Trawling through Instagram recently I stumbled across a photo of some exquisite looking morsels of deep fried chicken at the newly opened restaurant Ellsworth, and I liked (emotionally and digitally) what I saw.

And so it was that I found myself chortling over a Chardonnay and scoffing said chicken on a sunny Saturday with the ever-present Fontina Turner, the transiting antipodean Rosamund Pikelet and resident Russian comrade Vladimir Poutine.

This cosy new 1st arrondissement address is the latest lovechild of Braden Perkins and Laura Adrian, the couple who, after the success of their pop-up restaurant Hidden Kitchen, opened excessively popular fine dining degustation restaurant Verjus and its more casual younger frère Verjus Bar à Vins – both just a stone’s throw from Ellsworth.

The restaurant, named after Perkins’ grandfather (to whom he attributes his love of good food and wine), is based on the ever-trendy concept of American-inspired share plates, featuring fresh, seasonal and locally sourced produce.

We, of course, ordered everything on the menu – some twice.

The sole ceviche, with its coriander, lime, radish, crunchy corn and chili purée was a truly divine combination; as was the umami-ish broccoli with anchovy butter that followed suit.

Next up was the rabbit corn dog.  Having never tried a corn dog, I had previously likened it to a Chiko Roll (that miserable pastry-covered pulped celery and barley roll, oft found loitering amongst meat pies in the bain marie at Australian petrol stations) but I was clearly barking up the wrong tree – this homemade rabbit sausage coated in cornmeal batter with a slightly spicy homemade mustard dipping sauce was spot on. Vladimir Poutine was highly impressed.

Indeed if this dish were a song, it would be titled “The Weiner Takes it All.”

Fontina Turner was decidedly content in the pasta-department: perfectly al dente cappelletti with peas, pine nuts and pecorino; followed by a truly mouthwatering lamb ragout atop spinach orechiette with shaved raw mushroom and finished off with an ambrosial asian inspired beef and sesame ravioli.

Perkins and Adrian have taken the much acclaimed juicy, tender Buttermilk fried chicken (lounging on a bed of mustard-y slaw) off the menu at Verjus Bar à Vins and relocated it at the down the street at Ellsworth. I personally am very glad that this chicken crossed the road, and did not disappear altogether – it was delicious.

The bavette with beetroot chutney, confit garlic and bone marrow was a total taste sensation, as was the tender octopus with fennel, sherry vinegar and potatoes posing as rice.

A few hours and numerous bottles of Chardonnay later, our tummies and team had expanded – we were joined by brie-bearing Gwenyth Poultry, straight from her cheese tour; and Vladimir Poutine’s delightful English beau Eggs-Benedict Cumberbatch, just in time for the dessert; crunchy little sugar covered donuts dipped in strawberry coulis, and the true showstopper, the deconstructed malteser: chocolate and malt sorbet, mini meringue and crushed milk biscuits topped with coffee foam. ‘Twas truly and utterly divine.

The meal, like the service and company, was flawless; I guess you could say it was love at first like.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

I have done my best to avoid the busy little rue des Escouffes since a humiliating incident when I first arrived in Paris involving an order of pork bones (needed to make David Chang’s ramen broth) at what I had not realised (despite the extensive range of chicken sausages) was a Jewish butcher. Not kosher, not kosher at all.

So with head bowed I bolted past the boucherie and into Miznon, the pumping little cafe on the corner. Run by Frenchman David Moyle, Miznon is the Parisian branch of Eyal Shani’s excessively popular fast food pita restaurant in Tel Aviv.

When Kipfler Sutherland, Gwyneth Poultry and I arrived, on this particularly sunny Thursday, the place was utterly frenetic. Waiters were yelling out names Starbuck’s style over eclectic Israeli beats, and pitas were being ferried around like a game of pass-the-parcel.  The decor is rustic with its concrete floors, counters of polished wood and steel, mismatched industrial lampshades and random piles of vegetables sporadically placed throughout the room and the menu, which looks like someone has left it mid-way through a brainstorming session, is scrawled in multicoloured chalk on a blackboard at the back of the restaurant, and is nigh impossible to decipher.

