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

So when Bruce String-bean and his partner Helen Mirin came to town, Restaurant Il Vino – Enrico Bernado’s Michelin star restaurant where wine comes first – was an obvious choice. Upon arrival at the very chic little right bank dwelling (where Brad purportedly took Angelina for her 38th birthday dinner), we were greeted by Enrico Bernado himself, the charming, and very humble owner (and youngest-ever winner of the Worlds Best Sommelier award). Wine is the protagonist at Il Vino and everything, from the waitstaff (who are all world class sommeliers), to the menu (from which food is distinctly absent), to the interior design (which is based on earthy terroir tones) is decidedly oeno-centric.

In a rather novel concept, there is no choice of food whatsoever, you simply choose the wine and the chefs bring food to match. The degustation menu consisted of three options; Sur les Routes du Monde – (wines from the world) 75 euros, Sur les Routes de France et Italie – (wines from France and Italy) 95 euros, and Supplement Grands Crus – (optional addition of Grands Crus wines) 35 euros, from which we chose the latter.

And so the wine flight began….with a delicious glass of Bruno Roulot a La Chapelle-Monthodon champagne served with homemade seaweed crisps and parmesan straws.  A lovely plump ball of burrata sitting on an incredibly flavoursome tomato gelée dotted with what appeared to be anchovy stuffed blueberries (or it could have been something else entirely) followed suite –  making a perfect marriage with the crisp, nosey and interestingly mineral Vermentino 2013 Bolgheri . 

Sticking with the Vermentino,  next up was a very tender and oddly tasty square of marinated salmon covered in shredded coconut –  basically a salmon lamington –  and a tad too-chewy pastry puff filled with a divinely unctuous parmesan cream.

Continuing dad’s much-loved tradition of wine guessing, for the next leg of the flight the sommelier gave us a black wine glass and made us guess the contents.  Despite tasting undeniably like a red, I, thinking there must be a trick, guessed it was one of those orange wines that seem to be making cameos in trendy Parisian wine bars of late. I was completely and utterly (and embarrassingly) off the mark. Papa Bruce String-bean was, of course, right on the money with his guess of a Nero D’Avola. It was indeed a very full bodied glass of rich Il Passo Nerello Mascalese which was served, surprisingly with a fish course – a most toothsome tuna tataki, with perfect seared edges, and a fuchsia pink middle, peppered with deliciously tangy fruits of the forest. This was hands down one of the best dishes of the night.

The peppery turbot that was served next, although delicious, left the spot-light on the entirely moreish glass of Les Heritiers du Comte Lafon from Burgundy. The beautifully complex biodynamic white produced by renowned French winemaker Dominique Lafon was one of my favourite wines of the evening.

Moving onto meats and big reds – up next was what could only be described as an (absolutely delicious) chicken sausage roll, which was lolling about in an intense (again, delicious) jus and served with a heavenly glass of 2004 Giorgio Pelissero Nubiola, Barbaresco DOCG, Italy – swiftly followed by showstopper 2004 Château Canon 1er Grand Cru Classé de Saint-Emilion with a sumptuous rack of lamb to match.

After our little tour of France and Italy, by the time the wine flight landed in Languedoc, I was excessively full, and demonstrably tipsy and when the enormous chunk of parmesan was carved out of the wheel and placed on my slate, as partner to the Chateau Daurion Syrah/Grenache 2011, I simply couldn’t fit it in.  And so, much to Helen Mirin’s horror, I wrapped up the cheese in a napkin and placed it in my bag for later.

No, it wasn’t very chic, but hey, que syrah syrah. 

A moreish little praline choux pastry and an endless parade of mignardises, matched with a Moscato D’Asti 2013, ended what was a fabulous, innovative and memorable experience. Bernado’s passion for wine is evident in every aspect of his restaurant, from his dedicated, friendly and knowledgable team, to his ridiculously stellar cellar.

