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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Answer: The Mary Celeste. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo

Paris Stilton

So, six months later, I returned with fellow foodies and cooking school companions Katy Peri Peri, Salmon Hayek and Matt Jamón. We’d all read the rave reviews, seen the ‘best bistro ever’ claims amongst the TripAdvisor palaver, and we all felt confident Bistrot Paul Bert would deliver the goods this time.

With its tiled walls, unsteady wooden tables, churlish waiters and a warning scrawled on the quaint portable menu which reads “Les viandes rouges sont servies bleues, saignantes, ou mal cuites” (red meats will be served blue, bloody or badly cooked) – Bistrot Paul Bert screams quintessential French institution.  Upon entering you can almost guarantee that a harried waiter will serve you a perfectly undercooked steak and perfectly overcooked frites washed down with a perfectly light non-descript glass of Bordeaux rouge and you will leave perfectly content.  Or can you?

For entrée, Katy Peri Peri and Matt Jamón chose the rather delicious albeit very rich slow cooked truffled egg, Salmon Hayek tackled the incredibly bland squid, while I (why oh why?) pushed my over-crumbed, under-seasoned pigs feet croquettes around my plate.

A little defeeted by my poor choice of entrée, for mains I decided to go safe and share so-very-French-can’t-go-wrong blanquette de veau (veal stew) with Matt Jamón, while Katy Peri Peri and Salmon Hayek ordered the pigeon with mushroom sauce.

First to the blanquette; the veal was tough and grisly, the usually thick creamy sauce was runny and tasted decidedly of that fake lemon flavouring that appears in store-bought pesto, and the large chunks of undercooked onion were just simply unacceptable.

As for the ‘pigeon with mushroom sauce’ – it actually turned out to be a thin pigeon blanket covering an enormous serving of liver pate with one mushroom cut in three on the side. Not everyone is partial to the old liver, and in my opinion, along with sweetbreads and chilled soup, it is something that needs to be specifically mentioned in the menu before it appears unwittingly on your plate. Needless to say Katy Peri Peri was liver-d.

We should have stopped there, but just to give Bistrot Paul Bert one last chance, we ordered an oversized Paris Brest to share. Perhaps after spending six months tackling choux pastry and piping Paris Brests you become hypercritical – I will admit we had high expectations, big chouxs to fill you may say, but the pastry was almost stale and the praline cream was dull, and by that stage we all just wanted to go home.

I’m going to put it out there; Bistrot Paul Bert is totally meh. Just because everyone else says it’s good, it doesn’t mean it is. 400 people on TripAdvisor can most definitely be wrong. In my books, Bistrot Paul Bert is being relegated to the ‘don’t go there’ category, along with fake Isabel Marant wedge sneakers and Bilbao.

The meat may not be overcooked, but the restaurant is most definitely overrated.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Covered head to toe in snow, we hesitantly pushed open the door of this trendy Oberkampf establishment, expecting to be joining a long queue of Saturday night punters – but to our surprise, after a bit of playful banter from the ever jovial waitstaff about ‘being quite far off piste’, we were led downstairs and instantly seated in a cosy corner table ensconced between walls of wine bottles.

The waiter briefly explained to us the principle behind the no choice, seasonal tasting menu, with optional wine flight (it would be rude to say no, non?), before sending out the first plate.  It looked good, nice white plate, bit of foam, a white dollop, a green leaf…but what was it? ‘Wouldn’t you like to know’ (or the French equivalent)  said the jocund garcon, ‘We will tell you when you’re done, bon appetit!‘

Having recently graduated from my year long masterclass at French cooking school Lenôtre, I should be a whizz at this game. But I am not.  In fact I am totally useless at it.  I would have failed the Masterchef taste tester challenges; I would have guessed cumin instead of coriander and been the girl that cried on national TV.

Luckily this one wasn’t so hard.  “I guess oyster!!” I squealed. “Der” said DiCarpaccio “…it tastes like Fremantle.”

For those of you who don’t know Fremantle, the famous port town in Western Australia, this comment could mean that the oyster tasted like anything from an unwashed hippy to a happy Hare Krishna – although I think what he really meant was that it tasted an awful lot like sea salt. But though I don’t particularly like oysters or eating sea salt, this little critter, served with a mouthful of cabbage, a foam of cucumber and a dollop of sake and radish cream, was really quite nice.