Miznon offers a vast range of pita fillings to suit all palates, including chickpea topped with boiled egg and green chilis, freshly cooked minute steak with an optional egg, spiced fish, freshly marinated tuna, and hummus, amongst others. As it turns out there were no non-pita salad options (more’s the pita), and Miznon’s signature slow roasted chicken salad pita was not yet ready, so I went for the lamb kebab pita with sides of roasted cauliflower and ratatouille, Kipfler Sutherland ordered the boeuf bourguinon pita, and, on recommendation of the waitress, Gwyneth Poultry chose the minced lamb stuffed-braised cabbage leaf pita.

No sooner had we plonked ourselves on the free stools overlooking the open kitchen then our orders were ready, signalled by a man screaming Eenerande, which he thought was my name (and which all the chefs seemed to find wildly hilarious).

My lamb kebab (which I have only unappealing half eaten photos of due to excessive hunger), although it was more like succulent lamb meatballs, was utterly mouthwatering.  The fresh,warm homemade pita bread was light and fluffy, the meatballs were juicy, incredibly flavoursome and perfectly cooked and the salad was teeming with fresh herbs and spices. Unlike most pitas, with heavy slices of meat or deep fried felafels and overpowering garlic sauce that stays with you for 24 hours and limits all form of pleasant social interaction, at Miznon the pita’s are light and fresh and the sauce subtle.

It was hands down the best pita I have ever eaten.

Kipfler Sutherland claimed his rather Frenchified boeuf bourguinon pita was deliciously flavoured, although he ended up with beef sauce all over his new chinos, while Gwyneth Poultry’s mince-stuffed braised cabbage leaf pita was apparently divine.

The portions are very generous (apparently they do half serves) and by the time we were done with our pitas our jeans were literally bursting at the seams. However we battled on – the side of ratatouille with preserved carrots and a sprinkling of hard boiled egg was absolutely delicious, and had a beautifully sweet, caramelised flavour, and the whole head of roasted cauliflower was a simple, rustic addition and a definite must-order.

We emerged from Miznon and continued our consumption with a cold filter coffee at Fondation, swiftly followed by a spritz or two at La Perle, which inevitably led to glorious deep fried chicken and wine at Verjus Bar à Vin, and ended at 3am with Cucumber Fumant’s and a very spontaneous dancing session at Le Ballroom du Beef Club with Jude Slaw and Grease Witherspoon.

And so it was that in one fell(afel) swoop the detox was a distant memory and I was back to my greedy old self – what a pita indeed.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

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

Since arriving in France, I have come to discover that this statement contains about as much truth as George W. Bush’s unforgettable “the French have no word for entrepreneur.”  Not only is the word ‘impossible’ actually etymologically French, but moreover it appears to be one of the most bandied-about words in the whole French language.  Anything that does not suit a French person at any given time is, in fact, ‘impossible’.

Having my new kitchen aid delivered to my door: ‘impossible’. Getting a lift to Gare du Nord from the free taxi driver waiting at the taxi rank: ‘impossible’. Ordering a turkey from the butcher: ‘impossible’. Reserving a forward-facing seat on the Eurostar: ‘impossible’.

It is not surprising then that every time I have called exceedingly popular Pigalle bistro Le Pantruche over the last 18 months to make a reservation the response has been ‘impossible’.  But I am not one to take ‘no’ for an answer, and so after 45 desperate calls, I finally found myself squeezed onto a corner table at 9.30pm on a chilly Tuesday night in November with the stalwart Dolly Tatin, the globetrotter Nicolas Sage and the effervescent cheese lover Fontina Turner.