After kissing Bruce String-bean and Helen Mirin bonne nuit, my night (somewhat inevitably) continued with a very late night boogie in Oberkampkf (red wine lips and sweating parmesan in tow) with Olivia-Crouton John and Kanye Wurst and ended (again somewhat inevitably) in me sending a series of unsolicited texts to my spring fling Peas Brosnan at 5am telling him that I was eating peanut butter with a spoon and missed him.

I guess you could say it was an old case of in (Il) Vino veritas.

Yours sancerrely

xoxo

Paris Stilton

While the French seem incapable of pronouncing an H at the beginning of any sentence in which it is necessarily required (help becomes “elp”, have morphs into “ave” and happy indubitably comes out as “appy”), they are oft inclined to add a forceful H at the beginning of words where it is not needed, creating their own hilarious conlang of vocab such as hupgrade, helephant and hunderstand (for the first 6 months at her new job, a friend of mine actually thought that her colleague was called Harthur – I kid you not).

And so it was that sister Sienna Millet, Yummy Mummy and I found ourselves squeezed onto a mezzanine table at Restaurant Pirouette, chortling at the very dashing young waiter’s statement “I sink you should ave ze hegg”. The hegg in question was a perfect coddled egg, served with haddock, cauliflower and croutons. And golly gosh was it good.

Tucked away behind a monstrous car park and a concrete jungle of renovations that is currently Les Halles, Pirouette – with its large, open, steel-clad glass windows, Scandi style wood furnishings and charismatic staff – brings a ray of distinction to an otherwise fairly charmless corner of Paris.  Chef Tomy Gousset (formerly of Daniel in New York and Le Meurice, amongst others, in Paris) whips up consistently fresh, seasonal, and ever evolving dishes on an extremely well priced prix-fixe menu. At lunch the restaurant offers an 18€ 3 course menu, as well as à la carte options and at night there is a 40€ 3 course menu or a 60€ 6 course chef’s surprise menu.

Still giggling at the very endearingly translated ‘dolphin potatoes’ (pommes dauphinoises) we popped open our bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape to celebrate Sienna Millet’s birthday and got started on our little amuse bouche of shortbread biscuits with wasabi paste and herring eggs and coffee cream topped prosciutto slices – which were both as tasty as they were innovative.

For entree, Sienna Millet’s cured trout (truite bio, citrons et oignons confite, noisettes) was a bit trite, while Yummy Mummy’s perfect egg was slightly less than perfect, but wonderful nonetheless.

However my gnocchi with morels (gnocchi, morilles, sauce vin jaune) was, quite honestly, one of the best pasta dishes I have had since moving to France. I have such a deep fondness for French mushrooms – the succulent chanterelles, the tempting trompettes de mort, the sumptuous cepes, and best of all, those magical, moreish morels. The beautifully fresh (not vaguely floury) gnocchi was snuggled amongst whole morels piped with an intensely flavoursome jus, and finished with young fresh sprouted green leaves, a trace of pureed spinach and a light yellow wine sauce. It was pure, mouthwatering, indulgence.

Everyone had food envy – the best kind of morel dilemma.

For mains Sienna Millet and Yummy Mummy went for the beautifully executed slow cooked lamb shoulder (epaule d’agneau, oignon, darphin, piment) which was topped with incredibly sweet seared baby onions encasing a deeply aromatic jus with a gourmet hashbrown potato cake as accompaniment. Needless to say they both licked their plates clean.

I went for the duck (canard, asperges, kum kwat, porc) – a perfectly pink, jus coated specimen covered in tiny, slightly bitter confit cumquats with a delicious stem of fresh asparagus and tiny peppering of croutons to give it a bit of crunch. I believe there was also some pork in there…somewhere.  A delicately presented dish with subtle, yet interesting flavour and texture combinations – I was one very happy little duckling indeed.

Approaching dessert time, I managed to sneakily get the waiters to cover Sienna Millets (food-envy engendering) rice pudding (topped with salted caramel butter, crushed macarons and honey coated granola) in toppling candles and the whole restaurant erupted in cheerful stanzas of ‘joyeux anniversaire’ while Sienna Millet, Yummy Mummy and I bathed in a wine induced merriness.

