On the last weekend of my whirlwind Easter trip home, Fontina Turner and I decided to organise a little soiree to catch up with our favourite ex-Paris expats, the sorely-missed Robert Brownie Jnr and Dolly Tatin, and Fontina Turner’s darling siblings Eclair Danes and Christian Kale.

I had assumed we would wind up sipping sem savs and knocking back roasted tomato gnocchi with the rest of the western suburbs at Il Lido, which, when I left the city a few years ago, seemed to be the only decent place to eat.  Perth was historically (and I dare say fairly) labelled the dullsville of Australia, and 5 years ago the restaurant and bar scene was rather dire. However, while I wouldn’t go so far as to say that “Williamsburg pales besides [it]”,  with 50 new small bars, a plethora of recently opened restaurants and a thriving arts and cultural scene, there is most definitely more to this city than flat whites and great whites.

Brika, the newly-opened modern Greek-style meze bar, which Dolly Tatin picked for our rendez-vous, is just the latest in the wave of hip establishments to hit the west coast. The Stirling Street abode, with its white-washed walls, colourful weathered shutters, Grecian inspired decor and rustic ‘every-man’ fare pays homage to owner Simon Psaros’ hellenic roots. And with a small but stellar Greek wine list devised by Lalla Rookh sommelier Jeremy Prus and cocktails concocted by Ian Loh and Candice Knight, formerly of Helvetica, the Brika team has got the mix just right.

When Dolly Tatin and I arrived, late and lush after a few pre-dinner chardonnays chez-elle, the rest of the crew were happily tucking into the punny Cyprus Hill and Gin-nopolis cocktails at the heaving bar, whilst waiting for a table to free up.  By the time we were seated, 4 Cyprus Hill’s later, we were all starving and ended up ordering almost everything on the select, shared-plate menu.

In the starter department, the warm pita bread dipped into an earthy, thick, creamy taramasalata was a dream combination as was the simultaneously crunchy, gooey, garlicky kolokithakia (zucchini fritters) and we demolished the simple yet scrumptious hummus in a matter of minutes (I guess you could call it a hummus-ide?). The pan fried kefalograviera with a squeeze of grilled lemon was nice enough, although it had nothing on the unforgettably mouthwatering honey, oregano infused saganaki from The Apollo in Sydney, that will forever be etched into my memory.

I personally found the deep-fried three cheese, spinach and leek spanakopita disappointingly, and rather surprisingly, heavy; not the light phyllo fix I was hoping for, but the tender grilled oregano lemon octopus and the calamari with lemon zest and herbs most definitely made up for it – a squid pro quo of sorts.

But where Brika really shines is in its mastery of the art of the wood-fired grill. The lamb shoulder was almost finished by the time we sat down (the waitress literally sprinted to get us the last one, before coming back to take the rest of our order) and I can see why – the marinated, slow cooked specimen with its crisped skin and fork-melting flesh, was utterly divine, as was the preposterously juicy ¼ maryland souvla rotissierie chicken and the moreish oregano, garlic cretan oil infused lamb chops.

Brika is a restaurant where, according to itself, “the place is leisurely, the plate communal and the conversation spirited” and after Christian Kale had taken it upon himself to order a round of ouzo shots for the table, we were most definitely a ‘spirited’ bunch – Dolly Tatin started lecturing the owner about his trending hair-do, Fontina Turner took to the lamb chops with her hands, and Eclair Danes drunk dialled her ex-boyfriend at least 7 times.

With bellies full of ouzo and wood-fired beasts, we probably didn’t need dessert, but ordered three anyway. The pistachio, cherry, cranberry nougat was as unmemorable as the loukoumades (greek doughnuts in rosewater syrup) were mouthwatering, but bizarrely enough my favourite ‘dessert’ was the ksinotiro, a sour local greek cheese served with that delicious warmed signature pita bread, apricots and figs (the baklava was not available that night).

They say beware of Greeks bearing gifts, and I should have known better when I saw Psaros, that man-bunned deity, carrying a second round of ouzo shots to our table.  But alas, by that point I was in no state to decline. And so it was that four bottles of wine, 10 cocktails and two rounds of ouzo later, we found ourselves barefoot, cramped into a tiny karaoke booth at 5am, knocking back guava flavoured Vodka Cruisers and belting out Celine Dion like it was 1999.

Needless to say, that was one hellenic hangover.

Brika: a very meze night indeed.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Pray tell, how is one to find a decent sole amongst all the flounders?