Having already polished off one too many mulled wines at the Champs-Élysées Christmas markets before arriving, we asked the very charming waiter to pick us a lighter bottle of red. He came back with a non-descript pinot which he described as “an easy red to be drunk on the balcony in the sun with old friends”. And so four newish friends, on a freezing cold night in the corner of a packed, dimly lit Parisian bistro, tucked into the bottle whilst perusing the chalk-scrawled blackboard.

For entrée, Dolly Tatin and Nicolas Sage chose the pumpkin soup with fresh goats cheese and pine nuts. The very well-built Nicolas Sage looked completely depleted when all that came out on his plate was a tiny dollop of cheese and a scaly looking piece of greenery, but he quickly perked up when the piping hot, sweet, fresh pumpkin soup was poured over the top.  The soup was totally scrumptious – hearty, homely and mopped up in a flash with warm, crusty, country bread.

Fontina Turner and I went for the parmesan risotto with lemon confit and cockles from Brittany which was much more pleasing on the palate than the eye (this non-waning foam trend does wonders for making dishes look regurgitated). The risotto was cooked to al dente perfection, the confit lemon was present but not overpowering and the paprika peppered foam added a little je ne sais quoi to this delicious entrée. My only complaint is that I was left wanting much more.

The cider braised veal cheek that Dolly Tatin and Nicolas Sage picked for mains was melt-in-your-mouth tender, and married perfectly with it’s buttery mound of green cabbage. Fontina Turner and I went for the herb confit pork belly, onions, chips and devil sauce (better the devil sauce you know than the devil sauce you don’t, I say). It was the ideal comfort food for a cold winter’s night.

For desserts Nicolas Sage ordered a perfect looking Grand Marnier souffle, which screamed 80’s dinner party, but tasted lovely, and Fontina Turner, true to her name, went for the standard looking French cheese plate. I ordered the poached pear with chestnut ice-cream and a chestnut and whisky sauce. Although I love a good tipple every (night) now and then, I am not generally fond of alcohol in desserts – I like to keep my vices separate.  But this dish was truly sublime: I guess whisky and chestnuts make the perfect pear.

It is fair to say that Le Pantruche has become my new favourite bistro. Maybe next time I’ll even get a non-corner seat at a reasonable hour on a reasonable night.  Hey, in Paris anything’s possible…

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Sienna Millet: So where are we actually going for lunch?

Paris Stilton: The Attendant, it’s an old abandoned male public toilet that’s been converted into a cafe.

Sienna Millet: OMG that is disgusting, are you serious? Is it clean? I bet it’s a total dump.

Paris Stilton: hahahaha dump, get it, hahahahha.

Sienna Millet: I actually can’t believe you’re taking me to a toilet.  I’m really pissed off.

Paris Stilton: hahahaha pissed off hahaha.

Sienna Millet: No seriously, can’t we go somewhere nice instead?

Paris Stilton: you mean “in lieu” hahahahaha.

And that is how one fuming Sienna Millet and one highly amused Paris Stilton became the ladies who lunch…in the mens.

The Attendant was built as a public urinal in 1890 and left abandoned for more than 50 years after it was shut down in the 1960s. Earlier this year, after a serious revamp, and an even more serious sanitisation, the space opened its doors to the public once again.  The beautifully ornate iron lace entrance has been left intact, as have the original porcelain urinals which have been turned into individual eating spaces – but luckily these days the only thing flowing in this well-lit den off Foley Street is some seriously good coffee.

The fare is fit for an English country picnic – a trendy, organic, fair trade, sustainable country picnic – complete with hearty soups, stews, and cheese and pickle, and corned beef filled sourdough sandwiches.

While Sienna chowed down a deliciously homely chili con carne-esque bean stew, and I ploughed through my very tasty ploughmans sandwich with its fat chunks of smokey vintage cheddar, generously spread with a nostalgic piccalilli and topped with some young greens leaves, I decided I love this place.