For desserts I went for the melting meringue with mango, passionfruit, peanuts and coconut (meringue fondante, mague/passion, coco, cacahuettes) which was, for all intents and purposes, a fabulous rendition of my least favourite dessert the infamous île flottante.

All in all it was a fabulous night, replete with delicious food, beautiful wine and unbeatable company.  The space is light, open, polished, warm and welcoming, and the food unpretentious, seasonal and decidedly (and indeed consistently) moreish.

Pirouette – a good hegg.

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

But they really are fighting an uphill battle. For there is nothing cooler for a French youth than dropping a YOLO mid-sentence, or doing something pour le fun, or parce que c’est cool, or even, for that matter, using l’internet, or having a weekend, or dating a model, or eating a sandwich or stationing their moped in le parking (all oft-employed English words L’Académie française has previously tried to ban). My all time favourite Anglicism, however, has got to be ‘too much’ – most often used in the phrase, ‘c‘est too much quoi‘ (with quoi being something akin to innit).

‘C’est too much, quoi‘ is what first sprung to mind as I contemplated the tepid cockle bouillon that was poured into my soiled ceramic bowl mid-way through the degustation at David Toutain’s eponymous restaurant last week.

But let us start at the beginning…

It was on a drizzling Tuesday night that I arrived at David’s new abode – tucked away in a quiet corner of the 7th – with old friend Danny DoRito on my arm, and anticipation in the air.  Having indulged in two exceptional and highly memorable meals at Toutain’s previous establishment L’Agapé Substance (he has also worked with the likes of Alain Passard at Arpège, Andoni Luis Aduriz at Mugaritz, and Paul Liebrandt at Corton), I had been eagerly awaiting the opening of his much-hyped new venture.

At night the restaurant offers three different tasting menus, the Polypode (68€, or 118€ with matching wines), the Reine des Prés (98€ or 158€ with matching wines) and the Menu Truffe (a truffle based menu at 158€ or 210€ with matching wines)  – all being ‘surprise’ carte blanche degustations, in addition to a 42€ lunch time menu. Being both incredibly indecisive, Danny DoRito and I chose to go with the ‘safe’ middle Reine des Prés option, along with with a beautiful bottle of organic Saumur-Champigny red.

The meal started with an amuse-bouche of roasted rainbow garden carrots, to be dipped into an unctuous, and intensely moreish, herb-capped mountain of white chocolate cream, which was swiftly followed by a (charmingly translated) ‘interior of crab head wafer with avocado points’ – an exceptionally tasty little up-market neo prawn cracker.

As we savoured our deliciously sweet, and rather rustic caramelised onion brioche with burnt butter cream, served in a delightfully provincial hay-filled cast iron dish – the intimate, light filled, Scandinavian-feel mezzanine dining room quickly filled up with a well-heeled, exclusively French, patronage who all seemed to know Toutain on a double-bises basis.

Next up was a palate-cleansing bowl of cockles, razor clams and icy cold fennel powder. The dish was interesting, although the intense chill of the fennel ‘sorbet’ detracted somewhat from the subtle flavours of the shellfish . But just when we thought we were done, a waitress arrived with a teapot and filled our dirty bowls with the lukewarm stock that the seafood had been prepared in. Had the stock been hot, it would have been mildly unpleasant, but this tepid fishy bouillon was, quite honestly, inedible. Danny DoRito looked green.  And yet everyone else seemed to be relishing it. Perhaps, I thought, it is like Tracey Emin’s £150,000 unmade bed, perhaps it is the Malevich’s white on white of molecular gastronomy – perhaps I just didn’t get it. Either way, I didn’t like it. And the experience was only made worse by the waitress’s irrefutably appalled face as she took away our still full bowls.

The dishes that followed were much more appealing , if not extraordinary – a single oyster veiled in an intensely acidic yet sweet yuzu kiwi dressing, a slither of tender mackerel bathing in a robust potato skin bouillon with seared chargrilled baby broccoli, an almost translucent parmesan water ‘gnocchi’ in a soy milk based, parmesan sauce, and a lightly seared scallop with perfectly crunchy caramelised onions and a herb jus.

