John Talbott's Paris

Merci in the 3rd: Restaurant of the Year?

 

6.0 The Cantine Merci, 111Blvd Beaumarchais in the 3rd, 01.42.77.79.93, closed Sundays, is located in a "concept store" of the same name and was named by some critic or other a contender for Restaurant of the Year.

(I must digress: I've never quite understood the concept of a concept store and I've read the wikipedia entree a few times; "a shop [with] a lifestyle theme," Huh?  "Lifestyle theme?" This place has everything from flowers to clothing, from used books on warfare in English to baskets, from tableware to furniture - what lifestyle is that, the living one?  Versus a funeral home, maybe.  Anyway, my conclusion after wandering throughout all of Merci, is that a "concept store" is like Crate and Barrel only three times as expensive.)

In any case I was wandering about because I couldn't find the cantine; I did find the cafe in the used book store but that didn't offer much for lunch except fancy-schmancy ice cream.  But I asked myself "What would Colette do?" Ask someone of course, so I was directed downstairs where a veritable theater was taking place.  It's where the glass, plastic and cloth table items are displayed and sold and the 50 burly men and breastless anorexic girl/women employees were busily unpacking cases, boxes, etc., and putting them on tables, 6-8 items to a table and a designer-type straight out of central casting was moving this item 1 cm to the left and that one 1 cm to the right and then 10 minutes later reversing the order - it was dizzying.  I guess that in designer school they taught him how to maximize sales centimeter by centimeter.  All of this, plus the cantine, was overseen by a Miranda Priestlyish woman who saw the "Devil Wears Prada" too many times.  What a show.

OK the cantine.  It's between the sales area and an herb garden in the courtyard, has a very brief, very bio, very veggie, very protein and booze-avoidant, very salady, very trendy, very dietetic carte and is entirely occupied by women.  Plus everyone (but me) was having the very healthy, very fresh, very natural, very repugnant looking carrot and orange juice.  What's there not to hate about this place?

Actually it was quite good.  After wrestling with the menu and asking lots of questions:

"The risotto is made with what?"

"A rare herb"

"Oh"

"The soup?"

"Gaspacho of watermelon."

"The chicken comes how?"

"In kofta balls with corn and eggplant and rocket." 

OK that sounds the most unhealthy.  It came with two "salads" which were bizarre looking but great tasting - I chose the combinations of their take on tabouli with great herbs and lentils and raw mushrooms with great herbs.

I was most impressed and so waded through the dessert menu past all the bio/healthy stuff to the chocolate mousse; again superior. 

A fault, my friend? - crappy bread and somewhat strange service leading to one couple walking out before they could order and others being served haphazardly.

With 2 glasses of house red in the most untrendy clunky glass and a double Illy coffee made ristretto to a tee, my bill was 37 E.

Go? Mais oui, but don't expect abats and Armagnac.  But do expect at least one person to knock over some glass items - "you break it, you own it" rules.

Les Fils a Maman in the 9th: Ma'am, would that perhaps be Redi-whip?

 

1.0 Les Fils a Mamam, 7 bis rue Geoffroy Marie in the 9th, 01.48.24.59.39, closed Sundays, is a wonderfully-situated restaurant with some 30 covers in an alley (and 15 inside) behind a gate on the hotel and pizza filled street called the rue Geoffroy Marie.  I found myself there today on this strange warm week when we approach the rentree, because a fellow blogger sampled it as the sort of place one frequents in one's neighborhood when so many other places are closed.  I was wowed by her pictures of the frites.

They have a nicely-priced "menu" with two dishes for 13.50 and three for 16 E, with daily specials as well.  Wines are similarly reasonably-priced.

I started with an excellent "Italian cassoulet," which of course I had to ask what it consisted of.  It turns out to be ham and sun-dried tomatoes in a ramekin with olive oil and topped with melted mozarella.

