s cubes, pochette paintings by Mis.Tic and lots of videos to see the stars at work. The show is short, just one large room and the crowd was refreshingly manageable for Paris. Even Em, who hadn’t been particularly thrilled about getting out of bed on a Saturday morning, loved it and the videos were so well done that I stopped to watch them, which really doesn’t happen often. What is known to happen often is that embarrassing moment when I burst out into a spontaneous guffaw of laughter. This was a two guffaw show.

Between my gourmandise and the morning’s detour, it wouldn’t shock you to hear that we then headed to my crèperie. Lent is coming up so the Ty Breizh was full of families in a festive mood, on addition to the usual lot of travelers who come for a treat before catching their train and Japanese tourists. I don’t know why it is, but this crèperie is in alot of Japanese guidebooks.

Sat am, and we’d already gotten lost, seen some great art and had delicious treat. I was looking forward to what the rest of the day had in store for us!!!

What sized Palais?

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Après notre petite soirée romantique à l’expo Hopper, on avait des réservations au restaurant le MiniPalais, qui est dans le Grand Palais, parce que ça crée la confusion et pour le coup on est bien content quand on y arrive.
La conversation est un peu comme ça.
– On va où pour dîner ?
– On va au MiniPalais.
– Ah, c’est en face, il faut traverser. Je ne savais pas qu’ils avaient en restau.
– Comment ? De quoi tu parle ? On ne traverse pas ! Non, mais, ça, c’est le Petit Palais.
– Et on ne va pas au Petit Palais ?
– Non, nous allons au MiniPalais.
– Mais ça, c’est le Grand Palais !
– Tais toi et fait moi confiance.

Ouf, effectivement j’étais bien content d’arriver devant l’entrée du restaurant. Ce n’est pas parce que Mr French est français qu’il connait Paris ! Le MiniPalais est un énorme hangar, ultra chic avec un décor atelier d’artiste. Le sol en parquet, des toiles de bateau sur un mur, des morceaux de sculpture grecque sur un autre et une vitre qui donne sur le nef du Grand Palais. Comme dirait mon ado, c’est très stylé.

Surtout la grande terrasse avec ses colonnes impériales, ses palmiers, sa vue sur le Petit Palais et l’accompagnement d’un bon cocktail, si bon que le restaurant attire une clientèle plus tôt jet set et très Costes. De temps en temps ça me branche d’être entourer de très belles femmes et leurs hommes parfumés. On entre dans un autre monde, le dépaysement est assuré.

Eric Frechon, le chef étoilé du Bristol est aussi chef des cuisines du MiniPalais. Il nous offre une carte qui assure cette dépaysement ; créative avec une forte influence internationale et un esprit légère où le tamarin côtoie le tandoori et du piment d’espelette.

Dans les assiettes c’est bon sans être gastronomique, il y un déséquilibre décevant entre certain plats. La soupe de champignon avec châtaigne et foie gras était riche en saveurs avec des textures qui plaisent au palet, or le crabe en rémoulade était sans intérêt. Le saumon écossais était complètement fade, mais le cabillaud nacré de tamarin agréable en bouche. Rien n’était excellent, mais rien n’était mauvais non plus.

Entre le beau monde, une carte fusion et des plats quelconque, on avait la sensation d’être dans un restaurant Costes avec un twist.

After the Hopper show, we had reservations at the Mini Palais. What with all their masculine and feminine, and the dreaded subjunctive, it seemed natural that the Mini Palais would be in the Grand Palais, just across from the Petit Palais. Mr French had a hard time with the concept, and was sure I was leading him astray.

Which is why I was glad when we finally walked up the stairs and found the right entrance. Mr French was glad because there were two drop dead gorgeous woman standing there in form fitting black dresses, waiting to seat us.

I love the space of the Mini Palais. An enormous loft, it was designed to look like an artist’s studio; a very rich, not very productive artist, who collected bits of Greek sculpture and sewed up a few sails to make his drop cloth, which he hangs on the wall. Exactly the kind of artist who would hang out with the international jet-set crowd that fills the tables at the Mini Palais.

