John Talbott's Paris

The Cartouche Cafe in the 12th: Why are folks flocking here?

 

6.7 Café Cartouche, 4, rue de Bercy in the 12th, 01.40.19.09.95, closed Saturday noon and Sundays, a la carte about 30 €, is another new offshoot, this of Rodolphe Paquin's Repaire de Cartouche, that super place up near the Winter Circus.

I've been meaning to come since it opened in March but the lack of enthusiastic reviews and opportunities retarded my chance til today - silly boy.  It's great.

I'll presume you've been to the Repaire so you know the style - terrines, gutsy meats and delicate fish, no artifice, no bullshit, just solid cooking.

I started with a fricasee of girolles, I mean how can one not?  They were delicious; tasty, nicely offset with a tart (I guess vinegar based) peppery sauce that I scooped up every morsel with, using his good bread.

Then I had another dish obvious for me: ris d'agneau with mushrooms of Paris and cocos, again in a wonderful dark rich sauce quite sopable,

I ended with roasted figs with cream, oh my.

(Additional notes: they served folks outside a bottle of rose wine in a cool plastic bag; they have a daily special (today sausage) with 50 cl of wine for 15 E and a two course menu for 19 E.)

My bill with a half-liter carafe and no coffee or bottled water was 43 Euros.

Go?  This place reminds me of Biche au Bois under the ancien regime, so definately.  I'll be interested to see whhat they do with game.

Reviews of reviews: The Week of August 24th, 2009

Monday Le Point, announced that Émile Jung was passing control of Le Crocodile in Strasbourg to Philippe Bohrer.

Tuesday in Le Fooding, Gilles Dupuis reviewed Les Becs a Vin in Orleans.

Saturday/Sunday, in Bonjour Paris, Margaret Kemp wrote a piece on “Bernard du 15 & Frenchie” and John Talbott wrote an essay entitled “Eating with others: Frank Bruni and Me.”

Sunday, Francois Simon's "Croque Notes" in Le Figaro featured a review of Les Enfants Terribles, 8, rue Lord Byron (across from Gagnaire in Johnny Halliday's old space),in the 8th,01. 53.89.90.91, closed Saturday lunch and Sundays, no formula or menu, a la carte about 70 E, for roast chicken, king crab salad and chocolate mousse.

Sunday, in the JDD, Astrid T’Serclaes reviewed Cantina Mundo in Bagnolet and Aurelie Chaigneau wrote up both Rosa Bonheur in the Buttes de Chaumont and the Italian offshoot of Rosa – Rosalito. In addition, she announced some changes for this fall; Jean-Francois Piege’s leaving Les Ambassadeurs for “other adventures” including Thoumieux, the opening of conceptual Nomiya at the Palais de Tokyo, the epicerie-dining room Comptoir Baulois in the 9th, Bob’s Kitchen, little sister of Bob’s Juice Bar in the 3rd, Fish & Rice a sushi bar by a nice American, William Ledeuil’s offshoot Ze Kitchen Galerie bis down the street from #1, Christian Etchebest’s 3rd in September and Claude Colliot’s new place this winter.

In August’s WHERE, Alexander Lobrano reviewed the Mama Shelter all you can eat 39 E dinner barbeque Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays (brunch Sundays), La Paiva on the Champs-Elysees and the Paris branch of the Japanese Oto-Oto.

The Cour St-Emilion: an upscale Coney Island.

 

Now doesn't this look nice?

Why do people turn up their noses?

If you walk from the Bercy Omnisports through the "gardens" to the entrepots it's quite nice, really.

And it's not far away (8 minutes from La Madeleine to Bercy on the automatic Metro #14).

Just don't eat here.  Or if you do don't expect much.  It's cool tho'.

Le 51 in the 12th: Thighs, eyes and breasts.

 

0.0 Le 51, 51, rue de Bercy in the 12th, 01.58.51.10.91 (in the Cinematheque francaise aka the failed American Center/Library built by Frank Gehry), a la carte 35-60 E depending on how much tolerance you have for bad food, badly prepared and badly served. I went because (ah, tell the truth John, I went because at the end of August there are no alternatives of new places I haven't yet tried that are open, OK, there you have it).

Desperation made me do it. But also Colette Monsat and Sylvain Verut of Figaroscope  listed it fourth among their 21 recommendations for August.

It is described by all the big boys and girls as a sort of snack/salad plus roast chicken place that is an ideal place to pause between film showings. And it's largely situated between the building and the lovely park, full of children and runners and sunners and on a lovely day like today - what could be better?

I arrived early, having had multiple problems with my Navigo on the RATRAP and figuring my invitee hadn't responded to my invitation due to pressing matters, I proceeded to order: a gaspacho, cochon de lait and some Morgan.