Then I had the special fish of the day: in this case a pave of julienne (again I had to look it up) which is translated as long cod, burbot or lotte de riviere (which said lotte it tasted a lot more like.)  But the fish, its lemon-influenced sauce and flan of zucchini didn't send me into a rapturous state.  In fact, since others were drenching their burgers and frites with catsup, I thought I might ask for Mexican hot sauce.  BTW; How/why do the French manage to eat a cheese- or hamburger with a knife and fork; amazing!

So with the score tied at 1-1, I let the dessert decide; ordering strawberries (that I thought fulfilled the Bocusian-challenge of whether they can buy and serve simple, good product) with a Chantilly sauce (which I thought answered the Escoffier issue of whether they could make a simple but complex sauce). 

Backstory: Years ago when I was defending our country against the Commies while Rumsfeld, Cheney, Clinton and Bush the Lesser were hiding out from the Selective Service, we dined at the fanciest resto in North Carolina at the time and my C.O.-colleague-friend surprised us all by asking the waitress directly if his dessert was perhaps topped with Redi-whip (at the time a new miserable substitute for whipped crream) - which she thought was a supreme compliment.

Well, this Chantilly was more Redi than Velly and along with the mushy bread tilted my judgment towards a "no return" status.

My bill was 29.50 E (with wine but no coffee, since I waited for it in vain for 15 minutes (the delivery of all courses to all customers was excorable) and decided I'd rather nap).

Go?  For one dish and a sighting of great-looking fries, nah.

My friend Ted Kennedy dies.

I was about 19, a sophomore in college, and playing squash all alone one day - banging the tiny ball against the wall time after time. I heard a loud rap on the door and that now-familiar booming deep voice said “John, John, mind if I join you?” It was, of course, Ted Kennedy. I knew him, indeed his older brother, then Senator, had addressed us after dinner just a while back. But how the deuce did he know me? Sure, we lived in the same house at school but he travelled in a very different crowd than I, albeit neither bunch could be characterized as mainstream.

It was only a bit later when I was visiting a classmate’s family in Hyannis that I expressed my puzzlement at Kennedy’s feat. “Oh, one of them said, they’re all like that, they (the Kennedys) never forget a face or name.”

While he and I played squash together a few times afterwards and I saw him from time to time walking to classes, etc., we certainly were not close.

So, again, it was somewhat of a surprise when I was skiing with friends in typically bitter January weather at Stowe a few years later, to have a big but graceful figure on skis, who was as shrouded as I, pull up and say “Hey, John, how are you, what are you up to these days?” Again, I was incredulous. We chatted, parted and that was that. I thought.

Much, much later when I was a spokesman first for Viet Nam Vets Against the War and then the American Psychiatric Association, I found myself testifying before Congress on various bills for various lost causes and unfailingly, just before the session would be called to order, Ted would step into the room, quickly cross over to the panelists’ table as if he were simply another citizen and shake my hand, saying how much he was looking forward to my testimony.

How did he know I’d be there?, why did he care, since I couldn’t vote for him (except for President)?, and what friendly/political/gentlemanly calculus brought about such faithful greetings? I have no idea, but I was always flattered, impressed and left DC with a warmer feeling about our government than I came in with. If we had representatives who were so respectful of all our citizens as he was, how could our government not command respect?

Brain cancer was a cruel punishment imposed on a man whose brain housed a memory for names and faces unparalleled by others.

Bye-bye Ted, I have no recollection who was better at squash or skiing but I surely know who was better at friendship.

Eating with others: Frank Bruni and me.

Last week, Frank Bruni, who is finishing his stint as restaurant reviewer for the NYT, wrote another one of his summary articles on his experience; this latest one is devoted to the behavior of his dining guests who he’s invited to share his “test” meals. I suspect every reviewer and blogger who read it has his or her own observations and here are mine. 