Luckily chef Bertrand Grébaut is a much better fisherman than I.  After opening the wildly successful Septime (which came in at number 49 in the San Pellegrino World’s 50 Best Restaurants 2013), followed by the equally popular wine bar Septime Cave, his latest venture with Théo Pourriat – oyster bar/seafood shack Clamato has already taken Paris by storm.

When I moseyed in at midday on a sunny spring Saturday with fabulous Swedish friend Grease Witherspoon, the uber trendy Rue de Charonne haunt was surprisingly quiet (the last time I came here we waited an hour for a table) and we happily propped ourselves up on the barstools, and popped open a bottle of cool, crispy Occhipinti…but with only seven tables, the exceedingly popular little joint was absolutely teeming with happy hipsters in no time.

Clamato’s decor screams brut minimalism at its cosiest with its wooden chairs, reclaimed wood ceiling, mismatched coloured tables, flatteringly dim lighting and trendy school-camp tin crockery.  The name itself leaves a bit to be desired (I place this portmanteau in the same category as Cronut or Brangelina), and it seems a particularly odd choice given there is no clammed up tomato juice actually on the menu (although rumor has it a clammy Bloody Mary is set to make a cameo). But thankfully the bivalves make up in taste for what the name lacks in goût.

Along with the creamy, fresh oysters from Normandy, Utah Beach and Maldon (served with a spicy homemade Tabasco and a shallot vinaigrette), the kitchen dishes up an ever-changing selection of delectable delights including a mean veal tartare topped with homemade chips, a decidedly scrumptious Banka trout with raw cream and pickles, gigantic sea urchins from Brittany, deliciously moreish cod fritters with wankaina sauce, and an indulgent lobster with tarragon mayonnaise.

The seabream ceviche with radishes and coriander (dorade grise, radis cerise, coriandre) and the bonito with white grapefruit (bonite, pamplemousse blanc) both proved to be fabulously delicious, the former for that zesty ceviche tang, and the latter for a more subtle, complex flavour combination.

The garden salad with tuna bresaola and basil (salade du jardin, bresaola du thon, basilic) that came next was honestly unlike anything I have ever eaten.  The dried tuna bresaola was almost like a tender, malleable seafood jerky of sorts, the extreme saltiness of which turned out to marry perfectly with the bitter leaves of the salad. It was thoroughly, albeit rather surprisingly, enjoyable.

But the razor clams (couteaux, beurre d’herbes) were the irrefutable showstopper, in both presentation and taste. Deliciously tender, perfectly cooked clams, cut into bite size morsels and tossed in a luscious herb butter and topped with a sprinkling of almonds and micro herbs – this dish was utterly sensational.

The fish is most definitely the main game at Clamato, but you simply cannot leave without an order, or two (definitely two), of the maple syrup tart with Chantilly cream – it is indescribably, decadently mouthwatering. A truly simple, subtle, rustic pleasure.

Clamato is a little Parisian gem; the service is friendly, professional and genuine; the wine list features a carefully picked selection of natural and biodynamic wines from around Europe; and the fare is honest, innovative and exceptionally executed.

The restaurant takes no reservations, and it is already extremely popular – so, for the love of cod, get in quick before all the good fish have been snapped up.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

It all started on Monday when, on the way to have a quiet nightcap with the charming Brussel Crowe, I smashed my perfume bottle on the floor and was subsequently asked to leave a salmon shop/late night wine cellar because of my overpowering floral odour.  Just to give you some context, the salmon shop, where I had stopped to purchase a bottle of bubbly, reeks so badly of fish that Dolly Tatin starts awkwardly dry-retching every time we enter. Except this time, upon me entering the shop, the shop assistant started theatrically gagging before announcing in front of all the patrons  “Oh la la, mon Dieu, Mademoiselle, you steenk so budly of perfume zat I cunnot actually breaze.” 

So that was Monday. I Flowerbomb-ed a salmon shop.

Tuesday didn’t get much better. I had a lunch date with what turned out to be an unfairly good looking potential employer. Being my usual cool self, I arrived late, worked myself into a total fluster and, despite the fact it was only 2 degrees outside, proceeded to break into an uncontrollable stress-induced sweat.  I told myself it was one of those things only I could notice. Until that is, he reached over, patted my arm, and said “Don’t worry, one time when I was modelling for Burberry, I sweated so much from nerves that by the time the shoot was done my trench was dark brown instead of beige.”

