Unsurprisingly, I expected to find omelettes at every café, bar, and bistrot. But as I reflected in my last post, the omelettes have not materialized as hoped. Where have they gone? Did they leave France the same year as Monsieur Pépin? Or perhaps, they were never here in the first place?

Luckily, after sending out that post, I received some much needed validation from my Parisian friend Sabine. She told me I was totally justified in my mourning. The “quiet disappearance of the humble omelette,” as she called it, was real. But like any good friend, she didn’t deliver the bad news without a glimmer of hope in the form of an address.

Café de la Mairie, Paris 6ème

A quick investigation in the Google search bar yields promising indications: 3.3 stars and no working website. Perfect.

This 20th-century relic is nearly as much of a monument as the imposing Église Saint Sulpice across from which it sits. And like the church, the café stubbornly endures despite the vastly changing world around it. The menu, style, and service were calibrated to the consumer preferences of 1965 Paris, the year of the café’s opening, and have never given a second thought. I felt, walking in, as though I had entered a living museum, a chamber of quintessence.

I took my seat in what I call the fishbowl section of café—a kind of four seasons room that extends the indoors into the sidewalk. The diffused daylight of overcast Paris filled the room and the entire vast square with a cool grey hue. Behind me sat a woman who could have been, but certainly wasn’t, Jeanne Moreau, eating her omelette. There it is!

My eyes tracked the menu to the buffet chaud section… Omelette nature, garniture au choix. I ordered mine optioned out: fines herbes, ham, and crucially, Emmental. Bourdain (who famously sat at this café with a pack of cigarettes and a jambon beurre) said that an ounce of sauce covers a multitude of sins. He might have added that cheese is the best insurance policy for an overcooked omelette. That was certainly the case for this one. And apparently, the only fine herb they had in the kitchen was chives.

Nevertheless, the first bite ascended me to lunch heaven. The industrial cheese stretched into the air as I pulled away with my fork, enough to make Jeanne Moreau jealous. She stopped the waiter and pointed to me, “Quel est le plat de Monsieur ?”

Le Select

I began to understand that any remaining restaurant omelettes were likely to be hiding in older, let’s say, more conservative areas of Paris. To Montparnasse we go.

I’m referring, of course, neither to the train station nor the tower, widely considered the most eye-grating monstrosity of Paris, but the nearby intersection, the cluster of cafés marked by their respective blazing neon signs.

Most of these cafés have endured for over a century. And a century ago, to frequent one meant you were either bohemian, barely getting by, or both. Today it inarguably means you’re bourgeois. Funny how that works.

On one corner sits Le Dôme, the oldest of the bunch. Peggy Guggenheim (got by just fine, but bohemian nonetheless) used to hang here with her band of struggling artists. Now it’s mostly a place where high-priced crustaceans are crushed by higher-priced veneers attached to tightly tucked faces.

Across the street sits its rival, La Rotonde, where an unknown Amedeo Modigliani would trade drawings for drinks. Today, French President Emmanuel Macron is a regular and a friend of the owner.

I opted for the slightly more discreet Select, featured prominently in the first 80 pages of The Sun Also Rises, as the rowdy watering hole for Hemingway’s lost but spirited cast of characters.

Today’s scene is a far more demure flavor of Parisian Left Bank bourgeoisie. The kind of crowd who’s happy to waste time and money on things they could have faster, better, and less expensively elsewhere. Thorstein Veblen would either have a field day or a heart attack (not that I’ve read even a single word of Thorstein Veblen).

This was reflected in the price of the omelette aux fines herbes: 19 euros for 3 whipped eggs. I, again, sat in the fishbowl section. This time, the waiter asked how I’d like it to be cooked. The omelette came baveuse, as requested, but again only with chives. Why is it that I have more fines herbes in my studio apartment than these cafés do?

Hemingway’s protagonist, Jake Barnes, would come to Le Select to drink away his consciousness and forget his chronic impotence. If ever I come back, it’ll be for the same thing. Not for many decades, I hope.

(Kidding. It’s quite an amusing place. I’ll probably be back sooner for the vibe.)

My posts for the remainder of the year will be frequent and regular, but perhaps not weekly, as I begin working on some bigger video projects.