First, though, a note about some differences between eating with the great Bruni and this poor blogger. Bruni gets a salary and full expenses, I rarely get eirther; Bruni eats where he wants to several times, with three others and due to the Times’ policy, has an almost unlimited budget, I usually eat at a place once, with one or two others, and only wish I had a blue sky budget; Bruni takes friends and mono-fixated (e.g., ones who must have steak) guests, I go with a mixture of food critics, writers and passionate eaters whose tastes sound much more catholic. So our experiences are quite different.  

He noted that his guests can be categorized as (largely my terms):
- possessive
– hoarders vs sharers
– perpetually slighted vs eternally grateful
– those who eat less/ but pretend to eat most
– name-droppers
– raters
– persons who adhere to irrational rules
– persons who reject food based on texture, shape or color
- and those trying to figure out what star-rating Bruni would give the place. 

My experience reflects the co-equal status of who I eat with. This results in protracted negotiations with my prospective companions over where to eat and in totally individualized choices on what to eat versus Bruni’s dictatorial (his term) decision on where to eat and what to eat. That is not to say we don’t try to try everything that sounds interesting, or is the chef’s signature dish, or “must be tried,” but that’s a consensus/discussion decision. Only one of my “regulars” asks me to order for her so I don’t miss anything and only one knows my likes so much after 40 years that he automatically orders what he knows I will not. 

Bruni doesn’t mention his taking notes versus not taking them, but like the split among practitioners of psychotherapy/psychoanalysis, between those who take notes versus those who depend on their memories, some critics recall each and every preparation and ingredient while others need reminders. One day when I was eating with a “real food critic” (that is, someone salaried, reimbursed, respected and feared) we were joined by a non-critic friend who turned to me in amazement after watching us “work” for 30 minutes and said, John, it’s impressive, you two do exactly the same thing. 

There are also differences in the way my companions and I go about judging what we’re sampling. Bruni mentions that his guests rate the dishes 1-4 but my experience is that some of my pals judge the dish against standards set by other chefs over their 10-20 or 40 years of eating; while others assess it on its own as if this were the first such dish they’ve ever had. (I recall a manpower expert, whoops, a personnel manager, whoops, a human resources director, who told me I must never judge a candidate for a job against other candidates, but see each as a unique specimen – which I’ve decided after 55 years of interviewing, is pure hogwash). It’s fun to be able to put this breast of pheasant or veal liver up against that of Fredy Giradet or Chez Les Anges years ago and equally interesting to think of which are the two, or three, or five best pastillas or cassoulets, etc., currently available. 

In addition, it sounds like Bruni’s guests almost obsessively divide each dish in 4 portions, mentally or physically, so that each one of the four can have exactly the same-sized portion. 

There is a similarity, however, between Bruni’s and my arriving at a grade/rating/decision after the meal ends and my eating buddies curiosity at learning what that global rating or bottom line is. 

All in all, after reading his piece, I’ll take my friends over his any day, even with the budgetary difference. 

This week, my favorite is a place recently opened that I think has been in effect snubbed by most others on the scene for unknown reasons because it's a nifty place to take friends, even Bruni's:

Le Marcab
225, rue de Vaugirard, 15th, (Metro: Volontaires)
T: 01.43.06.51.66
Open 7/7
Menus for 16, 25 and 35 €

Reviews of reviews: The Week of August 17th, 2009

Monday in Le Fooding, Philippe Lafron reviewed Bistrot Saveurs in Castres.

Saturday/Sunday, in Bonjour Paris, Margaret Kemp wrote a piece on “Lao Lane Xang, Julie & Julia, Pinylf” and John Talbott wrote an essay entitled “Confidence In the Future” on Miroir.

The Waterfront Wharf in New Bedford (MA); many memories, few fireworks.

The Waterfront Grille on Homers Wharf in New Bedford is a huge success; packed to the gills with young and not so young, big seafoodish menu and beautiful setting.  Ah, ah, ah, John, you're hiding something.