So…probably didn’t get the job. No sweat.

But the week all really came to a head, pardon the pun, on Wednesday when I walked into the local bakery to purchase my daily bread.  At first I was puzzled as to why the baker giggled, blushed and then apologised when he handed me the last remaining baguette on the shelf. And then I saw it.

And with that, I went straight online and booked a one way ticket to London – that safe haven across the sea, where the shop assistants are ingratiating, potential employers are not part-time Burberry models, and the bread is un-amusingly square.

My first night in town I set out to the newly-opened, brightly coloured beach shack style restaurant/cocktail bar The Rum Kitchen in Notting Hill for a Caribbean feast with sister Sienna Millet and friends Prawn Connery and Hilary Shank.

Whilst making my way through a deliciously potent ‘Grog 349‘ and an equally robust ‘Rumbustion‘ cocktail, we polished off some surprisingly addictive plantain chips with spicy salsa, some less notable chilli squid rings and some very impressive saltfish fritters with grilled lime and chilli jam.

For mains there was a choice of, amongst others, Supreme Jerk Chicken with Bubble and Squeak, Pan Fried Sea Bass with a Frenzy Salsa, Mutton Curry with Rice and Peas, and Mama’s Seafood Gumbo with Homemade Cornbread.

My rum-impaired judgment led me to order, of all things, the Mutton Curry with a side of slaw. I hate the word mutton; it has about as much charm as a potato ‘smear’ or a ‘moist’ chicken. I don’t know what I was thinking – I guess I was holding out hope that it was lamb dressed as mutton. Nevertheless, despite its rather unappealing colour, and its lack of spice (the waitress did pre-warn me it was ‘Notting Hill’ spicy not ‘my mama’ spicy), the old sheep was not so bad.

Sienna Millet and Hilary Shank went for the Jerk Chicken on the Bone  with a side of buttery spinach, which was very tasty.  But the real show stopper was Prawn Connery’s Supreme Jerk Chicken – a beautifully tender chicken breast with a deliciously dark spicy Caribbean gravy.  I was very jealous.

What a surprise, the Supreme Jerk won my heart once again.

We were too full for dessert (I think it was the slaw that broke the camel’s back), so we decided to call it a night and catch a cab home… three hours later, after running into old friends from our hometown, crashing a tinder date and downing an excessive amount of rum at the heaving bar, Sienna Millet, Prawn Connery, Hilary Shank and I we were to be found crumping to 90’s hip hop in the basement club with a bizarre mix of messy Mayfair suits and Jenny’s from the Block.

The Rum Kitchen; taking you from work, to jerk to twerk in one fabulous evening.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Take the microcosm of my street for example, it’s like clockwork – every morning at 6.35am the rubbish trucks rumble down the street and the rubbish men chide each other at the top of their lungs to ensure the whole neighbourhood is fully awake, at 9.30am the motley British bulldog at number 50 grumpily hobbles out for his daily walk, at 10.00am the angry homeless lady who sits outside the supermarket emerges from a cardboard box with her ‘I am hungry’ sign (I bought her a freshly made ham, cheese and salad baguette once and she threw it at me and yelled ‘I am not a bin’), at 11.30am a white terrier with an incredibly strange limp dances down the street to the local cafe, jumps up onto his high chair and watches patiently while his owner sips her espresso, at around 4.00pm as the second daily round of bread is coming out of the oven at the bakery below Monsieur Dupont saunters in, cuts to the front of the line and orders a ‘well cooked’ baguette, at around 4.01pm Monsieur Julien who works at the bakery tells him to go to the back of the line and stop pushing in, and at 7.00pm every night a bearded man stands below my building, whistles once, then yells something that sounds vaguely like “wally” into the distance, and repeats the process three times before leaving.

I too have become quite set in my routine. At 8am on Mondays and Wednesdays I meet Salmon Hayek for a run in Luxembourg Gardens (coincidentally the same time that a group of 50 Parisian fireman set out for their morning run), at 8.30pm on Thursdays Dolly Tatin, Robert Brownie Jr. and I convene for wine and cult movie night, and every Sunday at around 1.00pm I can be found chowing down a burger in a corner booth at Paris hotspot  La Perle with Edith Pilaf.