There is no artist. The crowd comes for the cool space and the even cooler terrace that features imperial columns, a mosaic tiled floor, palm trees, a fantastic view of the Petit Palais and excellent cocktails.

Eric Frechon, the Michelin starred chef of the Bristol is the executive chef here and her has put together a fusion menu with tamarind, tandoori and piment d’espelette all in a row. The food is good, without being great. Some of the dishes are disappointing, like the somewhat boring crab in remoulade, or Mr French’s tandoori salmon. While other dishes were actually excellent, notably the rich mushroom soup with chestnuts and foie gras.

Le Mini Palais is a fun place to dine after a late night visit to the museum or when your itching to pass some time with the see and be seen crowd, but what I really love is going for the cocktails on the terrace, which gives me another reason to look forward to the spring!

 

Frenchie

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There is a very popular local restaurant called Frenchie. Google it and it comes up in both French and Anglo press. One of the English language foodie sites even has a post entitled, Five Great Frenchie Substitutes. I’d heard wonderful things about what comes out of the kitchen and I was hoping to try it one day, but reservations are incredibly hard to come by (hence the need for a list of substitutions). Since Mr French is often out of town and we work late during the week, I rarely get to try places on the other side of town, or anywhere that requires any kind of advance preparation. Reservations are reserved for things like birthdays and three star restaurants.

There are so many great restaurants in Paris, that I’ve never felt deprived, but I am a curious girl and when the opportunity to dine there came up, I didn’t want to say no.

The restaurant is cute, with brick exposed walls and only about 20 place settings. Our reservation was for 19h, a bit early for Paris and I’d had to skip lunch to ensure I’d have an appetite.

It seemed like everyone had a 19h reservation, because a flood of people arrived at once. I was seated next to the toilette and every time someone went in my chair back would take a healthy blow, shoving me into the table’s edge. The waitress spoke perfect French and English, and was very nice about serving in either, or and both. We ordered at the same time as the other tables, were served at the same time as the other tables and were required to leave before 21H30. As a local girl, I found this military precision rather odd and it left me ill at ease through out the meal. There was none of the hustle and bustle of a local bistrot, and with everyone doing approximately the same thing at about the same time, I kind of felt like I was in a school cafeteria.

But I was there to eat and I was not disappointed by what was on my plate. Without taking notes, I remember having enjoyed some excellent smoked sea scallops on sautéed mushrooms with a meyer lemon cream. For the main dish there was a perfectly prepared piece of sea beam and dessert was a blood orange sorbet with slices of fruit and bits of cake. All of this accompanied by a glass of a simply delicious white wine from Greece.

The food was remarkably good. It was light and original; with flavours in foam, lovely textures and the best basic ingredients. And the wine, well after ten years here, I appreciate the opportunity to try non-French wines, this one was well worth being adventurous. I found the portions ridiculously small and as I did a bit of research this evening I found that I am not the only one. The Figaroscope review has a similar complaint, but argues their case with considerably more force.

I love a great meal, but after last night I realized how much I also appreciate a good scene, either fun and lively, or plush and romantic, depending on the soirée. Frenchie is neither and given the rhythm of the orderly service, the tiny portions and the great lengths it takes to get a table, well, I’d probably call a handful of other restaurants first; 21, Racines, Pinxos, La Table d’Aki come to mind.

FRENCHIE

The cutest chef in Paris

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ENGLISH IS BELOW IN BLACK

Normalement, je suis en Laponie avec ce blog, mais hier soir j’ai eu une petite aventure parisienne que j’aimerais partager. Mercredi soir le téléphone sonne.

- Coucou ! Je suis à Paris, ça te dit un déjeuner avec moi demain au Mandarin Oriental? Je t’invite.

- Bonjour, j’aimerais bien déjeuner avec toi. Mais, euh, c’est qui?