As always, a thousand thanks to all my paid subscribers. I appreciate your support more than you know.

See you soon,

Max

“Vous ne servez pas d’omelette ?” A woman asked me, looking up from the brass menu stand in front of the restaurant, through her thin spectacles.

“Si si, au petit déjeuner madame, mais pas le midi.”

I could hear the frustration in her charming British brogue. I guessed—judging by her crow’s feet, silver hair, and confidence speaking French—that she’d fallen in love with Paris decades ago, and had been visiting ever since. But in recent years, each new visit less resembled the last, and the Paris of her twenties faded further into the obscurity of her memory. Where did the damn omelettes go, for instance? I wasn’t about to compound her disappointment by revealing myself as American. Luckily, I can hide it if I keep my sentences short.

“Quoi ? Mais ce n’est pas Françay ça ! On ne mange pas d’œuf le matin !”

My manager, Jules—the maître d’hôtel and a career bullshitter—swept in to soothe her with a series of commiserations, more or less amounting to “sister, you don’t know the half of it.”

It’s true, omelettes at breakfast is not very French. But I hadn’t chosen to work at this café/brasserie for its respect of French tradition. Quite the opposite, in fact. Paris had changed in more ways than just omelettes, and this place was a prime example.

We were located at Porte Maillot, just over the bridge from Neuilly, across the street from a major convention center, and a short walk from the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Élysées. That meant a largely international clientele of professionals who were there because they had to be, and Americans who were there because they were on their “Europe trip” and they booked the neighboring Hyatt with points. Nobody, apart from some well-heeled Neuilly folk, would be back anytime soon—a reality that instilled an ethos of “give them what they want, and take what you can get.”

Among our best sellers: a cheap matcha latte made from a pale green powder cut thinner than a two-dollar eight-ball (not that I would know); French onion soup (actually pretty good), even on the most scorching of summer days; and, yes, omelettes at breakfast.

As soon as the unsuspecting diners finished their overpriced eggs, I’d rush over to present my payment machine, revealing the final, most egregious of Americanizations: a tip suggestion of 5, 10… 15 percent? Such a notion—inconceivable not 5 years ago—shocked most everyone, even my fellow Americans, who were at least well enough informed to know that, in France, tipping is optional.

Offensive as it was, the tip machine paid my modest rent and then some. But I, too, had grown tired—by the time Ms. British francophile showed up, towards the end of my tenure as garçon—of the bizarro version of France that was this brasserie.

Omelettes have always been a heavy hitter in my home lunch repertoire. Recently, it’s been ham, chive, and cheese. Each one I make inches closer towards perfection. I’ve made them so often, in fact, that my body instinctively senses when the steel-clad skillet has reached the perfect temperature: hot enough to turn nonstick, but not so hot that it burns the butter. I can even hear the voice of Jacques Pépin in my head, encouraging me as I flip the half moon with the flick of a wrist. With a green salad and some good bread, there’s no lunch quite like it.

But as delicious as they are, and as much pleasure as I take in making them, I’ve begun to understand my British friend’s yearning. After all, we share the same idealized vision of France, so common among native anglophones. The Paris I imagined growing up, the one sold to me by PBS, Rick Steves, and Remy the rat, promised me a city paved with omelettes. Fine herb omelettes, cheese omelettes, plain omelettes, where the hell were they?

It would be rather nice to enjoy one on a quaint sidewalk terrace, yet I seldom see them on café lunch menus. Then again, I never looked too closely.

This week, I decided to rectify that; I’ve kept my eyes peeled. I even had one in my sights on Avenue de la Motte-Picquet, around the corner from Les Invalides…

The chalkboard read, “L’ardoise du jour: omelette aux œufs bio et morilles au vin jaune…”

There it is! I thought, until my eyes followed the dotted line to a price so stratospheric, it defeated the very purpose of the omelette… 39 euros. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to find any bargains next door to Napoleon’s eternal resting place. My search continued…

I will be back next week, come hell or high water, with my finds.

Food Tours:

If you’re planning a trip to Paris and you’d like to explore the best products this city has to offer, you can book my guided “Left Bank Treasures” experience! I am only giving private tours at the moment, which you can book by emailing me directly at max@clubdesmeal.com.