The cuttlefish – beautifully paired with a smattering of yuba (bean curd) and incredibly sweet mini leeks – was delicious, although bordering on slightly  too generous in size.

In a similar vein to Passard, I had expected Toutain’s cooking to be heavily legume based, but our meal thus far had almost been a mollusc monologue. And so joy of joys when a ridiculously tender, juicy, coffee infused piece of pork, which had been encased in a salt pastry was brought to our table.  Served with orange inebriated pumpkin squares and a pumpkin puree, this course was immensely sublime – as Danny DoRito mused, ‘Dad’s Sunday pork roast will simply never be the same again.’

After a rustic wooden board replete with mountainous slivers of deliciously grainy vieux comté, came a little pot of coconut, cauliflower and white chocolate cream. Normally I am not a huge cauliflower enthusiast (unless it is submerged under avalanches of cheesy béchamel) but I have to say that even though the cauliflower was demonstrably present, this was a shockingly divine merger.

However what I was really holding out for was that haute-couture ferrero rocher ball I had spied at the next table. But (‘the horror, the horror’) as I forked into the spherical little dumpling, it turned out to be a chocolate coated jerusalem artichoke. It was innovative, I will give it that. And I can understand the appeal of marrying an earthy, almost nutty root with chocolate – but it simply wasn’t tasty.  It was a dud root, and I wanted it to be over.

The meal finished with a little confuse-bouche of chewy vanilla confit celery – original indeed, but I wasn’t exactly pleading for another. I do feel molecular gastronomy is like that though – more a science to be appreciated and admired, than a meal to be savoured. It is intriguing, at times awe-inspiring – but you often find yourself debating with your dinner companion over how dishes were conceived and produced, rather than reaching for crusty bread to mop up remnants of parmesan infused soy milk.

Nevertheless, on the whole, the food was magnificent; an intricate web of innovative tastes, creatively conceived, harmoniously married and exquisitely executed.

The verdict – if you’re looking for a unique dining experience in Paris, and molecular gastronomy is your cup of tea, then David Toutain is definitely worth trying – for the profoundly original fare, for the beautiful hand-made crockery, or just pour le fun, quoi.

Mot-dièseYOLO

xoxo

Paris Stilton

And so it is that I found myself out to dinner last Saturday at a wonderful new steak restaurant with my favourite queens Elton Scone, Anchovy Hopkins and Quinoa Reeves – as well as the darling Robert Brownie Jnr and fabulous new Australian exports Penne Zellweger and Jus Barrymore.

Set in what was once The London Tavern – an up-market singles club that turned into somewhat of an institution in the 70’s – the lavish 3-storey steak and whiskey bar Steaking is the latest hip haunt to grace Saint-Germain-des-Prés with its presence.

When our merry team arrived for our 8.30pm booking we were the only people in the restaurant, and with the muted grey tones, opulent chandeliers and shadowy serpentine staircases conjuring up scenes from Eyes Wide Shut, I momentarily feared it may have been the preferred purlieu of a more ‘swinging’ kind of crowd – but the parlour quickly filled up with carnivorous young Kooples and groups of dashing men donning three piece suits and indoor shoulder scarves.

The menu offers a world-wide contiki tour of steak ranging from Australian wagyu, to American black angus, to Austrian Simmental fillet and an array of quality cuts in between. Robert Brownie Jnr, Jus Barrymore, Penne Zellweger and I all went for the ridiculously tender Argentinian entrecôte with a side of deliciously caramelised bitter endive salad and a pot of potato mash to rival that of Robuchon. The meat was beautifully flavoured and cooked to rare perfection.  Anchovy Hopkins chose the unfortunately named, but wonderfully tasty ‘chuck flap’  black angus, while Quinoa Reeves happily tucked into his 28 day dry aged prime rib from Galice.

Over a bottle or two of Pinot, the conversation merrily flowed from filet mignons and mignon fillies to the psychology of Grindr and Tinder – Penne Zellweger and Elton Scone both agreed that Paris fashion week was doing wonders for ‘online suitor shopping’.