I love it because of its honesty, I love it because of its moreish food, I love it because of the handsome clientele and the effusive staff, and I love it because I love history and while I eat my moreish food and smile at the handsome clientele, I thoroughly enjoy imagining the impressive tackles, and ancient sword fights that took place where my Nike Air Max 90 now dangle.

Incidentally, the slightly salty, chewy sweet chocolate caramel brownie by Bittersweet Bakers, that I had to accompany my macchiato (fair trade and sustainable coffee with organic milk from a tiny farm in Somerset where the cows are happy) was unequivocally the best I have ever eaten.

Quirky setting, delicious food, great coffee, mouthwatering brownies, and the endless puns. Who knew lunching in little boys room could be so much fun?  If I lived in London, I would most definitely be a regular. Wink wink nudge nudge.

Just don’t go if you really do need to go… ironically, they have no toilet.

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

Anyway, on the tail-end of a rather large soirée a few weeks back, we decided it was time to spice things up and try out the much-loved, cheap and cheerful Left Bank restaurant/epicerie Mexi&Co.

But boy was that a mistake – it turned out to be a total ‘what the fork.’

It had so much potential – what with it’s kaleidoscopic colour scheme, shelves of jarred Mexican goods, and a Sol Cerveza chandelier hanging from the ceiling.  But if they had me at hola, they had certainly lost me by guacomole – that watery, tasteless green mush with not an iota of spice, whacked down on the table by a very unpleasant waitress whose day we seemed to have disrupted simply by arriving.  They certainly got the mole part right, but that’s about it.

Next up was the burrito, which I can only imagine came straight from an Old El Paso burrito kit that was missing the spice sachets – a fat, luke warm rolled package of bland minced meat with a twirl of thin sour cream resting on top.

But the pièce de résistance  – and by that I mean the piece of the meal I most wish I had resisted – were the nachos. Soggy microwaved corn chips, drowning in SWISS cheese.

The French love cheese. That is a truism – like ‘the sun will rise’, ‘opposites attract’, or if you’re Steven Bradbury, ‘slow and steady wins the race’.  And yet sometimes they just get it so wrong. Philadelphia cheese in sushi, for example, is not ok. Beef and gouda skewers are, similarly, not ok. And piles of gruyère semi-melted on a stack of nachos are most definitely not ok.  Ever.

It was like a lucid cheese nightmare.

Mexi&Co; much more than an ampersand away from the real deal.

xoxo

Penelope Booze

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

And then all of a sudden the heat came and Paris went into meltdown (actually quite literally, there was a veritable cheese melt at my local supermarket when the cheese fridge broke down due to over-heating). France simply can’t take the heat – the heatwave of 2003, during which the average temperature was 30°C, actually killed 15,000 people. There was even an ad campaign reminding people to ‘check on your granny this summer.’  To an Australian that seems utterly ridiculous but I can assure you, in Paris 25°C is the new 40°C. My weekly home yoga sessions have turned accidentally into bikram, my plants have all died,  I have been going to bed with wet towelettes covering my body and I actually shed a few tears after lugging my shopping down my street and up my stairs in the scorching midday heat.

But enough of that, lets get onto some dining with our whining. It was on a sweltering Parisian night that I made my way over to L’Ourcine, a quaint, much talked about bistro in the 13th to meet the infamous Dolly Tatin, and gorgeous couple Jean-Claude Van Ham and Almond Schwarzenegger. I was as sticky as a bottle of port but that didn’t cull my appetite, and I had heard only good things about the Basque fare at this rather hidden and very rustic downtown haunt.

For an amuse bouche we quickly downed a delicious little verrine of extra tasty celeriac emulsion, while laughing about Jean-Claude Van Ham and Almond Schwarzenegger’s dinner the previous night at Restaurant Pierre Sang.  It was there that I had one of my favourite dinners since my time in Paris, but unfortunately for Almond Schwarzenegger the guessing game concept that the restaurant adheres to wasn’t so fun with a severe seafood allergy, and a stubborn waiter who wanted him to guess the name of the pink slither on his plate which bore a striking resemblance to tuna (it was tuna).

