*Now the nice part of being really old is you use these references, quotes and analogies and readers think you're really inscrutible or deep or erudite when you're just reaching into the distant memory bank and pulling something out at random. "My kind of place," of course, is an homage to Frank Sinatra's 1966 recording of "My kind of town." Because this place really is my kind of place.
7.0 (that's right, 7.0 for the simple epicerie-rotisserie offshoot of Astier, a place internautes hate) Jeanne A., 42 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud in the 11th (Metro: Oberkampf) 0.43.55.09.49, closed Tuesday-Thursday is right next door to the mothership, indeed, folks run back and forth, like they used to at Ze and the Cafe Constant, delivering dishes, supplies and the like.
As loyal readers know, I detest brunch, an American abomination, so finding a good non-brunch place for Sunday lunch is always a challenge. When I called Jeanne A. I specially asked "did they have a real carte or just brunch" and was reassured I could get non-pseudo-Yankee food.
It's a tiny place, 16 covers between the shelves of canned/bottled goods and huge glass case of charcuterie/prepared food/takeout/etc. and a 10 seat table in a strange sukkōt-like hut in the rear but no matter. And when you see but two toaster-ovens and a super-hot broiler, you think, "how do they do it?"
The "answer my friend is blowing in the wind," or at least the wind blows the poor guys who have to trot between Jeanne A. & Astier bringing rotissied stuff from one place to another. The carte is also small, a dozen finger-food items from the comptoir and cheese frigo, 3 starters, 3 mains and a host of desserts.
The French friend I've known the longest in Paris, who is always game for these expeditions, ordered the potiron soup with foie gras cubes which was the best of the season where everyone on earth is making the bloody stuff, and I had bio tomatoes, which I was worried would not match those of Saturne on my last two visits - not to worry - with a bit of salt & pepper they were a match for the hot resto's offerings.
Then she had the 1/4 rotisseried black-footed chicken and I the perfectly cooked sliced duck, both dishes served with about the best potatoes dauphinoise I've ever had and a small fresh greens salad. Zowie!
For dessert she had something I'd never order here, a cheese cake but even I, an ex-Manhattan-pat, rated it excellent and my citron cake was fine.
Excuse the blurry cake pix but how's this for an Illy cup designed by one Pedro Almodovar, the Spanish filmmaker - cool eh?
Our bill, with gassy water made in house, a bottle and glass of wine, fine bread (on a Sunday) and two Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown Illy's, was 76.00 E.
Go? Colette better come with me next week or I'm getting a divorce.