After sharing an unmemorable chocolate fondant and a piece of cheesecake paired with an exceptionally tasty raspberry and basil sorbet, we rolled up the stairs, past the second dining room to the 3rd floor whiskey and cigar bar and entered an otherworldly room of smoke and mirrors and braces and bow ties and taxidermic peacocks, where indoor smoking is entirely au fait and wincing at straight whisky is not.

Our friendly waiter and whiskey-master Joud was a wealth of knowledge about all things single and malty. He whipped the team up some hard hitting old fashioned’s, while Quinoa Reeves and I nursed our Nikka Pure Malt Black’s straight up (it seemed the appropriate thing to do whilst lounging on a dark leather couch under seductive crepuscular lighting).

Although I generally have a proclivity for more laissez-fare Paris institutions, if you’re on the hunt for a good steak you really can’t go past this little gem; the service was prompt and friendly, the setting is truly something to see, and the steak was nothing if not sensational.

Alas, if only finding a tender piece of meat in the metaphorical meat market was as simple as this.

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

I feel like it all started to go downhill one edaciously trashy soirée in April last year, during which Dolly Tatin and I polished off two bottles of Ruinart, a few glasses of rosé…and 12 éclairs. Yes you heard it, 12 éclairs. I had brought home a box of the freshly piped, chocolate covered, custard filled choux from school on Friday afternoon, and by Saturday morning there were all but a few crumbs left.

So appalled was I with our gluttony that I swore off éclairs for the rest of my existence – and for one year I was the poster girl for abstinence (sort of). Unfortunately, like Oscar Wilde, I have discovered that I too can resist everything but temptation.  And when punny pâtissier extraordinaire Christophe Adam went and opened L’Éclair de Génie (which means ‘stroke of genius’) down the street, temptation won out.

Yet these are not so much éclairs as they are works of art.  Ridiculously delicious works of art.  In fact, next time you’re in Paris, don’t fight the crowds to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, pop on down to L’Éclair de Génie and and tuck into Michelangelo’s ‘The Creation of Adam’ instead.  Believe me, it’s far more satisfying.

The flavours of the éclairs change seasonally – although some stalwarts, like the marscapone and salted caramel butter, thankfully stick around throughout the year.  From the beautiful magenta coloured Rouge Baiser, to the bounty-reminiscent Coco Chocolat, and the chocoholics Feuille D’Automne to the zesty Citron Yuzu – there is an éclair to suit every palate.

L’Éclair de Génie – a little stroke of genius, and a lifetime of temptation.

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

If you are going to indulge in the cliché (and you should), make sure you do it right.

And there truly is nothing more right than the perfectly nutty, crisp cornered salted caramel butter crêpe from Breizh Café.

I’m going to put it out there, this is the best crêpe in Paris, and I have spent my fair share of time inside the wood panelled walls of Breizh Café over the last 18 months to know.  Introduced by francophile and fellow foodie Edith Pilaf when I first moved over, I have taken every guest from Dolly Tartin to Burrata Obama and Linguine Lohan to this little Marais haunt, and tried almost every crêpe on the menu.

I even attempted a ‘diet salad crêpe’ there once during a particularly chubby few months last year that I affectionately refer to as ‘La Belly Epoque.’

Breizh means ‘Brittany or Bretagne’ in the Celtic language of Brittany, from where the owner Bertrand Larcher hails – and, from the unfathomably good Jean-Yves Bordier butter (it is the type of butter you eat with a side of bread) and the incredibly brut, artisanal selection of cider served in rustic clay pots, to the fresh, seasonal Cancale oysters, this crêperie pays homage to all things Breizh. Beautifully presented organic galettes (savoury crêpes made with buckwheat flour) filled with a host of quality ingredients, from the traditional – unpasteurized gruyère, farmers eggs, jambon cru, artichoke hearts – to the more adventurous – seared duck breast, tripe sausage, shitake mushrooms, salted cod, smoked herring and herring roe.

The influence of Lacher’s Japanese wife is also clear from the modern Japanese prints adorning the walls to the galettes with algae butter and wasabi salad dressing.