The next plate arrived, as did our next wine, a Côtes de Provence which was as light, sweet and merry as the over-zealous sommelier who spilt it all over our table mid-swirl.  Subtly smoked, meltingly soft, and barely cooked haddock with artichoke, tangy, sort-of-crunchy pickled carrots, herring roe and a creamy chive imbued mash – it was utterly mouthwatering and such a delight for the taste-buds after a week of melted cheese.  Leonardo DiCarpaccio was, thus far, a very happy chappy.

The plate that followed seemed a bit odd. A pink square, a beige triangle and a yellow circle – it felt like some abstract art installation that I didn’t understand. So I ate it.  And it was good.  A little mouthful of tender tuna sashimi and a triangle of tempura’d something (maybe pork? I told myself it was pork…knowing all too well it could have been something more sinister) sitting on a deliciously creamy, rather spicy, parsley filled, modernist take on the classic béarnaise.  A truly divine mélange. 

That is until the waiter informed me that I had just eaten tempura’d andouillette. I like to think I am open to new food, but there are some foods I just don’t do. Ever. And tripe is one of those foods.

Nevertheless as it is my job (and I use that term loosely) I will be partial and admit…I actually liked  the andouillette (a veal tripe sausage). In fact I liked the whole dish, a lot.

“You didn’t trick us this time, we know all the ingredients” I said to the waiter as he took away the next plate. DiCarpaccio and I agreed that the slow cooked lamb ragu that we had just eaten, tucked in its caramelised onion shell, on top a bed of warm unctuous polenta with a light parmesan snow on top, was truly delicious.

“Euh non, zat was tung und cheek ragu”

Tongue-in-cheek I heard him say – he’s having a laugh, making a joke. Cute.  Nope that’s not what he said.  He said we had just eaten tongue and cheek ragu. And it was seriously amazing.

Then there was the cheese course – which was just a piece of cheese with a squirt of quince paste.  Not much to say there, the cheese was tasty, but a bit blah.  Without sounding rude, Pierre probably just could have cut the cheese.

The chocolate fondant that followed, with its hints of rhubarb and dollop of cinnamon foam, topped off what was an incredible meal – and for Leonardo DiCarpaccio, definitely a first degustation to remember.

Restaurant Pierre Sang is a true Paris gem – the staff are good-humoured, the atmosphere is convivial, the menus are seriously well priced, and the food is offally tasty.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

And then there was the bikram yoga phase.  On the way home from my first intensely sweaty bikram yoga class with 30 budgie-smuggler wearing men in the Marais one Saturday morning,  I stumbled across Victor Silveira selling his indescribably mouthwatering warm little pastéis de nata (Portugese custard tarts).  Needless to say, the pastéis de nata phase has lasted…sadly the bikram phase did not. My short shorts sit in my wardrobe gathering dust along with my swimming cap and broken ipod, but Victor and I have become the best of friends.

Victor’s intimate little corner store Comme à Lisbonne (‘Like in Lisbon’) is the perfect place to rest tired feet after a hard day shopping in gay Marais – a little marble counter, a phenomenal custard tart, a suave Portugese man in a grandpa hat and a damn good espresso to boot.

The tart was phenomenal, ethereal, ambrosial et al – warm unctuous custard, decadently viscous and caramelised to perfection, in a light buttery flakey shell that left crumbs all over my lap – there was certainly nothing vanilla about this tart.  And then there’s the optional cinnamon that Victor sprinkles on top with a knowing smile – make sure you get it, it adds that extra je ne sais quoi t0 this already luscious little treat.  I went to Lisbon a few years ago, I had a sangria (or four) on the way up to Castelo de Sao Jorge, I scoured the Avenida da Liberdade for the perfect peri-peri chicken (I found it at Nandos) and I sampled my fair share of pastéis de nata (and we all know that I would have sampled enough to make an informed comparison) and I’m going to put it out there, these are the best I’ve had. Anywhere. Ever.

Victor has also stocked up on other Portugese delicacies including the organic Salmarim salt from Castro Marim, teas from Gorreana – the only existing tea plantation in Europe, a selection of honey, jam and olive oil, and, most importantly, parcels upon parcels of Tricana conserved fish straight out of the Conserveira de Lisboa.  When in Lisbon I made the pilgrimage to the famous Conserveira de Lisboa, a veritable Lisbon institution since 1933, where a nonna still sits all day long wrapping each colourful tin of high quality conserved fish by hand.