C’est une copine qui est journaliste à Tel Aviv et de qui je n’ai pas eu de nouvelle depuis 2 ans. Après notre déjeuner (j’en parlerais plus tard) elle m’a demandé d’être son guide pour les soldes. Fastoche, je m’y connais en shopping. Après 2 heures on a terminé sa liste.

-Tu sais, j’ai un dîner ce soir au restaurant de mon copain, tu veux venir? Tu pourras en faire un papier pour The Girls Guide to Paris.

J’étais partant. Mais je ne comprenais pas pourquoi elle était si pressée, à 18h. Elle m’a expliqué que son copain, c’est Stéphane Jego et qu’on allait passer du temps dans sa cuisine pour apprendre à faire son fameux riz au lait avant le dîner.

Pinch me I’m dreaming. Depuis 10 ans Stéphane Jego est le chef du superbe et plus vieux restaurant Basque à Paris, Chez l’Ami Jean. Dîner chez lui est un plaisir. Entrer dans sa cuisine? J’en ai jamais rêvé.

Lolo age 5, the cutest chef in Paris!!!

Pendant leur explication de leur fameux riz (recette ici) M. Jego m’a montré sa dernière création, une soupe à l’oignon, inspiré par la soupe qu’il avait fait pour ses noces, mais en version moderne, reconstruit. Une purée de la réduction d’oignon avec une croquette de la purée, une réduction du bouillon servi avec une tranche d’encornet et une feuille de moutard. Pendant la construction du plat, il m’a parlé de soirée de noces et de sa femme Sandrine. Il a évoqué le chaudron de nos grandmères avec leurs vapeurs entermêlés ; les arômes de la cuisine et nos souvenirs de jeunesse. La passion pour ce plat, pour sa cuisine et l’amour pour son restaurant étaient presque visibles.

Cette passion est évidente dans son restaurant, avec du graffiti qui représent la muraille de Berlin ou le diable porte michelin et symbolise sa liberté dans sa cuisine. Les couteaux sont fait sur mesure, il n’y a que 136 au monde. Les serviettes ce sont des torchons relookés et les cartes sont de véritables oeuvres d’art original.

Lorsqu’on admirait la salle Lolo s’est assis pour son diner. Petite blonde aux cheveux bouclés elle tourne sa tête quand son père lui sert la soupe qui n’est pas une soupe. Elle ne veut pas la déguster. Il lui rappel que c’était un plat des noces de maman et papa. On continue avec notre visite et 10 minutes plus tard je remarque que le plat est vide. Lolo félicite son père sur sa nouvelle recette et lui rappel qu’elle déteste les épinards.

Cette recherche pour l’unique, pour la qualité est dans ces plats, aussi. Et quels plat son a dégusté ! On a eu doit à un menu sur mesure, commençant par sa terrine campagne mythique qui est offert à toutes les tables. Après il y avait une soupe aux crustacés suivi par des langues d’oiseux à l’encre de seiche avec homard. En ce moment notre serveur nous apporte un bol de pâtes qui nagaient. Ce n’étaient pas des pâtes ; c’était de pibales, une spécialité gastronomique des Pays Basques et ils n’étaient pas pour manger, enfin, pas tout de suite. D’abord, la fameuse soupe à l’oignon reconstruite. Magnifique ! Surtout les croquettes, Lolo avait raison. Les pibales étaient de retour, cette fois-ci sans mouvement, une sautée parfaîtement simple dans sa perfection, de l’ail et une assaisonnement généreuse de piment d’espelette.

Maintenant, le riz au lait. Un gros bol de riz servi avec un caramel au beurre salé et des noix de pecan carmelisés. Pour se refraiîchir, on nous a offert une compote d’agrumes avec une glace au gingembre. Pas mal, mais pour moi, la pièce de resistance était le YoLoLo, un plat concu par Lolo et Yuka, une croustiant de pommes parfaitement carmelisé avec un sorbet à la vanille. Extraordinaire.

Après une verveine au comptoir (on devait cèder nos places a des rugbymen qui avait faim) on a salué le chef et on est parti, nos pieds touchaient à peine le sol.