The Provencale – cider confit onions, tomato, ham, anchovies, cheese and a perfectly cooked sunny side up egg – is a definite crowd pleaser.  But nothing can beat the orgasmic home-made salted caramel butter crêpe topped with a dollop of vanilla ice-cream. Truly, it is mouthwateringly divine.

The slogan of Breizh Café, ‘La crêpe autrement‘ rings true – it is indeed the crêpe done differently.  And by different, I mean better.

A dozen freshly shucked Cancale oysters, a glass of artisanal cider and a salted caramel butter crêpe for an afternoon snack- what can I say, here in Paris life’s a Breizh.

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

Well, pretty much.

Half way through an exquisite dinner with my Dad, lets call him Papadum, at L’Auberge du Pont de Collonges (aka Restaurant Paul Bocuse) in Lyon, who should sit down at the table next to us but Paul Bocuse himself – the father of classic French cuisine,  Chevalier de la Légion d’Honneur, Meilleur Ouvrier de France, “Chef of the Century”, namesake of the prestigious culinary award La Bocuse D’Or and owner of the restaurant with the longest held three Michelin stars in history (48 years) – dining with three time three Michelin star holder Alain Ducasse.

I was, needless to say, star struck – I swooned, I tweeted, I instagrammed, and in one fell swoop, I broke at least 3 of the 10 signs that you’re a foodie douchebag. At one point Ducasse, assuming I could not speak French, even leaned over to Bocuse and chuckled, ‘haha I believe you have a huge fan in that American girl over there’. Oh dear.

So what were they discussing, in their hushed tête-à-tête as they tucked into their veal chop and kidneys à la bourgeoise? Rumour has it that, in the absence of interest from Bocuse’s chef son and pâtissière daughter, Ducasse is set to take over the reigns of the famous restaurant that has been in the Bocuse family since the 1700’s.

But enough of rumours – on to the food, which was as classic and saucy as a Mills and Boon novel. But who doesn’t love well developed characters, a comfortably predictable plot, delicious passion, and a happy ending? The meal was seamless from start to finish, the service impeccable, and the food, phenomenal.

After a deliciously cheesy gougère washed down with a glass of Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé and an amuse-bouche of the most incredible chilled tomato soup I have ever tasted, the first plate on the 6 course degustation Menu Bourgeois was the Maine Lobster Salad.  Splayed like a psychedelic swimming turtle over a mound of a Russian pea, carrot and potato salad, the lobster was exquisitely sweet and tender, not to mention generous in size.  Aside from the tasteless gelée tomato on its back, the dish was faultless.

For second course I chose the Turbot in Champagne Sauce, against the recommendation of the waiter who suggested the Red Mullet in Crispy Potato Scales which is a speciality of the restaurant. The dish was beautifully executed – the turbot was firm but came away in large buttery flakes, mopped up with confit leek and crispy puffed potatoes.  The champagne sauce, a favourite french classic of mine – which is made simply by reducing champagne over low heat, adding an egg yolk and cream and whipping frantically – was light, creamy and divine, with the perfect lingering tang of champagne.

Papadum ordered the Mullet with Crispy Potato Scales, another stalwart of French gastronomy, which again was exquisite in both taste and presentation.

After the rather punchy palate cleansing Beaujolais Sorbet, I opted for the Pigeon in Puff Pastry with Young Cabbage. There was a time when I was appalled at the thought of eating squab, but after a year of plucking, gutting, filleting and cooking this bird at Lenôtre, I have become quite partial to the odd pigeon. And this one – tender juicy pink meat, a flakey puff pastry shell and a divine girolle sauce – was truly superb.

The portions at Bocuse are nothing if not generous and by the time France’s Mr Bean wheeled out the ridiculously large cheese trolley, I was all but bursting my seams.  But I soldiered on – through a hard hitting roquefort, a creamy fresh chevre and a nicely aged comté to arrive at a moist, raspberry soaked chocolate cake heaven.

