My dinner at Chez’s*; an archival** essay.

Back when Colette and I were contemplating first moving to Paris for a year, we stayed at the apartment of one of our friends and ate at a place unknown by the guidebooks to this day called Chez Paula.  It was a classic neighborhood place; small, smoky and serving comfort food like steak-frites, sausages and crème brulee.

 

When we got back to the States, I told my then French teacher/friend where I’d been and he said “Oh, places called Chez are the best and most authentic and cheapest places you can get in Paris.”  And, over the years I’ve eaten at plenty; including the Chez’s Bath’s, Casimir, Catherine, Clement, Denise, Geraud, Jean, Jenny, l’Ami Jean, Les Anges, Marcel, Michel, Omar, Papa, Pauline, Prune and Ramulaud.  What a spread, from the elegance of Chez Catherine to the dark and dirty uncharm of Chez Prune, from the good grub at Chez Pauline to the inedible swill at Chez Papa and from the prices at Chez Les Anges to those at Chez Clement.

 

In any case, this spring, three of the oldest ones, Chez Georges, Léon and René had make-overs and two I didn’t know, Chez Panis and Chez Prosper, were brought to my attention by the King of Bistrots, John Whiting, who had not eaten at them, but trusted his source, Agnes Catherine Poire, who wrote Touché: a French woman’s take on the English, Orion Books, £9.99/$13.57, 2006, so I decided to do a Tour de Chez’s.

 

First on the tour was Chez Léon, recently taken over and totally renovated with red chairs offset by stark white walls and with no smoke or broken mirrors.  Not a Chez in my book, by the looks of things.  Plus, a very, very warm welcome, as if I were a regular.  Hummm.  But Emmanuel Rubin had said that while it was homey looking, it had modern food and indeed it combined both – my sautéed foie gras with turnips, bunny with cebettes and baba au rhum were Chez quality stuff with a modern twist.

 

Next was Chez René, the old standby for the world’s greatest coq au vin, brought to my attention years ago by one of my loyal readers/food-finders, yclept Paga.  A left bank tradition, as is its neighbor Atlas, which serves a mean pastilla, it was surely not going to be affected by a change in ownership/chefship.  Well, I got that right.  Founded in 1957 (why on earth would you publicize that, if you’ve been open only 50 years rather than 150?)  Here, not so warm a welcome, lots of  waiting between courses and waiting between asking for the check and getting the bill and food that was alright for a cook’s day off, but not up to snuff for even this touristy neighborhood.  Is this a true Chez?  I’m not sure.  It serves authentic but under-flavored (esp. the coq au vin) food, is not cheap, and is, at least now, clearly a destination restaurant for Americans and French alike, not a neighborhood haunt.

 

Onto Chez Georges, the one near the Porte Maillot/Palais des Congrès, which was founded in 1926, the very year that Winnie the Pooh, The Sun Also Rises and Les Faux-Monnayeurs (Gide) appeared and Monet died, just to put it in context.  It’s my idea of a Chez, old, big, classic and pleasant.  The menu was classic, the customers aged and the food exactly like we expected after the War; maybe this is the secret of the Chez’s; it’s old food served to old folks in the old style (covered dishes, meat trolley, liquored desserts).  Again my welcome was semi-warm but the “service” broke down after the tasteless main course of leg of lamb and my dessert was al dente prunes, (ironically, my first – a salade frisée - was my best ever). 

 

Another diversion: when I was training to run my first marathon, six months after having started to run (for the third time,) my then boss, the smartest guy I’ve ever known and the best reader of character in the world, said to me in passing: “You’ll never finish.”  He had never said that to me about a research project, book or anything else I’d done.  I was really teed off and whenever I got tired at 20, 22 or 24 miles, I’d say, “you sonofabitch, I’ll show you.”  I confronted him Monday after the marathon and said that I’d finished and he said “I knew you would.”

 

So what does that have to do with food or the search for the essence of “Chez.?”  Well, after three mundane experiences, at best, with new or renovated “Chez’s” in Paris, I was ready to give up.  But that would make me a wimp, loser, nul.  Nope, soldier on!

 

So, onto Chez aka Café Panis, not Panisse, which I was warned was in Tourist Central and occupied the space where previously, the tourist trap, the Café Notre Dame, sat.  It has been rarely mentioned except in blogs, which mention its classic dishes and friendly atmosphere.  Maybe that’s what makes a “Chez.”  Chez is home, my home, relax.  So I did and had two classics – an onion soup and salmon with sorrel sauce but no dessert.  Both were made from good product and I suppose close to but not equal to what one could get at home.  So I’m still searching for the essence of Chez.