Normally, we’re still in Lapland, but last night I had the most fabulous adventure in a Paris kitchen. So we’re changing dials for today. Wed night the phone rang.

“Sylvia, its M, I’m in Paris! Guess where I’m staying? The Mandarin Oriental! You want to have lunch tomorrow? my treat!”

I hadn’t heard from M in nearly two years, when she moved home to Israel to pursue her career as a journalist and fall in love and become a Mom. I cancelled my plans and we had a date. After lunch at Camélia (later, I promise) she asked me to take her shopping for les soldes because weirdly enough, I have the reputation of being something of a shopping expert. After a very successful two hours, M started to be in a rush.

“I’m having dinner at a friend’s restaurant, would you like to join me? You could write about it for the Girls Guide.”

I was game. I’m always game for food, but I could not understand her rush, at 18h, we had plenty of time. My friend explained that her friend is Stéphane Jego and that she had a date to meet him before dinner to learn how to make his famous rice pudding.

Scratch that record and play that again. Stéphne Jego? He’s the chef of L’Ami Jean, a superb Basuqe restaurant that also happens to be the oldest in Paris. Eating there is a pure joy, entering his kitchen was beyond my wildest dreams.

The kitchen is teeny, but was practically empty when we arrived. Most of the staff was enjoying their dinner and the only two left in the kitchen were the pastry chef, Yuka Hayakawa and her impressively hard working assistant, Lolo, Jego’s 5 year old daughter, the cutest chef in Paris!

Jego's Onion Soup

While they explained riz au lait, Chef Jego started showing me his newest creation, a reconstructed onion soup that had been inspired by the onion soup he had made for his wife Sandrine and guests on their wedding night. The modern version had an onion purée, a soup reduction and fried onion ball, served with a slice of calamar and mustard leaves. As he pulled all the ingredients together he talked on his wedding and his wife, Sandrine. he spoke of our grandmother’s kitchens, where the vapor from their pots entwined the fragrance of cooking with our childhood memories. His passion for this dish, for cooking and his love for this restaurant were palpable in his voice.

This passion comes through in his restaurant, graffiti that represents the Berlin Wall with a Michelin devil is the symbol of his freedom in the kitchen. Custom knives, there are only 136 in the world, napkins are actually designed dishtowels and each menu is an original work of art.

As we admired the details of the dining room Lolo sat down for dinner. Bolnd with bouncing curls she pushed away the dish of onion soup, she wanted nothing to do with it. Her father reminded it her that it was the dish he’d made for her mom on their wedding day and then continued o nwith us. 10 minutes later her dish was clean and she congratulated him, at the same time reminding him that she hates spinach.

Being detailed oriented comes from his years in the kitchen where each dish must be perfect. And what dishes we tasted! Chef Jego prepared a special menu for us, beginning with the reknowned country pâté that is offered to all the diners. Then there was a seafood soup with crunchy bits of croutons and red onion followed but “bird’s tongue” pasta in squid ink with lobster. At this point our waiter brought us a bowl of squiggling pasta. But it wasn’t pasta, they were pibale, baby eels and a Basque delicacy. Only these ones were only for us to admire, at least for now. It was time for the recontructed onion soup. Lolo was right, delicious, especially the onion balls! The pibale s were back, this time totally still in a porcelaine bowl with three wooden spoons and perfectly sauteed with garlic and a healthy seasoning of Piment d’espelette.

It was a breathtaking moment during a breathtaking meal. Then came rabbit, pigeon and calf kidney with a mix of different purées and sauces all with incredible flavours and textures. I could taste the memories of my holidays in Ciboure, I was in my grandfather’s kitchen, I was traveling through the memory of my palette, just as the chef intended. Two glasses of an excellent poully fumé accompanied the meal

After all that, it was time for the rice pudding. A large bowl is served with a small bowl of caramel au beurre salé and another with carmelised pecans. There was a refreshing dessert of citrus fruit with ginger ice cream and it was all very good, but the pièce de résistance was the YoLoLo, a perfectly marmalised apple croustillant with vanilla sorbet created by Yuka and Lolo. Exceptional.