Paul Bocuse has received a fair share of criticism over the years for his staunchly traditional style of cuisine. It is true that the restaurant has been serving the same food since before man landed on the moon (seriously). It is true that the black doorman dressed in a comical bell boy’s outfit playing happy birthday on the organ grinder isn’t vaguely au fait. It is true that the food is more ‘airs and graces’ than airs and foams.  You wont find live crustaceans or beetroot smears to be washed down by a glass of Fanny Sarbre, you will find butter and chives and 1988 bottles of Chateau Haut Brion.

Paul is the cashmere twinset of the culinary world.  So what? Since when did ‘classic’ become a derogatory term? And, in a time when confit de canard is usually plucked straight from can, and steak haché is actually haché horse, we should be privileged that someone is still doing classic french cuisine with some dignity. 

From start to finish our meal was executed with meticulous precision and immense skill – honest, simple, and quintessentially French.

I for one, am a huge fan.

Paul Bocuse – the coeur de Lyon.

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

At the end of a rather long sejour in my hometown, Leonardo diCarpaccio and I decided to pop over to Sydney for a weekend of wining and dining with happy newlyweds Thyme Burton and Helena Bonham-Tartare,  and (aside from the shameful meal of frozen fish fingers and potentially off tomato sauce that we ate on arrival) the weekend was one of pure hedonism.

Photo: Porch Bread and Wine Parlour

We ruminated over the roast lamb shoulder at The Chiswick; we sweated over our generously spiced Pla Pad Cha at Spice I am; and each morning we could be found sipping our creamy flat whites, moseying from the moreish ‘veggie brekky’ breakfasts to prodigious ‘porch pie’ lunches at the ever charming Bondi institution Porch Bread & Wine Parlour.

Photo: Porch Bread and Wine Parlour

Then there was the time we went to Ruben Hills for a mid morning coffee and accidentally polished off the ‘Fried Chicken with chilli in a basket’, a ‘Dirty Bird burger’ and a ‘Baleada with pulled pimenton pork and chimol’ …oops.

But perhaps the most memorable moment of hedonism happened at Bodega – that très cool Argentinian tapas bar in Surry Hills run by Ben Milgate and Elvis Abrahanowicz, where we found ourselves happily ensconced between Thyme, Helena, and our favourite Sydney-siders, hot couple Halibut Berry and Olive Martinez.  The venue is colourful, loud and eclectic (not unlike the hyper-hip, ink-ed up, quiffed, braced, rock star team of waiters that bustled about, delivering mouthwatering treats and calling us lovelies) and the food is ingeniously divine.

From the tinned white anchovies with fish pate on water crackers to the chilli crab sauced, pickled up pork sausage wrapped in a lettuce leaf, there was nothing on the menu that wasn’t incredibly executed, and instantly devoured. The hiramasa fish fingers – those devilish morsels of raw kingfish hidden under a web of cuttlefish and mojama, served on crunchy charred toasts – were simply heavenly (a whole different kettle of fish from the aforementioned frozen fingers); the pork, octopus, cabbage and green apple salad with jalapeño dressing was a salad even I could make friends with; and the sweet mustard encased BBQ wagyu tri-tip, tasted decidedly like a whopper – which, lets be honest, is all you ever really want in a meal.

Picture: Rohan Kelly Source: The Sunday Telegraph

Then came the dessert, that unfathomably mouthwatering banana split. The banana parfait was velvety and unctuous, with a perfectly crunchy brûléed shell that demanded it be cracked with the back of a spoon, and the caramel was cooked to the precarious point of dark golden perfection, 10 seconds between a lacklustre sweetness and bitter burn.  It was truly magical.

We licked our spoons clean, finished off the bottle of Chacra Barda and with happy hearts and bursting jeans, we stumbled onto the streets of Surry Hills.  What a meal.

And then somehow, 5 hours later, after making a rather long cameo at at a slightly depressing fashion party full of people who most definitely didn’t accidentally eat fried chicken for breakfast, Leonardo diCarpaccio and I found ourselves romantically perched on a balcony overlooking the harbour…eating a whopper.

The weekend was indulgent, yes perhaps even excessive – a whole lot of YOLO. But boy was it worth it.

Abstinence certainly never made the heart grow fonder.

xoxo

Paris Stilton