John Talbott's Paris

Petit Panisse in the 11th: Depending on where you live.

 

4.5-5.0 (Depending on where you live). Petit Panisse, 35, rue de Montreuil in the 11th, 01.43.71.37.90, closed Saturday lunch and Sundays with formulas at 10, 12 and 15 at lunch and 24 and 30 € looks like a real dump from the street; faded signs, faded woodwork, old advertising signs, aged metal shops – great ambiance. By digging one finds out this is associated with the Vache Acrobate and it’s sure a funky space.

Here we are in a recession/depression and the place is packed with locals, by 1 PM flowing out into the street waiting. No wonder, three courses at lunch are 16 € and at dinner only 30 € and wine by the ½ liter is 12 €.

I was seated at a corner table which suited me just fine and had a great view of the scene. I started with a fish soup with rouille, that both had a different taste than I’m used to, but they were just fine.

Then I had the coq au vin, which had a sauce as good as they come.

The desserts were made on-site; I had an apricot/pistachio one that again was quite good.

The outside says traditional food and it sure is: the above plus foie gras, charcuterie, boudin and seafood raviolis. They served up three sorts of bread, one a nut bread, had a more than ample cheese platter and gave me the best Illy coffee I’ve had in months.

The bill (tap water is on the table) was 30.50 €.

Go? You won’t so it’s futile telling you I wish there were a down and dirty place like this in my, indeed every, quartier.

L'Assiette in the 14th: Another Ducassian protegé succeeds.

 

6.0 L’Assiette, 181, rue du Château in the 14th, 01 43 22 64 86, closed Mondays and Tuesdays, lunch menu 25 € (even on weekends), evening menu 50 €, a la carte: 25-40 € is the old Lulu monument, taken over this fall by the Ducassian protégé, David Rathegber. I thought it was nickel.

At the start, the clientele were all foreign speaking but by meal’s end they had tilted towards France. The tic-like keening of the four classically beautiful Japanese women on the left, who were surely models, at the recitation of the menu (in English) was counterpunctuated by the yelling from the kitchen from the right that sounded like someone who kept burning himself.

The meal started off wonderfully well, with delicious bread, butter and sliced ham off the bone as an amuse bouche. The carte could push you up easily into the 50-60 € range and so when I heard the 25 € lunch menu’s offerings, I was pleased.

I started with a “salad” of tiny warm leeks with diced spiced beef and teeny croutons that was more than good.

Then I had two ecrevisses and a big quenelle of fish with a Nantua sauce that was pretty much like the gold standard that I had at the source in Nantua and certainly better than my last one at Les Ombes/Bellecoeur.

The chef had the nice habit of poking his head around the corner of the open kitchen, much like Dominique Bouchet or William Ledeuil, to check the pace of service, delight of customers (me thumb up), etc,.

One glass of wine came with the 25 € menu so with coffee it was 28 € (they did have a fair number of glasses of wine from 7-9, half-carafes at 18-27 and bottles on up to 150 €.)

Go? You betcha; Ducasse’s aura rubs off on the acolytes.

Variations in the 13th: This is a neighborhood place: no more, no less.

 

1.5 Variations, which lists itself as at 18 rue Wallons in the 13th, (but is also at the corner of rue, Rene Panhard [my first French car] earning a point), 01.43.31.36.04, closed Sundays, has been on my radar screen since it opened earlier this spring and each time I pass it, en route elsewhere, I say to myself - “I must look for reviews.” Well, it has been reviewed in Telerama, ParuVendu + Newzy - ho hum - but finally in Le Monde, Fooding 2009 + A Nous Paris, so I figured I was safe for going to lunch on Saturday.

The menu is ambitious; from salads to pasta in the big parmesan round; from risotto to steak; from tiramisu to chocolate cake – ambitious sounding eh, and suspiciously Italian?

Very nice welcome; nice interchange with the chef as to why he used vodka not grappa in the flambéed pasta; nice help from the maitre d’ when my hood needed buttoning before I exited into the rain. Ah, but the food John?

Yes, well. I started with a carpaccio of duck breast, excellent product but over-salted and over-espiletted.

Then I had the sautéed fois gras atop a red onion “chutney.” I have never in all my years on earth tasted foie gras like this or should I say not tasted it – it was tasteless and no amount of salt or pepper could revive it.

Thinking I could save the day with a nice dessert I had prunes in Armagnac that were without character or taste-able Armagnac - but the mint on top was fabulous.

I couldn’t bring myself to suffer through a coffee and exited 48 € poorer (3 courses, a ½ liter of Bordeaux and tap water). (They did have a 20 € formula with 2 dishes of forced choices.)

At first I thought I should, as an eG host told me recently, do the guy a service by not writing him up, but as I headed back to the Metro, passing my professional/spiritual home, the Salpetriere, it occurred to me that assisted suicide might be the kindest act.