Back story: I spent many a happy summer on the beaches and grand houses from Buzzard's Bay to Newport where my Mother's very successful family ran a bunch of elegant department stores in the glory days.  Now of course, much of the inner city areas are blighted but the beaches and posh communities remain and this restaurant serves the latter population.  Thus I was thrilled to have an old friend suggest we eat on a wharf in a charming place.

However, but, ah, the trouble is the food and service and kitchen didn't match the setting and clientele.  It was deafeningly loud, it was impossible to order or get dishes in a timely manner and gaffs such as taking silverware off one dish to use with another, or "forgetting" that main courses came with salads, spoiled it further.

The food: well, my buddy who lives 10 minutes away said "I'm never coming back," but I must say I rather liked my crispy crusted cod and Colette's seabass with chorizo was dry but interesting.

Our bill before tip with a bottle of wine but no coffee or dessert was $71.19 a couple.

Duckfat in Portland (ME); a true one-of-a-kind.

Duckfat on Middle St in Portland is a one-of-a-kind; funky, moderately quick, great simple chow and reasonably priced.  We've been dropping in for a couple of years as we either go up to the Maine woods or on return. 

Colette had the ratatouille panini last year which she thought lacked pizzaz but I thought didn't; this year she had some duckfat fries with Thai Chili mayo and a bowl of beet soup with untasteable orange (by both our lights.)

I once again had the duck confit panini - this year spread on black mission fig mostarda, much better than the blueberry base I had last year but still not adding much value (I cannot figure why they don't just let it go with the confit?)

With a half bottle of wine our bill was $42.27.  Terrific.

The New Hot Quarters: the 11th: an archival* essay.

The eleventh arrondissement, which Americans may think of as immensely important historically, is really only significant for having once housed the Bastille prison, whose destruction was the symbol of the French revolution. I recall entering the Place de la Bastille at age 18 and being hugely disappointed that there was no decrepit building, crumbling wall or pile of bricks commemorating the site of the origin of French democracy, as I saw it. Just this rather banal column with an as yet un-reburnished statue of Liberty on top and a supposed vault underneath containing some 500 victims of the event.

In modern times, the Place is better known for the evening balls on or before the 14th of July and the start of the annual gay pride parade and weekly skating tours of the city. Manifs, the modern equivalent of revolutionary uprisings, indeed, are more likely to start or end around the Place de la Republique than the Bastille. And while I love the deep stage and high proscenium arch of the Bastille Opera (as well as the productions held within), its strangely unused grand front steps and Russian facade are off-putting.

The most popular places for walking are the almost 2-kilometer long stretch of the Canal Saint Martin, cleverly covered by the Boulevards Richard Lenoir and Jules Ferry, between the Bastille and the Square Lemaitre and the Pere Lachaise cemetery, whose principal attraction for Americans is the tomb of Jim Morrison, easily located by following the trail of second-hard marijuana smoke.

Way back in January when I began this project, I was mocking the WSJ article of Dec 10-11th, 2005, that said that the “new hot quarters” were the 10th, 11th, 19th and 20th. While true, I felt there was such an explosion of talent spreading throughout the city that no arrondissement could be singled out as “hot.”

But for the past several years, I too have sensed that the 11th really rocked with a whole bunch of new places that were largely inexpensive and inventive. My other reference was Olivier Morteau (the anonymous tweaker of the pooh-bahs of French cuisine) whose formula for success for new restos a Paris was to “go to a culinary wasteland, cook inventively and charge more reasonable prices”.

Perusing a guide like Pudlo or Lebey one is struck that most of the places mentioned are new. If memory serves me only Amogenes, Astier, Villaret and the Le Repaire de Cartouche are “old,” places like the the Bistrot Paul Bert, l’Ecailler du Bistrot, Les Jumeaux, Le Marsagny, Le Muse Vin and Chez Ramulaud have opened in the last decade. And most recently, we’ve seen the appearance of a whole new cast of characters, all interesting, good and reasonable : e.g., Le Chateaubriand, Le Sot l’y laisse, Temps au temps and Le Vieux Chene.

