The cooking at the Vert-Galant is very good, the prices a bit high, and the service sufficiently adept. A smiling Senegambian in a scarlet costume brews your coffee and adds quite a touch of color. Among the novelties on the menu arc a delectable poule au pot Henri IV and a wonderful quiche Lorraine, as good as any in Paris. The carle des vins lists fresh, fragrant little wines from Quincy, Chavignol. and particularly Sancerre, which should enchant your palate.
Chez Châtaigner
75 rue du Cbercbe-Midi (6e) Littré 82-74
This turns out to be another study in contrasts. After the pomp and ceremony of several Paris restaurants, it is pleasant to come upon cooking every bit as good in a little place hiding in a quiet, unfrequented quarter of Paris. Chez Châaigner is very small and so inconspicuous that you are almost sure to miss it as you go by. The door is heavily curtained, as if to keep out the strollers. There are two small salons only, one above the other, thickly carpeted and hung with toile de Jouy. There is no menu, nor any carle des tins. The patron-chef, a confident and highly presentable young man in a white toque, recites the menu for you. He is from the lower Loire Valley and specializes in dishes from that region, particularly fish an beurre blane
The other evening he offered lobster, sole, and brochel in that glorious scented whipped butter, and it was incomparable. After that came a choice of a generously truffled poularde de Bresse, a classic lournedos, a veal chop à la erème, or a magnificent thick foie de veau meunière. If you like calf' liver, order it in a good place like this! Muscadet, the dry white wine of the lower Loire, is a prima donna in the Châtaigner wine cellar, but there are also some notable Burgundies and clarets and a good rosé for summer nights. If you are seeking a quiet, delectable dinner for four in an intimate, cheerful atmosphere, make a reservation Chez Châtaigner. Prices arc fair for the quality, too. Closed on Sunday and Monday.
La Bourgogne
6 avenue Bosquet (7e) Segur 97-59
Externally, this resembles a score of restaurants on quiet, tree-lined residential streets in Paris. But its sidewalk terrace is glass-enclosed, and there are other subtle signs that La Bourgognc is not a run-of-the-mill place. In short, though I shudder at the expression, it has class. The clientele is almost entirely French, and on the diplomatic level, if clothes are an indication. But they show their good taste in food, too, for the young proprietor-chef has set a very high culinary standard. His specialties are Burgundian, of course-coq au vin, pâlé de bécasse, friands au jambon, steak bourguignonne, but he has some deft Parisian dishes, too. There used to be truffles all over the place. You could have a salad of them or, better, have them roasted in the classic manner under hot coals. But now truffles cost 7, 000 francs a kilo in Périgord, and a halt has been called.
The wine cellar is naturally rich in Burgundies, both red and white. As an apéritif you will surely like a specialty of the house. It is a casse-grain, consisting of a large cool goblet of Montrachct pointed up with a little cassis from Dijon. Monsieur and Madame Monassier are charming hosts, and you are assured of a civilized evening among very nice people if you choose La Bourgogne. Closed Monday and from mid-August to mid-September.
Les Cigognes
187 rue Croix-Nivert (15e) Vaugirard 42-09
Would you like to have an excellent dinner in a little country town without leaving the city limits of Paris. Well, it's almost possible if you will drive or taxi out the rue de Sèvres, past the Bon Marché, on and on until you come to a little square surrounded by two-story buildings with rippling tile roofs. Paris has suddenly become a village -except for the noise. Bus No. 49 will also take you out there, but be sure to alight at No. 107 rue Croix-Nivert. Here is your little country hotel, with a cream-and-orange awning announcing its name: “Les Cigognes”-storks, that is. Inside you are confronted with the same unostentatious simplicity. Countrylike maids, dressed in severe black and white, assure the service, and very adroitly. The palromte is a confident lady with majestic carriage, but no Parisian airs. But paradoxically you are presented with a very sophisticated menu. Your fellow diner is no country bumpkin, cither. He looks more like a gros industriel. The key to this whole riddle, of course, is Monsieur Humbert, the chef. He is one of the most talented men in the profession, and vice-president of the Société des Cuisiniters de Peris. His cooking is what you might expect-practically celestial. I began with escatgots de Bourgogne, proceeded to délices de sole maison with an indescribable rich ochre sauce and accompanied by a seductive Chavignol. Then a rarefied frnits rafraîcbis, mostly immense May strawberries, flavored with kirsch, and a satanically black cup of coffee. It all left me mightily in debt (what am I saying?) to Monsieur Humbert. Well, it was a bit expensive, but eminently worth it.
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