Just as my wine and soup arrived, so did she, fresh as a rose, having cab'd over from her place because by public trans you can't get here from there. So I halted, mid-taste (after determining the gaspacho needed a serious jolt of salt, ground pepper and chili) and she ordered the roast 1/2 chicken, which BTW, all the big boys and girls mentioned.

We sat, we talked, it was one beautiful day, we sat some more, we talked, and her chicken arrived - ah, it was a breast - which she detests. She starts to eat, I say no, ask for the thigh, she says OK. And she does (now this is me, who never says boo, and she, who always stands up for her rights). Hummm.

She gets the thigh, pours salt on it, says this is so dry and declares it the worst she's had in 10 years - surely an exaggeration but not by much.

I finally get enough salt, pepper and Tabasco to make the gaspacho a pale imitation of Colette's or mine, but edible.

Then I get my piggy thing and I use the term advisedly. It had once been some sort of a pork chop but was now a desiccated pencil strip of white something. The potatoes and salad were alright but not much of a much.

Dessert? You jest. If they cannot rotiss chicken and pork, who trusts them to make patisserie?

Two coffees and the bill for 58.40 E and we're outa there.

Go? If you're between films at the Cinematheque, buck up and starve.

OK, John, you've covered the thighs and breasts but what about the eyes? Actually that title came to me on the subway on the way home when I was sitting across from a female person who had her eyes over-mascar'd, her legs far apart and her cleavage in my face, who was either an old hooker trying to look young or a young adolescent trying to look old.

Fast & Furious: Cinema Saturdays

This is the perfect airplane movie - castless, senseless, plotless, mindless, reckless and boundless.  But don't pay a dime for it; let United bring it to you.

Henri Gaudier-Brzeska: Puzzling choice for the Pompidou

 

I realize that one more Impressionist or postmodern show at the Beaubourg would draw yawns but this show of a guy who probably had talent and died tragically (didn't they all) in the stupidist war ever fought before he could fulfill his promise is for the curators' friends.

Cru in the 4th: Another unexpected surprise.

 

6.5  Cru, 7, rue Charlemagne/Village St Paul in the 4th, 01.40.27.81.84 (not answered promptly), closed Sunday dinner and Mondays has received a mixed reception; for example, that terribly perceptive observer Alexander Lobrano of Gourmet, WHERE and Hungry for Paris, noted that his experience was "underwhelming" but he "enjoyed it very much" despite its being "rudely overpriced."

But it's open for Saturday lunch, it was bordering on a hot day and cold food sounded most suitable.  So I went with my favorite food ghost book author with no expectations.

I ran into (literally ran into) my friend on the old rue Charlemagne and we strolled toward the stone building marked Cru.  We entered a small room with 8 places set - wait a minute - what a tiny joint - but we were ushered into a larger room and then saw the tables outside in the Village and the Bar and later those in the basement and realized it was huge.

The menu is all raw stuff (duh) but they do have three items made a la plancha.  I ordered the seiche salad that had been marinated so it resembled the rubbery product usually served not at all; delicious.  Madame had the salmon tartare with avocado which was divine.  So far so good.

Seconds consisted of a beef tartare with fried veggies and potatoes (sweet and otherwise) and a entree-sized portion of microtomed (carpaccio of) duck breast with shaved foie gras on top; both quite good.

NB: the bread was good, the water served in cool little glass bottles - Ch. Delanoye at its best and the Ch. Patache ordered by my Bordeaux expert, superb.

Our bill with a bottleof, no coffee or dessert was 91 Euros.

Go? M. Lobrano says go mid-May to mid-September but actually I'd love to return in winter and see what they do.

The Yanks are Coming, the Yanks… An archival* review

Well, of course I’m exaggerating. But the opening of Spring a few weeks ago by chef Daniel Rose, who is a one-man band, doing everything from taking reservations to ushering you out the door, prompted me to reflect on the influence of the Anglos on the French. Now granted, most of us, well let me speak for myself, I, think mainly of the French influence on American cuisine – from Escoffier to Julia Child to Alain Ducasse. And when I think of Americans influencing French cuisine, it’s largely the introduction of American products, from corn and tobacco to phylloxera-free vines to Texas grapefruit.
But think back. Who was it who caused national shame throughout the hexagon by putting up California wines against the best of the French – Steven Spurrier (no, not the US football coach - the Brit wine merchant)? And for at least 30 years, Irish bars have been wildly popular in Paris (indeed, I have my “dinner,” well, admittedly liquid, at one between acts at the Opera Bastille).

So why shouldn’t Americans and other Anglo-Saxons establish themselves here? Lord knows, the Viet-Namese, Italians, Chinese, Thais, Japanese and Indian-subcontinent-ese have no problem.