 

Yet another sideroad; this to Le Petit Pascal in the 13^th, which calls itself a purveyor of cuisine du terroir and vins de propriete.  This is clearly a neighborhood place, ignored by the world of food critics, except for “Le Fooding,” two years ago.   Looking at the chalkboards; one with charcuterie and cheese; one with wines, one with specials, one with starters, one with mains and the last with desserts, one says to one’s dining partner – this is a Chez!  And she, French with lots of savvy in dealing with Yanks, says sure.  So why isn’t it a Chez?; it’s homey, serving great regional, classic dishes such as confit de canard, steak/frites, lentils with sausage, etc.  More research is required.

 

OK.  We’re winding down here.  My last Chez for this project was Chez Prosper in the 11th, which was also featured by Agnes Catherine Poire, who said it was run by a charming couple from the Auvergne, served good products (Bertillon ice cream, Mariage Freres teas and good little wines) but was not fancy nor pricey.  Ok, maybe that’s a Chez.  But as I entered I realized that unlike other smoky, crowded Chez’s, this was packed with folk all younger than I, that there were no firsts (the usual Chez terrines, herring, etc., and nobody was having their fabulous desserts or hot beverages).  I had what I thought was a safe if not a superb bet, a huge piece of Salers beef with a salad.  Very disappointing; but more to the point, it gave me to clue to why this was a Chez.

 

Thus after 10 days I was pretty far removed from answering my question: “What makes a Chez?”  I had to discard the old-age, friendly, inexpensive, good product, homey and smoky theories, because there were exceptions to each.  So here’s my conclusion: the Chez’s sell nostalgia, dreams and fantasies; they are places, if you’re old, that you hope will bring you back to the 1950’s and if you’re young, hope will duplicate the places your parents used to tell you about.  Don’t get me wrong; I’m not implying that they are deceptive, we, the customers are consenting adults in this waltz.  But except for those places that have climbed out of the Triple A cellar, like Chez Bath’s, Catherine and Les Anges, they’re not where one should head, unless you too are looking for the place that probably never was.

 

* I know French has no noun-possessive apostrophes and that a true homage to André Gregory and Wally Shawn should be “My Dinner with Chez,” so please don’t write.

 

 

The restaurants mentioned here are:

 

Chez Léon

40, rue Legendre, 17^th (Metro:Villiers)

T: 01.42.27.06.82

Closed weekends

Lunch menus at 24 and 32; dinner at 28 and 34 €. 

 

Chez René

14, bvd St Germain, 5^th (Metro : St Michel, Maubert-Mutualite)

T: 01.43.54.30.23

Closed Sundays and Mondays

A la carte 40-50 €

 

Chez Georges

273, bd Pereire, 17^th (Metro: Porte Maillot)

T: 01.45.74.31.00

Open everyday

A la carte 40 €.

 

Chez Panis

21, quai Montebello, 5^th (Metro : St Michel, Maubert-Mutualite)

T : 01.43.54.19.71

Open everyday

A la carte 30-40 €

 

Le Petit Pascal

33 rue Pascal, 13^th (Metro: Les Gobelins)

T: 01.45.35.33.87

Closed weekends

A la carte 25-35 €

 

Chez Prosper

7, Ave du Trône, 11^th (Metro: Nation)
T: 01.43.73.08.51

Open everyday

A la carte 20-30 €

 

*Originally published in June 2007

 

Comments

[John Whiting]

Scrolling through your Diner's Tour of Paris and reading of intriguing places I'll never have time to visit, I sometime wish that I hadn't turned down a job-for-life at IRCAM in 1986.

[John Talbott]

Yes, but would it have involved listening to Boulez's music? That might turn me off.

[John Whiting]

Listening, hell! Mixing it! Which I did for years, with great pleasure. Why is it that musical tastes are on the whole much more conservative than visual? On an avant-garde scale of far-outness, Boulez lies more centrally than some visual artists you write about with enthusiasm.

I can't resist quoting Charles Ives speaking up at a concert in which someone had booed during a piece by Carl Ruggles:

"Stop being such a God-damned sissy! Why can't you stand up before fine strong music like this and use your ears like a man?"

[John Talbott]

I freely admit being a musical curmudgeon and a visual omnivore; a friend here frequently asks me what I see in something and it's totally an impression, unable to be described. Plus, one can walk on to the next painting or sculpture or walk out, which is impolite in a concert hall and impossible on a boat, which is one reason I don't go on friends' yachts.