Go? As I said: this is a neighborhood place: no more, no less.

Do you tell? (e.g. the chef it stank?): An archival* essay.

No, I’m not talking about disclosing one’s secret places or being honest in reviews or telling your best friend s/he has bad breath; I’m referring to answering the question – “how was it,” “it satisfied you,”  “it was?” when the waiter or worse, the chef asks.  I’ll declare myself up front as a coward, a dishonest diner, a person without a backbone.  Two examples.

 

A bit ago, at Mori Venice Bar, my French downstairs’ neighbor, Madame LeP., my exact age (so we get that out of the equation), told me that her white asparagus had a sauce so salty that it destroyed the flavor of the vegetables – we switched plates as we always do (I had ordered a Bresaola with salad – both of which were excellent) – and I sampled the asparagus - yuck, gag, inedible, I couldn’t eat more than a bite – quick passing back of the dishes. 

 

Second course, she had a fantastic, perhaps the best I’ve ever had, blanquette of veal (spoiled only by, yet again, something over-salted, in this case - potatoes.)  I, on the other hand, had a fabulous dish of seiches (cuttlefish) in black ink with an (you got it) over-salted polenta.  But me, I put the polenta on top of the seiches and wouldn’t you know, the combo – a seiches/polenta/ink sandwich, was spectacular. 

 

The meal ended and our cheerful waitperson approached to ask the dreaded/traditional/expected question – “did you like it.”  Oh, man, I shuddered, while struggling with what to say. 

 

By the way, I’m no more courageous in English, where I usually respond – “Thank you” – at which response, my wife’s eyes approach the ceiling.  But Madame LeP. looked him straight in the eyes (no hiding behind euphemisms here) and with a big smile said – yes, everything was fine, except you might want to inform the chef that someone in the kitchen has a heavy hand with the salt. 

 

Oh magawd, this is my guest, my friend, my neighbor - the earth will shake, the Guignol’s imitation of a divine being will send down a thunderbolt, and we’ll be thrown out.  No.  Not at all. 

 

Instead the elegant waitguy said “Thank you Madame, I’ll inform the chef.”  And indeed, that’s the way to do it.  No anger, no petulance, no BS; the facts, Mam, just the facts.

 

However, now we get to Tale #2.  I ate at a place recommended by two esteemed, seasoned, good judges of food in Paris - Le Charlain in the 9th. It’s the nicest setting, with the nicest chef and hostess, with a nice menu and “menu;” a nice no-smoking room, all nice locals - problem, the food was neither nice nor tasteful. 

 

I had a cassolette of escargots and girolles, ordinarily an intense, richly flavored dish with a heart-stopping butter sauce – nope, tasteless escargots, stringy girolles and a very, very thin sauce (surely much too heart-friendly.)  

 

Then, thinking I was smarter than any resto folk and could order defensively without fail, I ordered a confit de canard and potatoes, knowing that the first would be a bit salty and undercooked and the second, garlicky and sumptuous – wrong !  The first was bland and overcooked, the second bland and without character.

 

End of meal (at least for me – after that, I’m not about to tempt fate by trying a dessert.)  So the chef, with whom I had talked quite a bit on being seated and whom I really liked, approaches and I sink into my chair.  Am I a man or a mouse?

 

Can I do what my friend the day before did?  Am I going to help the chef save his resto, No way! 

 

I tug my forelock (well, in my mind), tell him how much I enjoyed being in his restaurant (not exactly a lie,) say I will remember the meal forever (not a lie at all,) and beat a hasty retreat. 

 

I rationalize all this cowardice with the explanation to myself that I’ll write the experience and place up, whether for money or not, in order to warn others off from experiencing eating such bad food at such incredibly high prices. 

 

But let’s face the truth.  The way Mme LeP. handled it was correct and I was a wimp.  As Jesse Jackson said after an extra-marital indiscretion – “The Lord is not done with me yet.”  That’s really chickening out, but, hey that’s also 99.99% of us.

 

My fave is :

Mori Venice Bar

2 rue du 4 Septembre, 2^nd (Metro : Bourse)

T: 01.44.55.51.55

Closed Saturday lunch and Sundays

A la carte 40-60 €.

 

*Originally published in May 2006.

Les Cocottes in the 7th: Constant’s third offshoot: An archival* review.

5.0 Les Cocottes, 135, rue St Dominique, no telephone but info is supposedly available from Le Violin, open 7/7 (except on Sundays in the summer), from 8:30-22:30. Although I had dropped by June 30th to see if it was open and what it looked like and in the process talked with Mr. C.