A few years ago, I was snobby (read snotty) enough to think that only the French had French cuisine in their blood, and thus only the French could “do” French food. I think Julia began to change that opinion and Anthony Bourdain, of Les Halles fame, who while he chose to cook French cuts of meat, insisted that his best sous-chefs were not French but South Americans, convinced me. I recall a female chef, who worked in William Ledeuil’s kitchen at Ze Kitchen Galerie and who it was clear that (1) he trusted and (2) would go back to the US and A, as Borat would say, who executed his dishes to perfection. And those of us who pay attention, perhaps too obsessively, to the Web food sites, know how hard people like Louisa Chu work to succeed in mastering the art of French cooking.

About ten years ago, Eric Frechon decamped from his eponymous resto to the Bristol and Mark Singer, a Yank, took over, changing the name (to La Cave Gourmande), theme, décor and some of the menu, but retaining its prime feature – serving first class food in an out of the way neighborhood. About the same time, Chris Wright, a Mancunian (I kid thee not, that’s someone from Manchester, England, England as the Beatles would say), opened Le Timbre in the 6th and despite the lack of raving on the part of the French food critics, Patricia Wells, bless her, gave it a great review and Anglos doing French stuff began to be taken seriously. Sometime afterwards, we saw the appearance of those from down-under, in addition to the rugby-bars, with Fish La Buisonnerie which serves up pretty decent food that even a food nut like Francois Simon, likes. And then there was the Brit-inspired Rose Bakery, coming into Montmartre, of all food dessert, no pun intended, places.

And then, wouldn’t you know, also on/in Montmartre, Arthur Jordan, ex of NYC and Chicago opened La Cave Café at 134 rue Marcadet just about a year ago. I ate there with an on-and-off but life-long friend who’s lived here since college and even she, jaded Franco-American that she is, was impressed (although the truth be told, it was mainly by the prices, that I thought for the nabe were quite reasonable).

So why shouldn’t an American-in-Paris, Daniel Rose, open a resto - Spring - on the downside of the Mount? It’s a quite different deal than you might expect in the 9th. If you haven’t been by Pigalle lately, don’t come to Spring via that Metro station at night. Oh, it’s not dangerous, but it’s kinda pathetic. Instead, come up from St Georges and enter his small “studio,” as one food critic called it. You quickly see that there are only sixteen covers and Rose is up on a cooking platform on top of the room. He offers a terrific 36 € 4-course set menu every evening but Sunday and has been visited (and very positively reviewed so far) by Figaroscope, Le Fooding, Michelin and Lebey. The night we went, we had an amuse gueule of rillettes, four kinds of bread, a carrot soup with jarré of veal, sushi-quality salmon, perfectly cooked caramelized-on-the-outside rare-on-the-inside pigeon and a chocolate cake – that were all top-notch.

By the way, as a colleague pointed out, there have been other American imitations or invasions, probably the oldest being the two American-themed bars – Harry’s American and Joe Allen’s, and including the tourist themed chain restos, the Hard Rock Café and Planet Hollywood, as well as most recently, McDo’s and Starbucks, but I choose to ignore them.

Instead my favorites from the above are:
Spring
28, rue de la Tour d’Auvergne, 9th, (Metro: St Georges or Pigalle)
T: 01.45.96.05.72
Open for dinner everyday but Sunday
Menu du jour 36 €

Le Timbre
3, rue Sainte Beuve, 6th, (Metro: Sevres-Babylone)
T: 01.45.49.10.40
Closed Saturdays for lunch, and on Sundays.
Menu 27.50 € a la carte, 28-35 €

Fish la Boissonnerie
69, rue de Seine, 6th
T: 01.43.54.34.69
Closed Sunday and Monday
Lunch Menus 10.50 + 21.50 €; dinner 28.50 + 32.50 €.

La Cave Café
134 rue Marcadet
T: 01.46.06.29.17
Open everyday 8 AM –1 AM, except Sundays & holidays 10AM – 1:30 AM
A la carte 32 €

*Originally published in December 2006

Zinc Caius in the 17th: Yes, indeed, it works.

  

6.0 Zinc Caius, 11, rue d'Armaille in the 17th, 01.44.09.05.10, closed Sundays, is an off-shoot of a place (Caius) that I have probably held an unfair and continuing prejudice about since it opened.

So when I realized I was stuck for a place the last full week of August to suggest to (or is it for?) two of my favorite food/web-blog-writer friends, I went for Zinc Caius. Et voila!

I was late (unheard of, short version to follow), rushing in, hardly even noting the setup, decor, (I know, no comma should be there) and clientele.  Kinda nice (kinda is an affectation, loosen up!)  Chalkboard has good looking stuff; not a lot of choices tho', wines look really interesting, prices - oh oh, pricey for a stool-sitting, small table setting with 16 French working folk staring each other down.