It’s hard to put your finger on how this unassuming old corner bar (once the scene of the infamous rant that cost John Galliano his job at Dior) came to be a trendy Paris institution.  It certainly isn’t the tired 70’s decor, the harried staff, nor the bitter coffee that keeps people coming back. And yet I seem to find myself there time and time again. I stand by Elton Scone as he flirts with the tribes of dapper dandies spilling onto the heaving terrace on balmy summer nights,  once a week Grease Witherspoon and I will duck in for a quick aperitif and a gossip (once a week Grease Witherspoon and I will stumble out 2 bottles of rose later) and Sienna Millet drags me in for the ‘Bonne Mine’ (‘the looking good’) juice whenever she comes to town. But what I really go back for is the burger – that delicious, sloppy, sauce filled, pickled-up morsel of goodness served with perfectly crispy shoe-string fries.

This burger is seriously something else. It could be the large juicy pickles, it could be the perfectly rare, cheese covered meat patty, it could be the unctuous tangy mayonnaise complete with tid-bits of shallot that is generously smattered on both sides of the bun, or it could be the fact that I am always hungover and ‘hangry’ when I eat it. Either way, it truly has my heart.

The world may be your oyster, but this burger is definitely the Perle.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Until recently, Le Mosaique in the Marais, the long-standing red and white tiled, hole-in-the-wall hot-dog booth was one of the only purveyors of hot-dogs in Paris.  There is of course the french version which you will find stacked on top of each other in bad bakeries near The Pompidou Centre, but after a recent episode which I will call A Curious Incident of a (Hot) Dog in the Night-Time, I can safely say that there is nothing ok about a turgid boiled red wiener covered in melted emmental and lodged in a pasty white bun.

Never fear, these days hip hot-dog stands are popping up all over town. The team from Hutch Hot Dog House in the 10th whip up a mean New York style chicken dog topped with confit onions, red hot ketchup, cabbage and American mustard; while across town, the messiah of the burger, Little Fernand, has now branched into gourmet dogs with recipes such as the cider-honey mustard sausage – I guess we would call it a haute dog.

There is even a vegan hot dog and burger parlour, East-Side Burger, for those who are more about the soy-sage than the sausage.

So, not wanting to fall behind in the fast-moving world of food trends, Robert Brownie Jr., Katy Peri-Peri and I decided to try our luck with the ‘chien-chaud’ at Glass, the latest venture from the trendy crew behind Candelaria and Le Mary-Celeste.  Located derrière an eery unmarked black door, next to a seedy flourescent-lit sex-shop in a side street in SoPi (South Pigalle) this hot-dog parlour/ speakeasy cocktail bar is pretty darn cool.

The dimly lit room is decked out with walls of broken mirrors, kitsch disco balls and beautiful bobo-chic Parisians sipping novelty cocktails and imported craft beer at the bar. Meanwhile the not-so French clientele sit in booths slugging pints of Brooklyn Lager, knocking back boiler-makers (a shot followed by a chaser of beer) and chowing down hot-dogs.  We were, obviously, the latter.

For the hot-dog, we had the choice between two flavours – the Classic and the Chihuahua. I personally am not into small dogs.  I had images of ordering a Chihuahua and being stuck eating a small fluffy bun with a nasty bite to it. So Robert Brownie Jr. and I went for the Classic – good pure organic beef sausage in a freshly baked bun, ketchup and mustard – it was ok (I wouldn’t want to give a dog a bad name) but it wasn’t wow. 

Katy Peri-Peri’s misleadingly named Chihuahua, however – stuffed with homemade guacomole and pico de gallo, topped with a fresh side order of pickles and oozing with mustard and ketchup, was amazing. It was the god of dogs.

Robert Brownie Jr. and I were seething with food envy.

But, not ones to be upstaged in the food ordering department – we got back on the horse and ordered another dog.

The first hot dog was rather large.  And added to a pint of Brookyn lager, there was definitely no need for a second.  It was gluttonous and greedy and not altogether ideal before a week of sun-bathing in Normandy. But geez was it worth it. The Chihuahua exceeded all my expectations.

As we were munching on our Chihuahuas, I caught a few judgmental stares from the elegant French girls around us, sipping their cocktails and delicately nibbling on their singular hot dog.

But I brushed it off – this mad dog was worth the fatness. And in any event, people in Glass houses really shouldn’t throw stones.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Answer: The Mary Celeste. 

I am a big fan of Trivial Pursuit, particularly in that great moment of coincidence when you get an obscure question that you happen to have been asked before. As luck would have it,  throughout my long 80’s edition Trivial Pursuit career, I have been asked the Mary Celeste question at least 40 times. So upon entering the hyper hip oyster bar, Le Mary Celeste, I was certain that if the molluscs weren’t all they were cracked up to be, I would at least be able to dazzle my comrades with etymology.