The ever-smiling Victor is proud to bring a slice of Portugal to Paris, and so he should be, its not Comme à Lisbonne – it’s much, much better.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

And you can all but forget about ordering your coffee ‘to go’.  One morning when little brother Burrata Obama and girlfriend Linguine Lohan were in town, I popped down to my local café and ordered three coffees à emporter to take to the weary travellers. I emerged 10 minutes later with three miniature disposable plastic cups (the kind you get at the dentist) with no lid, swerving about on a porcelain plate.  Yes, you heard it, the waiter had lent me a porcelain plate to transport the coffees on.  Needless to say I had laughed so hard on the journey that by the time I arrived all I could offer Burrata and Linguine was a plate of coffee.

But little by little, smart little cafés, focused on good coffee, with baristas who live and breathe their boulot, are starting to pop up around Paris.

Here are my favourite finds for my daily grind.

La Caféothèque

I don’t know how it took me so long to stumble across this amazing café, which I can practically see from my bedroom window, as the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans oozing out the door permeates the entire street.  The café is decked out rather randomly with three salons – my favourite being the bright carpeted room overlooking the Seine with comfy vintage armchairs and its host of diverse characters, including the local music composer who waves his non-existent conductor’s baton in the air while sipping his espresso, or the young boho artist who idly sketches unwitting customers.

I have tried most of the coffees on the menu, with beans from Colombia to Guatemala and Ethiopia, including a coffee degustation (you know I can’t resist) but I most often go to La Caféothèque for the V60 filtered coffees, which are, incidentally, rather strong.  So much so that the young friendly barista told me in his first week working there he drunk half a litre before collapsing and being taken off in an ambulance (not that it seemed to deter him, when I arrived at 9am he was on his third for the morning).

Télescope

This tiny little café in the 1^st arondissement with its retro bike parked out the front, its old wooden beamed roof, and cosy wood-clad interior consists literally of a kitchen bench, a coffee machine and 4 two person tables. You pull up a chair, tap your feet in time with the rad background music and smile into your cup of smooth and intensely aromatic coffee as the owner, Nicolas, a friendly Frenchman, chats happily with his regulars over the counter. A fashion photographer for years, Nicolas decided one day (after a shoot involving coffee) to give it all up and travel the world learning the art of coffee making before opening Télescope in March.  And his efforts have paid off, the coffee is divine.

The ambience of this quaint little French café was as warm and inviting as my delicious filtered brew.  Needless to say, I will be back, again and again.

Ten Belles 

Following in the theme of trendy hole in the wall cafés, Ten Belles is the epitome of minimalist cool with its polished concrete floors, demountable ply wood furniture and sparse but chaleureux fit-out.  The coffee machines are manned by two dashing young lads, a Frenchman (the owner Thomas Lehoux) and an Australian (Chris, who emphasised that he was merely ‘the lackey’), with good taste in music and even better taste in coffee. The boys have been dishing up beautifully sweet, richly flavored brews (using beans roasted in Paris by Télescope), from around the world since the café opened in September last year.

I sampled the café filtre and an espresso, a deliciously intense and succulently smooth 50% Guatemalan 50% Honduran blend (as well as a cute homely ‘brown paper wrapped school lunch’ style soft boiled egg, mayo and cress sandwich).

Ten Belles, two beaux and a lot of seriously great coffee – what more could a gal want.

And then there is Coutume Café, whose coffee is out of this world good, but that’s another story for another day…

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t profess be an expert on the subject of coffee – indeed I have measured out my life more in wine glasses than coffee spoons, but I’d like to think I know a thing or two about a good brew. And these three cafés certainly offer that.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

My older brother, lets call him Thyme Burton, and his fiancée, the gorgeous Helena Bonham-Tartare were the latest antipodes to brace the guerre of Gare du Nord and arrive on my doorstep in search of culinary adventures.  And, knowing Thyme’s weakness for degustations (which he affectionately terms ‘degos’), I booked us into Restaurant Akrame, the Michelin star venture by chef Akrame Benallal, where tasting menus are the rule rather than the exception.

I had high hopes for this slick little restaurant nestled in a side street a stone’s throw from the bustling Arc de Triomphe, with Benallal having previously worked under the likes of Pierre Gagnaire, Alain Soliveres and Ferran Adria, and despite a few metaphorical hiccups I left impressed.

