I could hardly bear to leave my bit of paradise for dinner. Fortunately, Ribouldingue was only a short walk away. Like so many of the great new Parisian places, it was started by veterans of Yves Camdeborde’s La Régalade. And like so many of those places, it is run by two extremely hardworking people. Nadège Varigny oversees the not-small dining room by herself, and with astonishing efficiency. Her eyes swept the room constantly as she opened wine, took orders, delivered food, and bused tables. The only time I saw her falter was when someone on the other end of the phone apparently refused to believe that there were no available seats.
The lovely room with its butter-colored walls was, indeed, packed to the rafters. We seemed to be the only Americans, and one glance at the menu told me why: If you don’t eat offal, then Ribouldingue is definitely not for you.
But if you are ever going to be tempted to try pigs’ head cheese, cows’ udders, or veal kidneys, this is the place. The chef cooks with subtle assurance, and his lamb brains are soft, sweet little puffs dotted with gently roasted garlic and pungent whole caper berries. His salad of shredded pig’s ear is a textbook on the nature of crispness. The beef cheeks cooked in red wine are gently enticing, and the wine list is filled with bargains.
Walking back to the hotel, we were still savoring the desserts—lemon curd and rhubarb compote, both topped with billows of whipped cream—as we nibbled the chocolate-covered almonds that arrived with the bill. It was an amazing meal for 27 euros each. Strolling through the garden to my room at midnight, I could have sworn the birds were still up, singing.
We had been eating almost all our meals in restaurants run by the new guard of Paris chefs, and it had been exciting to see how their casual attitude and experimental style are restoring Paris to greatness. But I woke up with a sudden yearning for a longtime favorite. I first went to Robert et Louise in the ’70s, loving it because Robert cooked his great haunches of beef right in the old fireplace. The air was always fragrant, the ancient beams above the long tables black with the smoke of ages. I’d heard that he had passed away, and now I wondered what had become of the restaurant.
The door creaked authentically when I peeked in, which I took as a good sign. The beams were blacker, but nothing else seemed to have changed; over by the fireplace, a man in an apron was cooking meat. Robert’s daughter Pascale has taken over, and she continues to offer wonderfully old-fashioned food at wonderfully old-fashioned prices.
Settling in with a glass of wine, a huge, charred pork chop, a salad, and a pile of potatoes, I listened to the badinage between Pascale and her customers. I was so lost in Paris past that I was stunned to find that my bill for this feast was 12 euros, rather than francs. Watching Pascale carve off a côte de boeuf (40 euros for two people and easily enough to feed a normal person for a week), I smiled. The Paris I once knew is still here, waiting right behind this door.
On our final day in Paris, we hoped for one last memorable meal. A little research revealed that if we were willing to splurge, the best deal at a great restaurant was the 55-euro lunch (wine included) at La Table de Joël Robuchon.
When the doors slid silently open, we found ourselves basking in the splendor of France in an elegant (dare I say stuffy?) gold and black room. The service was so achingly correct that the captain looked positively offended when we asked for a carafe of water. Tap water? Please! (The bottle of Evian was included.)
The meal began with a dreamy foam-topped crème de foie gras, a fantastic contrast between the sheer richness of the one and the ephemeral lightness of the other. A millefeuille of anchovies with tomates confites and a méli-mélo of little spring vegetables—the most delicate salad ever created—was equally impressive. It was followed by farm chicken and asparagus, along with a little pot of the “famous pommes purée de Joël Robuchon.”
The wine was just a country white, but it was poured with a generous hand from an endless bottle. The bread was impeccable, the cheese perfectly à point. Dessert, a lemon mousse hiding a few perfect berries, was a dream. Afterward, there were tiny bitter espressos and plates of chocolates. A bit of luxury can be a lovely thing, and we floated out the door.
There are now hundreds of amazing places to eat affordably in Paris—and I recommend all the restaurants in this issue. But when I dream about the city, it is my final meal I think of. L’Ami Jean reminds me of everything I love about modern Paris.
This small, bustling, rollicking restaurant is pure fun. It is what I imagine L’Ami Louis must once have been like. Customers—older aristocrats in gorgeous clothes, students from the Sorbonne, accountants who live in the neighborhood—crowd together at the narrow tables, talking to each other because the food is so joyfully wonderful.
“Don’t miss the boudin noir,” said the man next to us, passing over a forkful of the dense, black blood sausage on his plate. With its intense porkiness, it was, without question, the best I’ve ever tasted. “But what about the scallops?” I protested. “Those, too,” he said, watching the progress of the shells sizzling their way to my neighbor on the right, sending out fragrant billows of butter, bacon, garlic, and thyme. In the end, I opted for cannelloni of oxtail, slowly eating the robust layering of meat and pasta, wishing it would never end.
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