Here thankfully there was no guessing game, just the imminent threat of a bad translation (I learned the hard way that rognon de veau does not mean veal cutlet and ris de veau does not mean veal with rice).

The poached chicken ravioli with an emulsion of chanterelles and tarragon (ravioles de poule pochée à l’émulsion de girolles et estragon) that Almond Schwarzenegger and I chose for entree was totally divine. Perfectly seasoned, light but creamy and served with tiny hidden croutons that gave an unexpected but welcoming crunch.  Dolly Tatin’s cold watercress soup was apparently absolutely delicious, although I am personally slightly wary of cold soups.  Jean-Claude Van Ham was a tad sad about his foie gras, and decided he should have gone with the ravioli.

Il était une foie a boy with food envy.

For mains I had the perfect rump steak. It was pink, tender and topped with a subtle gremolata, a roasted garlic clove, a random but appreciated piece of capsicum and a light jus. The rest went for the popular slow cooked beef cheek in a tomato (noix de joue de boeuf braisée au vin rouge, servie dans sa tomate facon l’Ourcine). The jack-in-the-box looking tomato felt like a flashback to a  70’s meal I never had, but boy was it good.

The meal was washed down with a bottle of very drinkable pinot noir (the less watery out of the two ‘watery wines’ the waiter suggested – lost in translation?) and topped off with a lot of laughs with the very animated waitress.

For desserts the chocolate ganache with praline crunch was the clear winner, although Jean-Claude Van Ham’s crunchy bonbons with confit fennel, sweet spices and a sorbet of fromage blanc was a very tasty, albeit bizarre, option.

All in all, a fabulous night was had by all – great company and delicious food in a charmingly rustic french setting.

So if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen…and go to L’Ourcine. I cant guarantee you it will be any cooler, but you’ll be tremendously happy nonetheless.

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

Or at least it used to be…when it was on the menu. After an hour and a half of waiting we were finally squished into a minuscule corner table, and, thinking I was so French, I ordered two coquelets without even looking at the menu.  “Non, eet eez nut the sayson (seasonal chickens, who knew?) – zer are no more mini cheekens” answered the waitress in that nonchalant ‘you’re-wasting-my-time-why-are-you-at-my-restaurant’ manner the French have down to a fine art, “I soogest ze feesh pie”.

UTTER DEVASTATION…and a rather enduring glare from Yummy Mummy.

Nevertheless when faced with an obstacle one must step up and find a solution, and I took on the challenge wholeheartedly.  So after relentless hours spent trawling the Paris bistros for a good coq (I couldn’t help myself), I think I have finally found one that comes close to in quality to Cambedorbe’s coquelet.

I stumbled upon L’AOC (AOC stands for Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée and denotes a food product that is produced within strict geographical limits and abides to strict regulations), a warm and inviting family bistro in the Latin Quarter, one hungover Saturday when my cousin, lets call him Clint Feastwood, was in town. With its red checkered tablecloths, faded yellow wood panelled walls and the deliciously homely smells of buttery onions that permeate the room, L’AOC makes you feel like you are round at Granny’s for a Sunday lunch.  And judging by the very adorable google-translated spiel on their website, this is exactly what L’AOC intended: “[t]he success of the establishment is not due to fate.  With such warmth, the restaurant plays with our childhood memories, our grandmother’s polished sideboards where starters and desserts of the Sunday meal would lay, along with bric-a-brac objects..”

Yep this is my sort of place.

For starters Clint Feastwood tucked into the bone marrow roasted in fleur de sel spread upon little garlic rubbed toasts (os à moelle rôtis à fleur de sel, pain Poujauran frotté à l’ail) which was, apparently, utterly delicious.  So much so that when I told him I was writing my review he became very concerned that I would not do the marrow justice, “make sure you reiterate just how good it was – I’m talking euphoric marrow induced daze amazing”.