I really hadn’t registered some things; for instance it occupies the space of my favorite jarré de porc source – CHARLES traiteur – and thus my guests tomorrow will have to make do with second-rate stuff from Bon Marché. I also hadn’t realized how railway car shaped it was; Emmanuel Rubin calls it a diner French-version, and it is, with tons of seats along the elongated bar and two tables for 4-6 with stools where the room opens a bit.

So envision a long bar with 20 stools on the right, a wall on the left followed by two or three communal tables at the end and himself entering (with no bowing and scraping from the staff) with his two boys, spotting a scooter, a child now eating had parked near the door, mounting it and scooting the entire length of the boxcar, to his kids’ mixed horror and delight and the customers’ mild amusement. The guy does have a touch of the theater in him.

OK to the food. As has been described elsewhere, the Cocottes does everything from breakfast tartines to cocktail tapas, from salads (3) to soups (4), from cocottes to desserts – I counted at least 40 dishes on the ardoise and 2 specials.

The 9 box-wines are 3 per glass, 6 per 25 cl and 12 € for a 50 cl ficelle plus lots of bottles from inexpensive to pricey. Monsieur C himself treated a friend and himself to the one smack in the middle, commenting on it, proving that the former chef at Les Ambassadeurs can find good inexpensive stuff.

In any case I started with a cold ptipois soup with strip of spicy salty chorizo and crème fraiche, then going on to the pigeon with big peas and delicious greens and scallions, finishing with a waffle with Chantilly and salty caramel.

The meal was just as advertised, simple, honest and made from good products. It ain’t starred cooking nor is it meant to be; the place is largely intended for and patronized by locals; only at the end did 6 Anglos and an Asian customer enter.

My bill was 44 €.

Go? One should once, just to see what he can do in these circumstances, but because of the seating, don’t go as a big group.

*Originally published in September 2007.

Arthur in the 10th: You can’t have everything.

 

3.5 Arthur, 25, rue du Faubourg St Martin in the 10th, 01.42.08.34.33, closed Saturday lunch, Sundays and Monday night, menu-carte at 39.50 € for three dishes (about 5 choices each course), and 26.50 € for two courses of the daily four specials, is a place that got two hearts back in October and only now I’m catching up with.

I went (my call, sorry) with two great dining partners who know their stuff and we all three were disappointed except for the desserts. The décor can charitably be described as 1930’s whore-house red and the photos of Parisian theatre icons don’t lend confidence to the impression.

We started with the ecrevisses/lobster tartare, pate en croute and the third so forgettable I forget. (Oh yah, it was raviolis with wild mushrooms – sounded great when A. Lobrano described it in WHERE).

Then we had the tagine of lamb with (good) fall vegetables, duck breast “burger” with fois gras and frites, that its orderer asked the waiter for fleur de sel to spark up and home-made tagliatelles drowned in seafood cream sauce with five or six halves of over the hill scallops.

Then we had the tagine of lamb with (good) fall vegetables, duck breast “burger” with fois gras and frites, that its orderer asked the waiter for fleur de sel to spark up and home-made tagliatelles drowned in seafood cream sauce with five or six halfs of over the hill scallops.

Finally we shared a bitter chocolate gateau and tarte tatin with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce.  (There is one absolutely hilarious part of the show-biz décor; in the bathroom, the sink flashes with red and blue lights like a state fair popcorn stand.)

With a bottle of wine called “You are so cool” (I couldn’t resist ordering it) that was icy cold even for a red Loire, 3 coffees and no bottled water our bill was 139.50 €.

Go? Only if you have two interesting and food-worthy dining companions as I did.

Steig Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

Steig Larsson's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo was recommended to me by another food-crazed French-based guy who said this first in a trilogy was terrific in French. I, however, found a copy in English through browseforbooks.com in the UK and spent several wonderful days reading it.

The first 1/3rd goes by in the flash, but then it bogs down after the midway point and only at the end comes back to full speed.

Which is not to say I'm not looking forward to the next two of the series (Larsson died suddenly at 50 a few days after delivering the manuscript to his Swedish publisher. Too bad.) The girl in the title is as much a piece of work as the protagonist is a cool guy.

Dr. Erich Salomon at the Jeu de Paume/Sully site

 

This wonderful phoography show starts with a brief intro/bio containing the appalling news that Salomon was gassed at Auschwitz, which put the whole show beyond the pale for me; I went through it cursing the Germans, the Nazis and everyone else who snuffs out talent because of race or color or ethnicity or religion.  Because he was incredibly talented as the show shows so well.

 

The subtitle of this exhibition is “le roi des indiscrets” which really doesn’t translate in the “King of the Indiscretes” as they have tried to, but rather, he should be called the “Father of the Hidden Camera.”  Which I sure didn’t know. 

 

I thought it was Alan Funt, un unh - several decades before, this good Doctor (of Law) had hidden cameras in flowers, snuck off pix of forbidden court-rooms and hidden in bathrooms before exclusive functions, only to surprise his victims with great prints later on.