After being warmly welcomed into the cosy, albeit very modern dining room, with its muted colour scheme, black leather chairs and perfectly aligned pink orchids, we were given a delicious selection of amuse bouches to munch on while we sipped our champagne, and asked which sized menu we would prefer – the larger menu with matching wines obviously.

The first course, a perfectly gooey soft boiled egg which arrived all dolled up in a decadently creamy tonka bean butter and topped off with a little pile of finely desiccated cashew nuts on the side, had a sort of high class nasi goreng-esque taste about it.  A good egg. A very good egg indeed.

Next up was a homage to the humble tomato – the fruit that should have been a vegetable.  A simple mixed tomato salad with an unnecessary but acceptable touch of raspberry came accompanied with an exceptionally clear and rather strange, but nonetheless impressively tasty, cold fizzy tomato consommé. It had pizazz, I liked it.

And then came the cockle course.  I am a big fan of the clam family, and the idea of cockles basking in a fleur d’oranger foam sounded brilliant. And they were tasty, very, very tasty…but for the mouthful of sand we all encountered as we took our first bite.  Sand is only acceptable when it is at the Fat Duck and it is actually crispy fried panko crumbs posing as sand. Real sand is not okay, ever.

Nope, this dish didn’t exactly warm the cockles of my heart.

On the upside, the matching ‘wine’, a clean, crisp strangely orange coloured white (“oh yeah I’ve seen this before, a white done like a red” I said, pretending to sound learned) with hints of marzipan, was fabulous. Even more so when the very friendly sommelier revealed it was actually sake.

Up next was a delicious morsel of lobster hidden under a wafer thin slither of spice encrusted radish. “Ah I get it now” proclaimed Thyme Burton, with no hint of sarcasm, as he crunched his little gritty radish between his teeth, “the grit’s intentional…it’s like a grit degustation.” Indeed the use of texture is a very important sensory pleasure in cuisine, but I am not sure a grit degustation is the effect Benallal was going for.  In any event, the lobster was very good.

Still on the marine theme, next came a beautiful little steak of coal encrusted swordfish with its sumptuous side of creamy risotto.  This is one lump of coal I would happily find under the christmas tree – it was cooked to perfection; fresh, succulent and so divinely flavoursome, the plate was mopped clean with the ever-replenished stock of deliciously warm crusty bread in 5 seconds flat.

After a beautifully presented, and very moreish little lemon sorbet to cleanse the palate, we moved onto the meat course with a pigeon from Brittany.  The pigeon which arrived with its beetroot smear (oh how I hate that word), beetroot sauce, freshly julienned beetroot, and, last but not least, the side bowl containing a larger portion of beetroot smear which was vaguely reminiscent of the ‘freshly slaughtered’ venison from L’Autre Pied.  But it was deliciously tender, and the beetroot was a perfect, although I dare say somewhat overbearing, marriage partner. It wasn’t so well married with Thyme’s beautifully tailored Smalto shirt, which is unfortunately where half of his ended up.

Although well trained in degustations, by this time, Helena Bonham-Tartare, Thyme Burton and I were feeling the effects of the previous 7 courses, and we all agreed that one dessert and we would be done.  But we were far from the finish line.

A beautifully subtle and creamy dollop of goats cheese with tid-bits of fresh and dried fig, toasted brioche and honey was quickly overshadowed by a decadently oozing species of chocolate fondant with its dusty chocolate hat, and a scoop of yuzu ice-cream resting on some sort of crumbled biscuity delight followed suit.

But the pièce de résistance was without a doubt the unbelievably moreish banana halves stuffed with a peanut mixture that was at once salty and sweet and smooth and indescribably amazing, especially when it was dunked into the buttery caramel sauce that accompanied it. Heavenly.  Divine. Please sir can I have some more.

All of us were bursting at the seams 4 dishes prior, but every morsel on every single dessert plate was greedily licked clean – such is the sign of a good restaurant, and a great chef.

There may have been a few misgivings, but I would happily grit my teeth and bare them for another dinner at Akrame.

xoxo

Paris Stilton

Mulling over a café crème and a sneaky scone at trendy concept store and cafe Merci that morning, little Burrata and I began reminiscing about the amazing restaurants we have been to over the years (counting our lucky Michelin stars you may say).  It was like reciting a list of lovers; Brett Graham was banging, Andoni Aduriz was a tad too quirky, Gordon Ramsay was sensational (and with his 13 course degustation we were at it all night long), while Alain Passard’s famous argan oil “sausage” was, well, a bit of a flop. Where would Joël fit in?