Couldn’t get much better than that.

Not wanting to be outdone in the gourmande stakes, I confidently ordered the pigs feet croquettes (croquette de pied de porc panée) served on a little wooden pig cutting board.

“Oh my gawd” squealed my herbivorous health writing sister Sienna Millet when I told her I ate breaded, fried pigs feet for lunch, “what part of the foot? Like the toe? Or the heel? Or the achilles? What has France done to you!!” But us French know very well that tout est bon dans le cochon (everything is good in the pig).  And indeed it was.

These succulent, gelatinous little fried pigs feet croquettes with a delicious herb mayonnaise went down like a treat.

The proof of the pudding…

For the mains, I, obviously, ordered the spit roast chicken while Clint Feastwood, true to his name, ordered the plate of spit roast everything – suckling pig, IBAÏONA pork loin and chicken – both with their sides of crispy sauteed potatoes.

There is a certain stigma associated with ordering chicken at a restaurant – one of those unspoken rules that goes along with not ordering fish on Mondays, or spaghetti carbonara…ever.  But on this I disagree.  On a lazy day is there anything better than enjoying a glass of red while someone else cooks you a nicely roasted chicken?  And L’AOC’s chicken is exactly that – tender juicy meat doused in a succulent jus with little crunchy parsley spotted potatoes.  It was divine.  And to prove that it is consistently divine, it was still divine when I went back and ordered the same dish two days later.

It may not be quite Le Comptoir’s whole baby mustard wrapped coquelet, but this chook is certainly up there in the pecking order.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Le Baratin (which oddly means ‘sales pitch’ or ‘sweet talk’), a little bistro hidden in amongst the labyrinth of Belleville, at a time was a secret between chefs and foodies alone – a haven where (as rumour has it) local chefs dine in their off time.  Since being published in Le Guide Michelin, amongst others, the restaurant has become a trendy destination for travellers, and (as it were) annoying food bloggers, however power duo Argentinean born chef Raquel Carena and her partner and resident wine connoisseur Philipp Pinoteu, have not let popularity get in the way of quality. This is a Paris institution for a reason.

On arriving at Le Baratin, rather fashionably late, I found a jolly Leon Troutsky sipping wine and joking with his comrades…and a cat in my chair. And like the cat who had got the cream for the last 20 years in this bistro he was very content and in no hurry to be moved. I loved this place already.

The menu is small but sufficient, in fact you want everything on it, and everything on it is worth getting. Nevertheless as we had managed to squeeze a reservation at the last minute we were pressed for time, so reluctantly went straight to mains.

I ordered the cannette (baby duck…which I guess is called a duckling, but for the sake of my conscience lets not go there) cooked two ways – magret et confit.  I always hesitate between the magret de canard (duck breast lightly grilled and served pink) and the confit de canard (duck thigh fillet pickled in salt for 24 hours, cooked slowly in casserole of duck fat and browned in a pan) so needless to say my inner gemini could not have been happier to have both on my plate at the same time. Served with a light jus and accompanied by perfectly crunchy buttery sauteed potatoes and crisp green asparagus tips, there was certainly nothing ugly about this little duckling.

For Leon Troutsky it was the slow cooked joue de boeuf (beef cheek) served atop a little vegetable garden of sauteed potatoes, carrots, radishes and fresh peas. This cheeky morsel was melt-in-the-mouth amazing. Tender and juicy on the inside with a sweet caramelised coat, the meat fell apart as your fork sunk in (as mine did numerous times).

For deserts I could not go past the chocolate fondant.  Typically this desert comprises a biscuit exterior encasing an oozing flow of warm melted chocolate. However the wonderful Raquel had done away with the biscuit, and instead had managed to capture the molten middle of flowing chocolate lava in a decadent square on my plate.