Le Mary Celeste is the latest locale by the cool kids behind the cacophonous-corridor of a taqueria/ speakeasy Candelaria (where one can definitely not speak easily), and Glass, the hidden hot dog parlour next to a sex shop in Pigalle. It was destined to be a success.

Like its siblings, Le Mary Celeste has Brooklyn lager, and unfairly stylish clientele, on tap. However unlike Candelaria and Glass, the bar is light and (for about half an hour at 6pm) spacious, serves a stellar selection of natural wine and has bar snacks of a quality rarely seen in Paris.

Moreover, during 5-7pm happy hour the bar serves up oysters, freshly shucked before your eyes by a slick moustached hipster in an apron for 1€ a pop – pure genius. The first time I came to Le Mary Celeste it was for a pre-dinner aperitif with francophile and fellow foodie Edith Pilaf. Although both not particularly partial to oysters, we thought we would try one each to go with our glass of bubbly – it would be rude not to.

We rocked up at our dinner reservation 1 hour, 1 bottle of bubbly and 16 oysters later. They are that good.

Nevertheless, oysters weren’t in season (they’ll be back in September) when I made a cameo last week with my ex-boss now room-mate, Dolly Tatin, so we decided to see what other treats would compliment our peachy crisp bottle of white (the name of which I cannot remember – momentary blanc blank).

For a somewhat leaner, and I daresay tastier, version of the butter-salt-radish ensemble that the French adore, the radishes with chilli oil and spring onions were ridiculously moreish.

The oeuf that followed suite was also totally ouf. A modern take on the old 90’s childhood picnic favourite, the devilled egg with puffed black rice, ginger, soy sauce and chives was so deliciously nostalgic that we ordered seconds.

For part-time vegan, full time anaphylactic seafood allergic Dolly Tatin, the team whipped up a sardine crostini sans sardines which was much tastier than it sounds, although clearly nothing on my kitchen sink sardine crostini with its smear (forgive me) of yoghurt, piles of deliciously oily sardines, slices of radish and fresh garden herbs.

The food is the type of simple, tasty, no frills affair that, thanks to establishments like this, Parisians (and particularly it seems, the very good looking, well heeled ones) are finally starting to embrace.

There is a lot in a name, and naming a bar after a ghost ship could well have been risky (a few years ago, a holistic vet informed Yummy Mummy that our rather portly family pug and bulldog never stood a chance of being svelte given their names were Gnocchi and Brick).

But judging by the crowds, this bar isn’t in danger of being found abandoned any time soon.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

So after a summer spent eating my way through Italy and with a sunny sejour planned for November, it is now time to start a liquid diet.

Luckily I know all the right places to go:

Chez Jeanette 

This über trendy bar in the boho 10th arrondissement is what the people who frequent it would like to call a modern day guinguette - a popular watering hole of the 30’s and 40’s where the French would go to eat, drink and dance.  The slightly tired looking interior makes a charming contrast to the fresh-faced, fashion-forward clientele that crowd into this Paris institution.

Charming, inexpensive, unpretentious, and, on Saturday nights, utterly packed.

La Belle Hortense

A literary bar anywhere else in the world would probably just mean a bar with books in the background – which is what I had imagined when I walked into La Belle Hortense literary bar in the Marais for the first time.  That is until I noticed the girl at the end of the bar – red wine in hand, nose buried in an old Proust novel, whilst across the way a young jet-set couple were being recited Baudelaire by a man who looked like Balzac.

I, on the other hand, spent the night getting reprimanded by a flamboyant dandy with a silk neck tie for having brought along with me six young muscular Australian men who were, much to his displeasure, all straight.

A bottle of Pommery, a plate of charcuterie, and a first edition copy of Existentialism is a Humanism…only in Paris.

Chez Eva Pritsky

Decorated with its mismatched upholstered seventies couches, trompe l’oeil’d ceiling and relics from a bygone era, this brocante store by day, bar by night, run by stalwart Eva Pritsky is a true Paris gem. Watching as her dedicated patrons saunter through the bright turquoise panelled door, showering Eva with hugs and kisses, it is clear she has been a fixture of Menilmontant for a very long time.