On arriving at the dark Saint Germain atelier we were ushered in by the extremely effusive team (happy “bonjour’s” being thrown at us from every direction) to our seats at the counter that encircles the avant-gardesque open kitchen, complete with its primary colour schemed installations and futuristic hanging pot plants.  Communal counter service like this often doesn’t work in restaurants, and when you are forking out a lot of money (pardon the pun), private tables seem more haute couvert. But at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon the open seating seems only to add to the experience.  Indeed by the end of the lunch I had even been invited on a culinary tour of Brussels, including an open invitation to stay at the home of the lovely lady sitting next to me (at which point she received a very unsubtle under-the-table kick from her not so hospitable husband).

Our main waiter for the meal was a charming, chatty Frenchman named Julian; who managed to get the balance between professional attentiveness and hilariously sarcastic French humour spot on.  Following Julian’s advice we picked two of the small (I use this term loosely) degustation plates and a main each.

First up (that is, after our complimentary charcuterie board – pulling out an SLR and dropping the Lenôtre line never hurts) was Le Gyoza - à la plancha, farcie de volaille dans son bouillon au parfum d’Asie.  These perfectly seared little poultry stuffed dumplings bathing in a fantastically flavoured exotic Asian broth were as delicious to the mouth as they were to the eye.

Next up for Linguine Lohan and I was La Langoustine – en ravioli truffé à l’étuvée de chou vert (truffled crayfish ravioli with steamed green cabbage).  Could ingredients like that ever be wrong? No probably not, but that said one probably couldn’t get it much more right either. The delicate ravioli, subtle sauce and buttery sweet cabbage were perfectly balanced to allow the beautiful freshness of the langoustine to take centre stage.

However nothing could have prepared us for the taste sensation that was Burrata Obama’s Le Burger – au foie gras et sa sauce aux aromates.  One bite of these scrumptiously sinful sliders and Burrata’s cheshire cat grin told us everything.  The tender, juicy meat, the sweet, potent foie gras, the home-made tomato chutney, the crunchy hand-cut chips…FOOD ENVY.

For mains I chose the special of the day, a beautifully fresh, lightly grilled fillet of sole which was delicately and niftily filleted before my eyes.  Judging by the two very French ladies next door, this was apparently a dish that was meant to be shared, but that must have been lost in translation (selective hearing?).  In any event I made sure it didn’t go to waste.

Burrata Obama went for Le Black Angus – coeur d’onglet fondant, aux échalotes confites. As I have previously mentioned, onglet,  the former underdog of meat cuts, has been getting quite a lot of air time of late – and I think this is a very good thing.  Incredibly tender slices of angus steak that cut like butter with a sweet shallot confit was a marriage made in heaven.

However Linguine Lohan took out the prize for the best main, with her La Caille – farcie de foie gras et caramelisée avec une pomme purée trufée (caramelised foie gras stuffed quail with truffled potato purée). Crispy, sweet caramelised quail on the outside, soft melting morsels of foie gras on the inside and accompanied by a side of creamy potato puree that was flattened under the weight of generous slithers of truffle. Pure contentment.

However perhaps one of the most memorable points of the meal was the never-ending supply of Joël’s famous mash.  Each of our mains came complete with a not-so-little ramekin of unfairly creamy, utterly orgasmic potato mash, which was, despite (weak) protestations, refilled as soon as it was emptied.  It was like the up-market gourmande’s version of the refillable McDonald’s coca cola.

The first time it was funny, the second time borderline OTT, but by the third time, it was just plain unnecessary.  On the (very generously offered) private tour of the kitchen that I was taken on half way through the meal, Julian even forced one of the poor chefs to make up the mash from scratch in front of me (to prove to me that the unbelievably creamy texture was the product of an old fashioned hand held whisk).

For desserts, too full off mash to think about consulting a menu (though obviously not enough to skip desserts), we left it to Julian to decide.  “Any requests or allergies?” he asked.  “Oh, um, Linguine Lohan, doesn’t like fruit…when it touches other fruit.” Julian didn’t even roll his eyes. He simply noted the bizarre request as if I had said she was allergic to lactose and off he went.