Leon Troutsky went for the chocolate mousse, which was as creamy and light as a good chocolate mousse should be, but it was no match for the fabulous fondant.

The fare is not inventive as some have suggested but it is good; very, very good. The atmosphere is warm and inviting, albeit loud, the wine list is well thought out and the food makes you go mmmmmmm.

What’s more, the €15 three course fixed price menu offered at lunch is nigh unbeatable.

Without wanting to sound like a true baratin…you really ought to go.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

However when I went to pick Sienna up from Gare du Nord during her most recent trip to Paris she had a naughty twinkle in her eye, “I might even eat dairy” she said, with excitement in her voice… “as long as it is unpasteurised and organic, that is.”

Our first night out on the town, Brad Pitta suggested we try a local favourite of his, Le Moustache, for dinner and managed to persuade the owners to squeeze us in to the very full restaurant with the promise that we would be out before the next table arrived at 9.30pm.

It didn’t take us long to discover why this cosy little left bank establishment is so popular among the Parisians.  As soon as you enter Le Moustache, with its stripped brick feature wall, red felt laden chairs, and dimly lit, warm wood-clad interior, you immediately feel at home.  The staff are attentive and friendly, the atmosphere is convivial and inviting yet still smart, and the food, most importantly, is absolutely divine.

For starters we ordered the squid and tiger shrimp on zucchini carpaccio (calamars et crevettes tigre sur carpaccio de courgettes).  The impossibly tender, barely-cooked calamari and shrimp atop a bed of delicately spicy marinated raw zucchini was truly delicious.  The rather garish red plates and nonchalant plating didn’t do the meal justice, but the flavours were fresh and simple and very well matched.

For mains the seared filet of Chateaubriand beef with tamarind sauce (lames de filet de bœuf façon lacrima) was unsurpassable. The meat was cooked (or in this case rather uncooked) to perfection; the tamarind sauce was sweet, spicy and refreshing and the bowl of wok sauteed vegetables and rice on the side was an apt, albeit quite un-French, accompaniment.  It was, quite possibly, one of the tastiest steaks I have ever eaten.

As we were bouff-ing our bouef , the chef took his time (having mastered the art of  creating a perfect dish without particularly cooking anything he had some time up his sleeve), to pop up into the dining room and do the rounds of each table to check that everything was ok.  It was very much more than ok, it was utterly ambrosial.

Having polished off the better part of bottle of bubbly, by this point Sienna and I were having a grand old time.  That is, until she went and put her head into a shot I was trying to take of the very generously filled champagne glass. Anyone who knows me well enough will know that I have a rather strange sense of humour, and am very susceptible to extreme cases of uncontrollable, long-lasting laughing fits…which is exactly what happened when I saw Sienna Millet’s face encapsulated in my champagne glass.

So hard was I laughing that tears began streaming down my cheeks, carrying with them half a bottle of of non-waterproof mascara. Within the space of 30 seconds, I had mascara literally all over my face; not just post-late night panda eyes – my face was entirely black, like  zoolander-just-emerging-from-the mines.

Ten minutes later, when the couple whose table we had stolen arrived, the highly inappropriate laughing fit was still continuing, and the usually pristinely white napkin and tablecoth had too fallen victim to the mascara massacre.  “Oh la la, oo is at our tuble? Why eez it ull black?” I could hear them sneering.

With nothing more than a friendly, you’ve-been-a-naughty-girl sort of glare in my direction by the waitress, the couple were ushered off to a makeshift table and Sienna and I were left to indulge in a velvety Valrhona chocolate mousse and a digestif.

It appeared the laughing fit was just a precursor for the way the rest of the night was to pan out. After a rather eventful night packed with black russian vodka shots, a rowdy 80’s inspired Kong dance-floor and a ‘misplaced’ blackberry, the next morning I woke up to find Sienna still fully clothed (heels and all) in corpse position on my bed.  “Wake up Sienna, you fell asleep in your jeans” I gently prodded…

“What??!! Did you say I reek of cheese?? Oh my god it must have been a big night.”