The last time I went to Eva’s, a young rastafarian was having an indepth conversation with an 80 year old whisky drinking gentleman in a three piece suit, while a man who could only have been Salvador Dali reincarnated stood next to me with his twirly moustache, slicked back black hair and smoking jacket, and in a thick Spanish accent ordered a glass of wine.

As Eva slowly shuffles around her tiny make-shift kitchen, cigarette constantly hanging out of her mouth, and fetches your €2.50 beer or glass of cask wine with obligatory peanuts, you have the impression that you are in the company of an old friend in an old magical world that you never want to leave.

Candelaria

Tucked away behind a tiny, trendy taco bar in ‘haut‘ Marais, this little hidden cave bar oozes understated cool. After a greeting from the jolly giant decked out in his oversized plaid coat and oversized geek chic glasses at the front door, you elbow your way through the heaving mass of red lipsticked, high waisted jean wearing, balayaged bohemian locals cluttering the utterly divine smelling corridor, through a non-descript white door and emerge into a dark candle lit cocktail cave, where chipotle’d magaritas are being shaken to some eclectic underground French beat.

Incidentally, the tacos are totally yummy (it would have been rude not to try them).

Yep, this is definitely what they meant by la vie en rosé.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

It was pretentious, it was expensive, it was full of, well…schmucks, but lets face it, it never claimed to be anything else.  And with comfortable floral chairs, a perfect position for perusing the Paris jet-set, and a waiter that looked like Ryan Gosling’s long lost French frère, I certainly wasn’t complaining.

Three hours and two bottles of champagne later, totally ruinée by the Ruinart, Dolly Tatin conceded to trying her luck at the little Basque bistro/tapas joint of sorts around the corner (and incidentally, probably my favourite place in Paris), L’Avant Comptoir.  There are a plethora of Parisian restaurants containing the word comptoir, which means counter or bar, but none are as deserving of the name as L’Avant Comptoir, the brain child of Yves Camdeborde, which is quite literally just a counter, with one chef on a tiny plancha servicing the neverending flow of clientele who cram through the door day and night, seven days a week.

The walls are decorated with customer’s scribblings and pig memorabilia, there are slabs of butter, cornichons, mustard and hot bread for the taking, bottles of wine spill over the bucket onto the counter, and there is no real system for ordering; you squash up next to a trendy Parisian, you study the little pictured placard menus hanging above your head, you wait until the chef makes eye contact and then you go about reeling off every single tapas plate there is on offer, and times it by two. Yet somehow in amongst the chaos, mouthwatering miniature meals emerge.

Even more impressive, however, is the delectable delights the chef whipped up without meat and without fuss, for the darling Dolly Tatin. The luscious Lou Regalat morphed into an ambrosial bruschetta, the flavoursome fricassee de poulet became a succulent salad and the sandwichless chicken sandwich managed to lose all its fillings and still taste absolutely scrumptious.  Like Homer Simpson, I have always been of the view that you don’t win friends with salad, and yet everyone in the bar was crowding around Dolly Tatin and her fabulous meatless sandwichless sandwich.  If this was a movie it would be called  When Harry Met Salad; suddenly everyone at L’Avant Comptoir wanted what she was having.

But lets not get carried away here, you don’t go to L’Avant Comptoir for its tolerance of vegans. You go there for the incredible charcuterie boards, the sumptuous spicy sausage, the sweet, tender pork belly and the unforgettable foie gras, to name a few. The old faithful croquettes de jambon never cease to make me salivate.  A crunchy little shell encases a wonderland of oozing cheesy potato and jambon that I burn my palate on every single time. I have developed such a fondness of these little treats that the chef starts preparing two servings the minute I walk in the door.

Then there are the gauffres d’artichaut et jambon (waffles with artichoke and proscuitto). I am not sure what was done to the artichoke, but it was like a tapenade on testosterone. At once a slightly creamy, slightly salty, slightly sweet paste resting on a bed of soft airy waffle with thin morsels of jambon lounging on top. These were unbelievably good. Such was the look on my face when I bit into this inconceivably gratifying gauffre that Dolly Tatin could no longer take it. And in one fell swoop she ate one, and then another, and then a croquette, and then another, until she had sampled everything on the menu.

L’Avant Comptoir is one very cool place.  It is casual, inexpensive and friendly, the wine list is small but varied and the food is as consistently amazing as the line is long. I recommend this place to everyone who visits Paris, and no one ever leaves disappointed.

Heck, it was at this very comptoir that Dolly Tatin lost her veganity.

xoxo

Paris Stilton