Backstory: I had cruised the mother-ship Caius when it opened in (was it really) 2005, as had my best food-finder neighbor/friend and we were so looking forward to their offerings.  We reserved, arrived and none of the promised dishes was actually available (was is correct, none=no one of them, which takes the singular not the pleural=were, Sorry, little English major lesson).  I felt deceived, shamed, upset.  However, since I'm bigger than my hurt feelings I decided maybe it deserved another chance.

Further (pedantic) nonsense: My previously mentioned best food-finder neighbor/friend had asked me then how Caius was pronounced (in England) and of course I didn't know, my people having sensibly gone back to France before unsensibly journeying to the New England.  "Keys" said he.  It came back in a flash: like Worchester=Wooster, Saint John=Sinjin and Maurice=Morris, Caius=Keys, and is the college at Cambridge (England not the Commonwealth of.)  But when one of my charming co-eaters asked the manager/waiter/maitre d'/sommelier, he said Kai-us, a Roman chap.  Well, of course, the Roman jurist who lived from AD 130–180 and brought us rendition, torture and Presidental "signings," no, no, that's wrong, he actually articulated the opposite of the Gonzales/Yoo/Rumsfeld/Cheney/Bush rulings, according to that legal authority wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaius_(jurist) and spelled out principles of "treating of persons and the differences of the status they may occupy in the eye of the law; ..... the modes in which rights over them may be acquired,..." and other stuff.  Why name a restaurant after either one of them?

Would you like, perhaps, to hear about the food?

OK.  We sort of shared three firsts: the oft-praised (rightly so) lentil salad with lardo (aka lard) on top, a bearnaise boudin (no, this is not a horrible sausage with the bearnaise sauce one puts on fish but a blood sausage from the SouthWest) and the piquillos stuffed with chevre (which needed either spicier peppers or a jolt).

Then two of us had the slab of beef (entrecote) which while we had it cooked completely differently (burned versus raw - I'm only partly kidding) was terrific and a tartare of beef with polenta frites (warning to all the ships at sea - me, the great mashed potato ignoramus and polenta hater, loved both such versions here.)

Desserts were a Chantilly of semoule (I get the words but not the music), creme carmel with divine caramel on the bottom, and a rhubarb thing - all were quite, quite good.

We had 3 Illy coffees, one bottle and a glass of wine and our invitisesse picked up the bill which I couldn't see, but I'd estimate the cost as 80-100 Euros a couple.

Go?  You bet (and gasp, maybe try the Mother-house again). Caius the jurist would want me to be fair.

 

 

 

La Villa Corse (Rive Droite): Q. Do we really need another Corsican place in Paris? An archival* review.

7.0 La Villa Corse (Rive Droite), 141, ave de Malakoff in the 16th, 01.40.67.18.44, closed Sundays is the recently opened twin of its 15th Arr sib but according to the general manager, serves lighter food.

It can run one 40-60 € and wines run from the 20’s on up but it also has a 25 € lunch menu with two dishes and a generous glass of wine, that my guest, the VIP food writer (more later) and I had. It reflected the much larger carte but was representative of its essential contents.

My fellow diner ordered a soup of tomato and oranges with a quenelle of brocciu that was very, very tasty and I had a pressé of beef layered with carrot and turnip strips that had just enough jelly and had a sauce that set it off perfectly, alongside was a nice salad; then we proceeded to a veal stufatu with teeny tiny potatoes and black olives and two strips of perfectly cooked daurade on tomatoes, greens and spicy parsley; both superb.

She finished with an olive and walnut financier that was good and came with ice cream and some fruit. The usuals – tapenade on toast, 3 breads, coffees and mignardises - were all excellent.

Oh, the décor: Lord, my guest and I separately arrived at the same impression, although I said it was halfway between whore house red and elegant velvet and she thought the latter was more like late Corsican mafia housing. The downstairs book-covered room has low chairs that don’t allow someone of my height to sit without his legs crossed in front; the cigar bar on the right has couches and the main room and balcony, wicker-type chairs and banquettes with lots of pillows. (The no smoking section is off to the left on entering; one must ask, esp since the place is packed; I originally sat on the balcony and was assaulted with tobacco smoke finding its way north; realizing there was no ventilation, I requested to move.)

When we finished I turned to her and said, “We’ll never come back, no?” and she said “Right.” “Why?” “The lack of warmth,” added to the rawness and boredom of waitstaff (one waitress looked at her watch more than once) and the stuffy-proper 16th clientele. But the more I think back on it, I think I will. There wasn’t a misstep.

The bill? John? I knew I was leaving something out. Well, my famous-enough to be recognized co-diner so charmed the general manager whom she’d recognized from the Closerie de Lilas, where he’d worked for 10 years, that he comp’d us to the dessert and coffees, so I figure what was a 56 € addition should be more like 76 €. Still and all, not at all bad for this quality food in this fancy neighborhood.

A. Yes