So, if one must pick only one really hot new quarter, the 11th gets my vote.

My current favorites are :

Le Temps au Temps
13, rue Paul Bert, 11th (Metro : Faidherbe-Chaligny or Charonne)
T : 01.43.79.63.40
Closed Sundays and Mondays
Menus at lunch, 11 €, 13 €, 16 €, menu-carte 27 €.

Le Repaire de Cartouche
8 blvd des Filles du Calvaire, 11th (Metro : Filles du Calvaire)
T : 01.47.00.25.86
Closed Sundays and Mondays
Lunch menus 13 & 24 €, a la carte 35-45 €.

l’Ecailler du Bistrot
22, rue Paul-Bert, 11th (Metro : Faidherbe-Chaligny)
T: 01 43 72 76 77
Closed Saturday noon and Sunday
A la carte 25-30 €.

*Originally published in November 2006.

Update 2009

Since this was written we’ve seen the blossoming of the Bistrot Paul Bert and its fishy offshoot l’Ecailler du Bistrot as well as the revival/renovation of Astier, Le Temps au Temps and Chardenoux and the inauguration of Ober-Salé, l’Ardoise Gourmande and Le Rollin.

So, once again, I’d have to say of all 20, this is the hot new quarter.

Chez Leon in the 17th: Chez means Yeah in this case; an archival* review.

5.5 N* Chez Léon, 40, rue Legendre in the 17th, 01.42.27.06.82, closed weekends, was described by Emmanuel Rubin as down home cooking with a modern flair. It’s the sort of place where everyone who enters (even the delivery and tradespeople), says hello to the room, everyone who enters (even me), is greeted like a regular customer, and where the couple next to me who trekked in from Marne La Vallée, didn’t talk with each other at all, but talked the ears off the bartender/waiter/?co-owner.

In other words, it was my kinda place; and it was recently taken over and totally renovated with red chairs offset by stark white walls with stunning results. It follows Olivier Morteau’s immortal formula of taking a place in a culinary desert, putting in a good chef and charging reasonable prices.

It’s surely a desert, miles from any metro stop; has a seasoned but willing-to-innovate chef; and charges 24 for 2 dishes and 32 for 3 at lunch and 28 and 34 € respectively for dinner. The wines come by the glass (4.50+), 50 cl pot (19+) and bottles (22€+). There are three specials a day, all of which looked great to me (a bunny terrine, cod with coques and a baba) but I chose three generous slices of foie gras de canard, under-sautéed perfectly (I thought the bread looked pedestrian but used to soak up the foie gras juice, it is juice, eh?, not fat?, it was perfect) which was served with a tartelette of turnips – yum.

Then I had the thigh of rabbit which looked tough and overcooked, with cebettes (yes, I had to look it up too) but when one put the leek/scallion/baby onion-like cebettes on it, turned out to be just fine. Again, as I looked around me, both locals and Ile de France visitors seemed to be really enjoying their fish (four, I believe), meat (the rognons looked especially good) and veggies.

I had ratte potatoes which I didn’t do much of, being on the End-Zone Diet, which involves tackling “Dr” Barry Sears behind the goal-line, nullifying all fat.

Finally, I had the baba, which despite cold raspberries, was quite wonderful.

Coffee good, long chat with owner/co-owner, who showed me around, bill = 4+€ for the foie gras, but without it, one could easily exit for 44 €.

Should one go? Sure, but you won’t, recall, it’s in the desert between Villiers and the Pont Cardinet.

*Originally posted in June 2007.

Summers in Ontario and Maine (Words on Wednesdays)

While "eh" and "eh uh" seem similar, my boyhood summers in Ontario and Maine offer proof that they mean quite different things; "eh?" closer to "correct, my good man?" and "eh uh" closer to "of course,  you idiot."