Wandering around Paris in the ’60s, I’d sit in the parks eating bread and cheese, pretending that at any minute I’d turn the corner and bump into F. Scott Fitzgerald. I’d walk down the Rue Mouffetard to buy cheese at Androuët, yearning up at the house where Hemingway once lived. I haunted Shakespeare & Company, as if by staying long enough I might make Joyce or Stein actually appear. It was a magical place, and I went back again and again on cheap charter fares, wishing I could afford to live there the way the writers of the ’20s had. But everything was so expensive! By staying in cheap pensions and eating dinner in working-class cafés, I managed to get by on $3 a day. Still, as I sat munching Brie in the Luxembourg Gardens, I always wished I had been born earlier.
It never occurred to me that one day I would look back on Paris in the ’60s as its own magical time, an affordable feast of art and culture where you woke up every morning convinced that an eating adventure was waiting for you.
But those days are long gone. In the Paris of modern luxury, with its three-star restaurants and five-star hotels, a person could spend $5,000 a day without even trying. It is a lovely place, but not exactly filled with surprises. Lately I’ve been wondering if, beneath all the glitter, the Paris of my past was still there.
And so I set off to find it. For one rainy spring week, travel editor Bill Sertl and I stayed in cheap hotels, wandered the streets, rode the métro, and attended free cultural events. Above all, we ate. What we discovered is that you can live stunningly well in Paris for very little money. Young chefs all over the city are serving thrillingly innovative food at remarkably affordable prices. And even with the dollar so low, if you are very careful (and, as you’ll see, very lucky), you can stay in charming hotels that allow you to participate in the life of the city. I left luxury behind, but I have never eaten better or had as much fun doing it. Thanks to the new young chefs, Paris is reclaiming its title as food capital of the world, and I’m pretty sure that 30 years from now we’ll all be looking back at this time with enormous nostalgia.
The Eurostar travels from London to Paris in two hours and fifteen minutes, and I fretted about the hotel for the entire trip; what could I realistically expect for 80 euros? For the first couple of nights, I’d chosen a modest place at the very edge of the 5th arrondissement because of its proximity to the Rue Mouffetard. The bed might be lumpy, but I wouldn’t go hungry.
Hôtel de L’Espérance turned out to be short on charm—the television in the lobby blared constantly—but the room was clean, comfortable, and larger than I had imagined. It had a desk, a TV, even an air conditioner. Dropping my bags, I headed out to eat, sniffing in at Androuët, the great cheese store, marveling at the size of the fat white asparagus, as big around as salamis, in the Mouffetard markets. By dinnertime, I was starving.
I was even hungrier by the time we reached Hier et Aujourd’hui, a serious hike from the nearest métro station. Happily, we had no sooner taken our seats than the waitress plunked a heavy terrine of pâté onto the table, along with a jar of crisp, home-cured cornichons and a basket of bread. “While you consider the menu,” she murmured.
There was a lot to consider. The 28-euro menu is large, and it changes constantly, but every single thing we tried was superb. Franck Dervin has worked with both Alain Dutournier and Guy Savoy, but his cooking is very much his own. His pot de crème de foie gras topped with a Port reduction was so extraordinarily seductive that we could tell who was eating it simply by listening for the moans. His tartare of beets looked like an adorable little bouquet topped with tiny leaves of spinach and infant anchovies. Its taste was equally attractive; with each bite, the layered sweet and salty flavors did enthusiastic somersaults in my mouth.
Parmentier of pig’s foot is never pretty, but this deconstructed porcine hoof with its little hat of puréed potato was all texture and richness, and we wasted no time staring at it; in a flash, it was gone. So was a “risotto” of lentils topped with lobster.
We finished with a classic baba drenched in rum and a clean, fresh carpaccio of pineapple dotted with raspberries. With a bottle of 20-euro Côtes du Rhône, the meal was 76 euros for two, including tax and tip. “If this is what eating on a budget is all about,” I said to Bill, “this is going to be a great week.”
Under ordinary circumstances, we would not have even noticed Christophe. But the sign in the window offering a 12-euro lunch was irresistible; we walked right in. I immediately liked the modest little restaurant because the waitress was so sympathetic. When we said we’d be skipping wine in favor of a free carafe of water, she smiled and said, “You’re right, it’s too early for wine.” And her pride in the chef, Christophe Philippe, was infectious. “Taste the compote of tomatoes on the side,” she insisted as she set down plates of accras de poisson, airy little fish fritters. “It is homemade. Even the balsamic vinegar is fait maison!”
Were the portions so large because she thought we were poor and in need of a sturdy meal? Or is everyone served two hearty slabs of richly meaty hanger steak with piles of panisses, the chickpea fritters of Nice? Does the cervelle de veau always arrive as two fluffy clouds on a vivid heap of polenta? The brains hovered, as buoyant as air, anchored to the plate by polenta so fresh it tasted like biting into an ear of corn.
“Happy?” asked the waitress, picking up our shockingly empty plates. “Oh, yes,” we sighed. She beamed. “Christophe seeks out his own special suppliers—he uses nothing but the best. You know, he used to work with Anne-Sophie Pic.”
That night, at Le Beurre Noisette, a charmingly chic bistro in the 15th, the experience was much the same. We found ourselves in the hands of Thierry Blanqui, a talented young chef who had worked in the finest establishments (La Tour d’Argent, Ledoyen) before opening a modest restaurant of his own. Tired of cooking for rich tourists, these chefs are catering to true food lovers, and their clientele is primarily local. Eating here, you become an honorary Parisian.
I’ve never seen anything quite like Blanqui’s carpaccio of pig’s foot, a mosaic of flavor and texture in which each bite is slightly different, so that you keep eating, fascinated, until it is gone. Fat white asparagus came topped with an evanescent curl of foam, as if a wave had just crashed onto the plate. I took a bite, expecting brine, and experienced pure Parmigiano.