Fifteen minutes later he came back back with two waiters and three plates containing every dessert off the menu in miniature form.  There was an unctuous layered choclate ganache, a perfectly puffed passion fruit soufflé, a sweet exotically spiced sorbet, an apple cider jelly and its foamed friend, a lychee sponge with fresh raspberries, and a millefeuille of mango fruit jelly with marmalade discs and mini merignues – to name a few.

The cherry on the cake (one of the many) of this ooh la la amazing dessert was the complimentary subtly peach flavoured crispy cold, bubbly glass of Moscato D’Asti.

As we contemplated our espressos (served with very unnecessary mini madeleines and cellophane wrapped salted caramel butters – along with an extra little goody bag supply to go) Julian looked over at our tired faces and bursting buttons and nodded with a knowing smile “ah, I see you have encountered ‘the Joël effect’“ .

In my long list of epicurean escapades, Joël easily ranks among the best.

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

So what better place to celebrate the change of seasons than a meal at Restaurant Spring, led by chef Daniel Rose…or so we thought.

Since Dolly Tatin’s last visit I had been on the waiting list for the American chef’s much acclaimed second and apparently more ‘grown up’ restaurant in the 1st arrondissement, so needless to say I was very excited to receive a call to inform us that a table for two had become available that night.  “Are there any allergies we should know about, or anything that either you or your friend cannot eat?” the girl asked when I confirmed the reservation. “Well actually sorry to be a pain but my friend is highly allergic to seafood products. She is also a part time vegetarian, but she is desperate to come to Spring and is very happy to eat meat for the night.” There was a deafening silence and then…“I am sorry, there must be a misunderstanding, we only cater for people who actually appreciate food.”  Touché.

Twenty minutes and an enormous international phone bill later, I finally convinced the maître d’hôtel, the chef and a waiter to whom the phone had been passed in an attempt to persuade us not to come, to allow Dolly Tatin and I to eat at Spring that night.

Having been warned during our pre-dinner anti-allergy, anti-vegetarian tirade that we would have to be out of the restaurant by 9.30pm, we arrived 10 minutes early and apprehensively rung the doorbell like two naughty school girls waiting at outside the principals office. “I’m scared, they hate me already!” said Dolly Tatin. “Don’t be ridiculous” I huffed, “we are about to spend a fortune, they are hardly going to be rude to us”.  And at that moment, a young, very well dressed and very aloof maître d, who we will call Haughty Couture, opened the door, “I guess you are the party with the vegetarian who is allergic to fish and the self confessed foodie who eats EVERYTHING?” he sneered and ushered us through the empty restaurant, down the stairs and to an unmade table in the corner of the basement wine bar. “You mean this one?” I said, pointing to the table next to it which was appropriately decked out with cutlery, a pretty flower and a candle, “No no, that one there, we will make it up in a minute (sans pretty flower and candle I might add).”

On that note, seeing as we were early and table was unmade, we thought we would pop up to the bar and join the old French couple having an aperitif…or not; Haughty Couture was back in a flash, “No no no, you cannot have a drink, like I said we are very pressed for time with your reservation, if you would like a drink you can have it at the table with your food.”

And so the meal commenced.

First up for the gourmande was an array of small plates including a freshly shucked oyster with mint sorbet and a morsel of ‘gravlax’ trout.  The oyster was deliciously fresh and the peppery mint sorbet was a perfectly subtle and refreshing accompaniment.

The trout on the other hand was rather lacking.  Correct me if I am wrong but I have always been under the impression that ‘gravlax’ indicates that the fish has been cured in salt, sugar and dill.  However this little slither appeared to have left the house without dressing –  like the discerning child in The Emperor’s New Clothes, I wanted to shout, “but he isn’t wearing anything at all!”

For the demanding Dolly Tatin, the chef had very kindly prepared a vegetarian menu which started with two asparagus courses;  soft white asparagus stems served with a traditional drawn butter and parsley sauce, followed by crispy fresh green asparagus stems topped with rocket, dill and parsley and served with a balsamic reduction to match my second course of cripsy red mullet with an interesting side of sea urchin.

Unlike the lucky NY Times writer whose review I had excitedly read before going to Spring, from our basement corner we were unable to view the open kitchen which permits Mr. Rose to “charm guests with his menschy bonhomie”.  Ah well, at least the “rock and roll crowd” that supposedly frequents the den was present; I have no doubt the long table of 70 year old American ladies who were our soul companions for the evening definitely would have been rocking around the clock in the 1950s…

My third course consisted of a portion of a crisp skinned rosy pink (as it should be) magret de canard (duck) with a decent sized dollop of tasty foie gras and little white chive topped radishes. However the plate could have done without the supplementary fatty cut of canard which was grisly and tough. Quite frankly by that point I wasn’t really in the mood to chew the fat.