After an herbal tea at the zinc bar (we’d stayed too long and a rather serious looking rugby man had claims to our table) we rolled out the door, our feet barely touching the ground.

 

Costes

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Last week I mentioned a luxurious soirée over cocktails at the Hotel Costes. A sometimes reader asked if I’d be writing about my evening and I replied that sadly, no, I didn’t have any photos. This happens often. I get so caught up in the moment I don’t think of whipping out my camera and clicking away. She said this wouldn’t be a problem, so I’ve borrowed the photos from the official site and dedicate this to my reader.

I was meeting la Fashionista, aka my step daughter, Mlle French for cocktails. Tall, full figured, with crystalline blue eyes and porcelain skin that is perfectly framed by her nearly black hair, Mlle is a trend setter. Last year when she had a back problem and had to wear one of those wide, medical support belts, she decided to wrap it outside her clothing like an accessory. The next Monday three coworkers were wearing the same belt, lauding its practicality (great for stashing your Marlboros) and the flattering silhouette it created!  Nothing but a trendy, fashion forward address would do. I suggested we meet at the Hotel Costes. She was thrilled.

I don’t exactly look like an international jet setter, but I walked up the stairs full of confidence, trying to look like I owned the place as I stepped into the entirely black entry. The greeter bowed his head and welcomed me with a bonjour that was as warm as the very practical Uniqlo Heat Tech jeans I was wearing.

A size 0, barely clad hostess with long, flowing hair, was busy on the phone, but a host quickly came to my aid asking if I’d like to sit in the half-full, very boudoir looking bar that was plush with red velvet settees, heavy chandeliers and copies of old world portraits or in the red lit, covered courtyard. The bar felt rather hushed and romantic, opulent bouquets of roses everywhere, so I opted for the more spartan, livelier terrace and settled myself at a marble topped bistrot table.

Mlle arrived and was thrilled with the Christmas feel of the space. We set to talking as I nursed a mojito and she savoured a Ladoucette Pouilly Fumé. We occasionally stopped to watch the crowd, but mostly we were chatting, and so wrapped up in our conversation that we were surprised when waiter came over to announce that it was dinner time. They were fully booked for the night, he explained, but they had one table left if we’d like to stay and have a meal.

We shrugged. Her beaux was playing sports, Mr French was in China and M had already stepped out with her BFFs for the evening. Inertia took hold and we decided to stay, both secretly suspecting the now empty restaurant was not really fully booked.

We were moved to a cozy nook overlooking the terrace, and instantly felt like two princesses presiding over a grand party, an entire row of (empty) tables stretching out at our feet. The waiter handed us our menus and we turned to see that a line had formed, flowing out the door onto the cold street. Richly clad folk were waiting patiently to announce their reservations and be seated for the evening. We were astounded as the tables at our feet were filled in a matter of minutes.

I ordered the Tom Yum sea bass, while Mlle opted for the grilled eggplant with burrata. Costes is the kind of place where they serve the thin and beautiful; without asking I was warned that my meal was served with rice, but they’d be happy to substitute spinach instead, while Mlle was informed that her dish, a starter, really was large enough to serve as a meal.

Sitting near the entryway gave us lots and lots of people watching opportunities. Sometimes we had a hard time keeping a straight face, like when a rather petite lady whooshed in totally engulfed in her camel colored, hooded cape, trimmed in white fur. Or the 60 something British-looking gentleman with a yellow silk scarf and a 20 something plaything on his arm. There were some interesting looking boob jobs, and only one botched plastic surgery. There were the terribly attractive, carefully disheveled Frenchmen and the gorgeous Moms with their equally gorgeous teens, young couples too busy gazing into each others’ eyes to notice the rest of the world and older couples exchanging holiday/birthday/I love you gifts in the boudoir.