Robust côte de porc was served with a kind of aligot—deeply cheesy potatoes—and roasted lamb shoulder was imbued with the sunny taste of preserved lemon. But it was at the end, with the appearance of a huge, feathery millefeuille of strawberries, that I finally fell in love. A symphony of crunch, cream, and fruit, it was, hands down, the best dessert of the trip.
The bill? With a 14-euro bottle of Cahors, 78 euros for two.
I had become cozy in my little room, and I was sad as I packed my bags the next morning to leave L’Espérance. But I was even sadder when I checked in to my new digs. The lobby was tricked out with fancy furniture, but the room I had rented for 90 euros was dark, dingy, and so small that the only way to open the closet was to balance the suitcase on the flimsy bed. On top of that, the minuscule bathroom was dank, with barely room for the tiny shower. I ran back outside, slamming the door and realizing how little I had appreciated my former fortune.
Disconsolate, I meandered slowly along the Seine, eventually meeting up with Bill. When we reached Lapérouse, I stopped to peer into the ancient restaurant, thinking it might cheer me up. The restaurant is fabulously old-fashioned, almost unchanged since the day it opened in 1766, and I’ve always loved the way it looks. And even though the restaurant’s glory days are past, its Michelin stars long gone, the 35-euro lunch on the menu posted outside—wine included—seemed like a bargain. “How bad can it be?” said Bill, pushing me through the door.
We were dressed in jeans, but the maître d’hôtel welcomed us as if we were wearing black tie. “Would you like a salle privée?” he asked. Remnants of another time, these sexy rooms for two are little jewel boxes that afford total privacy. We settled into the velvet sofa while the very correct captain fussed in and out, eager for our happiness.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said to Bill. “This place is all about ambience. I haven’t heard a word about the food in years.” Indeed, the amuse-bouche, a dreadful thimble filled with purées of red and yellow peppers, confirmed all my fears; it was a clear sign of how far this once proud kitchen had plummeted.
So I was completely unprepared for the seriously wonderful mushroom soup garnished with a foie gras mousse that melted into a sensuous puddle. Asparagus, served in a perfect circle of interlocking green and white spears, was equally refined. Topped with a poached egg, it was gorgeous, elegant, utterly satisfying.
The main courses were even more pleasing. Veal breast arrived wearing a filigreed necklace, an intricate design composed of tiny rounds of crisped purple potatoes and baby romaine leaves. The meat was surrounded by gnocchi so light a passing breeze could have sent them soaring. Maigre, a firm-fleshed fish from Normandy, was delicious, too; the artichokes and tomatoes strewn across the top were an ideal counterpoint to the delicate flavor of the fillet.
Afterward, there was coffee served with plates of mignardises—macarons, caramels, miniature homemade chocolate lollipops. It had been an amazing meal, both leisurely and luxurious, and I felt utterly restored. Emerging, we found that the sun had come out, making the world a much more cheerful place.
Walking away from the river, we followed the sound of birdsong and found ourselves in a small, enchanting garden. It belonged to a charming hotel, and as we took in the flowers around the cobbled walk, I began to feel as if we had conjured up Shangri-la.
It all seemed so magical that I was not surprised when the Hôtel des Grandes Écoles actually had a room available, and I was even less surprised that it was affordable (120 euros). It was so fresh and pretty, with a window opening right into the garden, that I danced all the way back up the street to get my suitcase from that other hotel. Unpacking, I felt nothing but lucky. I grabbed a book, went out into the garden, threw back my head, and basked in the sun.
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.
But after that came duck breast, a richly mineral slab of bird, as bloody as the rarest steak, whose flavor sang in my veins all night. You don’t get duck like that in the States. It is why you go to France, and I hold it in my memory so that, even now, if I close my eyes and think very hard, I can still taste it.
Finally, there was rice pudding, buckets of it, served on a wooden board. So thick that the wooden spoon stood upright in the bowl, it was served with confiture de lait, nuts, dried fruit, bits of praline. As I finished eating, I had a brief fantasy of moving in and eating every meal here for the rest of my life.
The chef, Stéphane Jégo, was at La Régalade for ten years before setting up on his own. He has a knack for treating the rustic food of France with enormous respect. But more than that, he knows how to make people happy. L’Ami Jean is the perfect ending to a Paris vacation because you walk out with an overwhelming desire to return.
Very soon.
Address Book
L’Ami Jean 27 R. Malar, 7th (01-47-05-86-89)
Le Beurre Noisette 68 R. Vasco-de-Gama, 15th (01-48-56-82-49)
Christophe 8 R. Descartes, 5th (01-43-26-72-49)
Hier et Aujourd’Hui 145 R. de Saussure, 17th (01-42-27-35-55)
Lapérouse 51 Quai des Grands Augustins, 6th (01-43-26-68-04)
Ribouldingue 10 R. St.-Julien-le-Pauvre, 5th (01-46-33-98-80)
Robert et Louise 64 R. Vieille-du-Temple, 3rd (01-42-78-55-89)
La Table de Joël Robuchon 16 Ave. Bugeaud, 16th (01-56-28-16-16)
And a Few Other Favorite Inexpensive Places …
Café des Musées 49 R. de Turenne, 3rd (01-42-72-96-17)
La Cantine de Quentin 52 R. Bichat, 10th (01-42-02-40-32)
La Cave de L’os À Moelle 181 R. de Lourmel, 15th (01-45-57-28-28)
Chartier 7 R. du Faubourg-Montmartre, 9th (01-47-70-86-29)
Fish La Boissonerie 69 R. de Seine, 6th (01-43-54-34-69)