Meanwhile Dolly Tatin indulged in an artichoke soup enveloping morsels of fresh artichoke, a dollop of pesto, a spattering of crunchy croutons and topped with a handful of jeunes pousses.

The fare thus far had been innovative (unpredictable?) so I was interested (apprehensive?) to see what tricks Rose had next up his sleeve…

Hmmm what to feed someone who arrogantly claims they eat everything? After an oyster, a piece of trout, a side of sea urchin, a topping of fish roe, a seignant duck and a touch of foie gras, I guess it was a no brainer…

So like Hannibal Lecter with his victim’s liver, I started on my fourth course, a plate of brains with some fava beans and a nice chianti, although unlike Hannibal Lecter the foam at my mouth was slightly more molecularly gastronomic.

Meanwhile Dolly Tatin was tucking into her girolles, with fava beans and a nice chianti.  It was almost quite cute, as though they had chosen the vegetarian item that most resembled brain so I didn’t feel left out.  Yet I did.  Even worse, I was green like a fava bean with envy.

As soon as I had finished picking my brains, the deserts arrived…all 6 of them.

I won’t lie, these deserts were good, but, hard as it is to believe, even I find it hard to consume 6 deserts at one time – as we were tucking into the ganache filled chocolate balls, the two serves of goats cheese sorbet were suffering the effects of climate change, while the mini Eton Mess was turning into an Eton Sprawl.

The little sablé biscuits would have been the perfect accompaniment to a mint tea, but alas as Haughty Couture reminded us 3 times throughout the meal, we were on a very tight schedule.

As we were paying the bill, Haughty Couture sauntered over and informed us that, by the way, the reservation after us had been cancelled (I am assuming the same went for the two tables next to us as well) and that we could stay as long as we wanted.  Unsurprisingly, we decided to call it a night.

It might have been Spring, but this restaurant was as cold as ice.

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

Here are a few of my favourite sweet treats that you should never feel guilty about.

Pierre Hermé 

Hermé is to macarons what Hermès is to silk scarves. The man.

Years ago on a trip to Paris, it was pouring with rain and I ducked into a little boutique in St Germain to ask for directions to the famous macaron store Ladurée.  The female shop-owner leaned over and said to me “Mais non, Mademoiselle if you really want to be like the French you must go to Pierre Hermé.” And there they were, hordes of Frenchmen standing in a line in the rain, getting soaked for a bite of an exquisite Infiniment Chocolat, a morsel of a mouthwatering Médélice or, like me, to devour a divine Désiré.

Mogador, a macaron with a tangy passionfruit shell and molten chocolate middle was my absolute favourite…until I came across the supersize me Ispahan; a large rose and raspberry flavoured macaron with fresh raspberries encircling a luscious lychee centre. Despite its size, this is not one to share.

Jacques Genin

During a weekend of degustations and debauchery, after a 3 course meal at Bistrot Paul Bert, and a little charcuterie and wine at Le Verre Volé , my friend Foodie Dostoyevsky thought we needed to sample something sweet. So we headed off to Jacques Genin for the famous mille-feuille à emporter (unsurprisingly we came out with a mille-feuille, a Paris Brest, a chocolate éclair, some profiteroles, a tarte aux pommes and some little salted caramel butters for the road).

The atmosphere is a tad sterile; the light, clean, cave-like interior looks like it should be showcasing works of art or designer jewellery. But you quickly feel at home when you notice most of the happy clientele have pastry crumbs, icing sugar or chantilly cream all over their face.

If you order the mille-feuille (you must), the cream is piped into the crispy layers of pastry before your eyes.  It is buttery and delicate and scrumptious and incredibly hard to eat gracefully, while the Paris Brest, a praline cream centred choux pastry, tastes like an enormous middle of a Ferrero Rocher.

At €110 a kilo, you would hope the little caramels au beurre salé (salted caramel butters) were out-of-this-world amazing…and they are.

Lets not beat around the bouche here, if you eat these delectable delights in vast quantities, you too may start to look more Boticelli than Giacometti.

But you will enjoy every bite along the way.

xoxo

Paris Stilton