We loved our regal seats, but joked about getting the table near the entry where no one else would want to sit. The next day, Mr French, crumpled with jet lag and smelling of  canned air looked at me in amazement. “Are you kidding? That’s where they put the beautiful people: assures everyone else that they’re with the right crowd and attracts men.” Wow. Mr French deserves something special for that one! Love must be is blind…

St Malo

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photo from the restaurant's webpage

Two weekends ago we went to Cancale, and I raved about our trip, and it was fantastic, but then life happened and I start writing about more timely stuff, like the Paris Photo Festival, which I really encourage you to go see, which means I got side tracked and didn’t fully finish talking about our trip, which is fine, because, well, do you really care about every little thing we saw and tasted and experienced? I hope not, for your sake! On the other hand, I do like food an awful lot and we had some great meals on this trip that I really want to remember so I can book places for our next trip, so today, I am indulging myself and making a list of my St Malo favorite foods. First, the fish that got away.

On our first trip to St Malo, Mr French gave the a list of three restaurants he’d heard were absolutely stupendous and he told me to pick one and book it. I did, and the meal is still one of the best meals we have ever shared (more on that in 30 seconds). Number 3 on the list no longer exist, but number 2 is Le Chalut, a very traditional looking fish restaurant with a chef who once worked at Ledoyen and the Ritz. Michelin, Pudlowski and Mr French’s locally based colleague all rave about this place, so this weekend Mr French was determined to go. Unfortunately he did not share this ambition with me and he is not exactly the ‘plan in advance’ kind of traveler, so we arrived for lunch 20 minutes after the kitchen had closed. which means we absolutely MUST return to St Malo.

Another reason we have to go back is the dinner we had at St Placide, a truly exceptional address well off the beaten path and outside the city’s ramparts. This is the memorable meal I mentioned above. We didn’t make it there this trip. We ate there 3 years ago and we still remember much of the menu in detail. The sea bass with Tonka beans and the lobster with vanilla and ginger are now our benchmarks for inventive cuisine without too much fuss. And the dessert was full of surprises with pop rocks causing flavorful explosions in our mouths, leaving us giggling like school girls. Seeing a 50-something, French, ex-Rugby man giggle like a school girl, well, Mastercard could use the moment in their ad campaigns.

Not every meal can be an orgy of gastronomy. En fin, not for a size 10 body that will be returning to Paris to be surrounded by size 2 friends. A bit of restraint was in order. A simple meal in Brittany means one of two things; fresh oysters by the sea, or crêpes. Cancale has the oyster beds so crêpes were in order. There may be 200 crêperies intra-murs in St Malo. How does one choose? At 15h in the afternoon, you just go to the first place with an open kitchen, so we fell into An Delenn. Having lived in Montréal for 5 years, I was terribly amused by the Québec flag bunting the owner had chosen for his decor. The menu feature maple syrup, blueberries from Lac St Jean, and I suspect they’re working on adding poutine at some point in the near future. In the meantime, the crêpes were truly artisanal and we watched in amazement as he peeled apples for new orders, beat the eggs, galette by galette and flipped some of the best crêpes we’ve ever had.

On the way home that afternoon, Mr French was driving peacefully along when the woman next to him, arms flinging, screeched insanely, “Beurre Bordier, OH MY GOD, this is where beurre Bordier is from.” I had just seen the Cheese Shop run by perhaps the most famous butter churner in all of France. And it must be love, because instead of turning on me and laying into me for my insanity, Mr French calmly found a parking spot and I got to visit butter mecca. I strolled through the place bouncing on the balls of my feet and clapping my hands with joy, even though I couldn’t buy the butter because it would never have survived the trip to Paris and I can get it at my local cheese shop 6 days a week, anyway. A butter geek. Who knew? Yes, we suspected, but nobody really knew for sure until now.

At Bordier they had a flier for L’Ecole du Goût de St Malo. The cooking school that very well be our next excuse for visiting St Malo and the inspiration for another post like this one!
Le Chalut / 8 r. de la Corne-de-Cerf  / 02 99 56 71 58

Le St Placide /6 Place du Poncel / 02 99 81 70 73

An Delenn / 4 rue de la Harpe / 02 99 40 16 53

 

 

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