Le Moustache…a great night to be had by all.

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

So in the spirit of clichés, it was about time I dined at a good old fashioned bistro. And with my food and wine obsessed friend, lets call him Foodie Dostoevsky, coming to Paris this weekend for his birthday, it was the perfect opportunity.  First stop on his list was lunch at Chez L’ami Jean, a Basque bistro headed by chef Stéphane Jégo, who spent twelve years working beside Yves Camdeborde at La Régalade before opening Chez L’ami Jean in 2003.

Stepping inside the rustic, wooden clad, vintage memorabilia adorned room on a small street in the 7th with glimpses of the Eiffel Tower, you immediately smile; it is loud and crowded, the servings are enormous, the male waiters are half gruff and half flirtatious, the food is simple, yet incredibly fresh and exceptionally tasty, and the wine and conversation flow with ease.  It is just what you want from a French bistro.

There are three menus, the cours du jours, an old fashioned handwritten market list of sorts which is updated every day with a variety of the freshest, most seasonal produce, a prix fixe chefs menu which changes regularly, and another menu with a variety of permanent dishes.

For starters we felt we couldn’t go past the tradtional charcuterie en panier, which consisted of a massive basket of assorted saucisson, a massive bowl of cornichons and to-die-for pickled mushrooms, a massive slab of terrine that was quite possibly the best terrine I have ever eaten, a never-ending basket of warm homemade bread and a normal sized plate of jamón that we wished was massive. Definitely worth getting if you have three or four carnivorous companions.

For mains I ordered the langoustines ‘vivant’ en vapeur tout simplement (‘live’ scampi simply steamed).  The scampi were about as cooked as a carpaccio and it may have been questionable whether they were in fact still ‘vivant’ but lets not digress, these scampi were incredible. The flavours were subtle yet distinct and the texture was as tender as scallop sashimi. The freshness (if Chez L’ami Jean’s Facebook status update is anything to go by, the scampi had been caught that morning by chaps called David and Thomas) and flavours would have been camouflaged by anything more than a simple steam.

To finish, we had no choice but to order the legendary riz au lait (rice pudding). People come from far and wide just to taste Jégo’s riz au lait.  Personally I have always been distrustful of this dish, it seemed like one of those token porridge-like deserts that gluten intolerant people order when they actually want the chocolate fondant. But goodness how wrong I was. The riz au lait came in a large white porcelain bowl with a big wooden spoon stuck in the middle, and surrounded by tasty treats, like salted caramel butter, honey toasted granola and little crumbly macarons to tip on top. It was creamy yet crunchy, soft without being stodgy, sweet yet salty; a million different taste sensations all at once, and all amazing. But really, words do not do it justice.

As we were reflecting on our riz au lait over a petit café, Jégo, who had been cooking up a storm with his team in the open kitchen throughout the meal, came over to our table to say hello, shake our hands and check that everything was ok with the meal.  Chez L’ami Jean certainly lives up to its name; as you happily trot out the door, you feel like you have indeed made a new friend. And this is one friend that I plan on seeing a lot of over the next four months.

Chez L’ami Jean was only the first of many French bistros we dined at over the course of the weekend, but definitely the most memorable (not just due to excessive alcohol consumption).  Foodie Dostoyesvksy, not wanting to waste a moment of his limited time, booked 5 restaurants and 7 wine bars for 10 people in the space of  72 hours. I feared it was going to be like La Grande Bouffe without the orgy and we would all wind up dead from gluttony on Sunday. But here I am, about as alive as a langoustine at Chez L’ami Jean, and definitely more in touch with my chenin side.

As Julia Child said, ‘everything in moderation, including moderation.’

xoxo

Paris Stilton