 

He shot the greats of his time: Einstein, Bruno Walter, Deitrich (stunningly gorgeous), Gigli, Upton Sinclair and most famously, Aristide Briand (the politician/diplomat) not to be confused with Aristide Bruant (he of the red scarf and Montmartre cabaret scene) – whom he snapped delightedly pointing at Salomon and saying : there he is, the “roi des indiscrets.”

 

There is an equally wonderful film at the end made by the Netherlands Film folks that captures his life so very accurately, beautifully and lovingly that you weep at the end when the train goes off to Theresienstadt, then Auschwitz.  How very, how indescribably, sad.

Ober-Salé in the 11th: If I only had something like this on my block.

 

5.0 Ober-Salé, 17 rue Oberkampf in the 11th, 01.43.38.46.68, open/closed? (I forgot to ask), 2 courses at lunchtime = 16 and 3 = 19 €, crept onto the Parisian gastronomic scene with little notice 5 months ago, except for a little note and 6/10 rating in the Figaroscope Dossier a month ago – strange eh?

The chef is exBristol and it has only two choices for each course at lunch and four at dinner but judging from what we had, that’s enough. There are only 20 covers and it was only half-full at lunch but I bet in this yuppieville it’s packed at night.

My eating pal and I split every course and except for the pumpkin soup which could have used some pizzazz (a touch of Tabasco maybe) it was damn good fare.

We started with said soup and what sounded boring – an egg covered with a creme of cauliflower that was astonishingly good – probably because we expected so little.

Then we had a leg and thigh of pintade that was perfectly browned and toasty and tasty with smashed barely cooked potatoes, which even I, an avowed potato agnostic, found good as well two very nicely sautéed filets of merlan atop chopped leeks and garlic that had just enough zip.

We terminated with a lukewarm rice pudding with a topping of hot sweet sautéed pineapple bits and a nage of clementines with a barely tasteable ginger syrup.

With a wonderful Cotes de Ventoux, which was wonderful once it had "breathed" and two Illy coffees our bill was 64 €.

Go? Yes, why hasn’t any other critic?

La Canaille : Godforsaken spot; godforsaken place; godforsaken food.

 

0.5 La Canaille, 4, rue Crillon in the 4th, 01.42.78.09.71, closed Saturday lunch and Sundays is a place my FFFF suggested we eat at and I readily agreed since he is spot on 99.9999% of the time.

Now disclosure and disclaimer – disclosure: he’s not going to write our meal up for complicated reasons but said I could an quote him – disclaimer: we mean no evil to the chef or owner, the latter of whom told my pal it might not be so good. Its location is weird, in the Bermuda triangle between Sully-Morland, the Gare de la Rapee and the Bastille.

What must have been here 50 years ago? Metal works? Print shops? Shipping offices? I dunno, but the street was godforsaken. I entered a tad before my host and the wait guy was drole, suggesting I sit on an isolated chair by the coat rack to wait or by the etched antique glass partition in front on a “Defense d’Afficher” thing and weird posters and art on the wall – OK, I lack the French sense of humor.

We looked at the carte and there were two - Noon and Night - and a chalkboard. We were able to order what we wanted however and shared throughout.

We started with the nem (not nems) of vegetables with bean sprouts in a strange sauce neither of us hardened sauce experts could identify and boudin noir tarte (of all things); both of which came with great salads with strangely sweet dressings, however. We both left portions unfinished.

At this point, he looked at me and said “I’m sorry; I should never, oh golly, oh gosh…..” I replied that it was better than starving.

Then I had ordered the pintade stuffed with apples and something else (a rollatine) which came with great vegetables and he had the canette with sour cherries (good) and hot-table vegetables (awful). He said “John, please, don’t, I, well, maybe, oh……” I said “Gimme a break, it’s not that bad. We’ve got dessert coming, recall in the 1960’s when the firsts and desserts were superb and the meal only fell down in the middle?” He said “I wasn’t born then.”

So he got the cheese and said “What’s wrong with this?” I guessed - “it’s been standing too long? Ah, it’s been in the frigo?” “No, no, touch it.” It was warm to the touch – heated camembert, just like they used to serve at fancy Manhattan parties in the 1970’s. Yikes.

And my supposed millefeuille of apples was barely edible and he wouldn’t touch “his” half. (And he’s not writing this place up because his beat now is upbeat)? Oh my.

Well the coffees came, not as ordered, and with only one spoon and while he was gracefully saying his goodbyes, I shuffled out the door. We split without discussing it any further.

The bill – 92.60 € - they should have paid us that, although the wine was OK, the bread not so. Sad, sad, sad.

Go? You not only don’t read to the end, you don’t get nuance.