As always, a thousand thanks to all my paid subscribers. I appreciate your support more than you know.

See you next week,

Max

A real Kouign-Amann has more butter than flour. You read that correctly. Even a croissant pales in comparison. “C’est pour pas avoir trop de gluten,” (It’s so you don’t have too much gluten) quipped Pascal Jaïn, president of the Association du Véritable Kouign-Amann de Douarnenez, in his interview with Le Parisien.

The French, it’s well known, like their butter, but the folks in Brittany, and particularly Douarnenez, are especially fanatic, as evidenced by their emblematic pastry, the Kouign-Amann, which, in the local language of Breton, means butter cake (or technically cake butter, if we’re being exact).

As the legend goes, long ago in Douarnenez, towards closing time, a woman walked into a sold-out bakery desperate for a sweet treat. The baker, resourceful as he was, turned to the three trusty components every Breton baker always has handy.

With his fist, he pounded a brick of butter into a boule of bread dough, obtaining a uniform disk, onto which he spread a layer of sugar thick enough to safely stop a 9mm. He then folded the trifecta into several layers and placed it in a round, deep-dish style pan, designed to contain the spewing butter. This essentially causes the cake to confit in a bath of sugary milk fat, resulting in an ultra caramelized bottom crust and a gushing, pillowy interior.

That all sounds divine, wouldn’t you say? The only trouble is that very few bakers in Paris are insane or sadistic enough to sell something so decadent, which means a real Kouign-Amann is nearly impossible to find. Plenty of bakeries sell what they call “Kouign-Amann,” but they’re knock-offs, fugazi, made with pâte feuilletée (croissant dough) rolled into a spiral with a layer of caramel on the bottom. Like a candy cigarette to a Marlboro red, it just doesn’t compare.

My quest for the real deal would urgently require a trip to Douarnenez, or so I thought until my mother returned from the boulangerie Arnaud Delmontel on the rue des Martyrs with the next best thing.

She had been craving something with apples when a girl slid a hot tray of pastries—with a glossy, almost translucent sheen, which my mother mistook for caramelized apples—into the display case.

She returned with the warm confection, still unsure of what she had purchased. I cracked through the crust with my teeth into an explosion of sweet, buttery ecstasy. Could this be it? My first bite exposed the layers of bread dough, not pâte feuilletée, drowning in butter. “What exactly did she call this?” I asked my mother, who struggled to repeat the unusual name. Confirmation. Pascal Jaïn may not have given his full stamp of approval, but I’m sure he’d agree that many of the fundamentals were respected.

There’s much more than just butter and bread dough calling me to Douarnenez. I’ll make it there in due time. Until then, I’ve got a new pastry to pair with my daydreams.

A thousand thanks, as always, to my paid subscribers. I appreciate your support more than you know.

See you next week,

Max

I arrived at Le Bistrot des Halles, 15 rue des Halles, Paris 75001, with a nagging craving, and one objective. At about 12:45 this Wednesday, I walked through the crowded terrace, under the striped awning and emerald sign, and into la foule. The mosaic tiling at my feet in the doorway read “depuis 1920”—a year in which this part of the city still carried its nickname “le ventre de Paris” (the stomach of Paris), given to it by Émile Zola in reference to the acres of covered market stalls, known as Les Halles, that fed the metropolis and dominated life in this quarter.

Paris has long since relocated its pantry (as I prefer to call it) south of the city to Rungis, and Les Halles is now home to a very different, very multinational kind of commerce. Only a few relics of the old neighborhood life remain. This is one.

In front of me stood clusters of hungry office workers, and waiters demanding “vous êtes combien messieurs-dames ?” I had no need for a table, nor a chair.

I shuffled past them and found my place along the gently curving copper counter, the last obstacle between me and my objective, marked by decades of dents and scratches, but polished to the brilliance of a newly minted penny. Behind it stood the gatekeeper: the barman. The maker of coffees, the pourer of libations, and the assembler of some of the best casse-croûtes this side of the Rhein.

“Bonjour, je vais vous prendre un jambon beurre s’il vous plaît.”

A jambon beurre. A ham and butter sandwich. I must’ve eaten hundreds over the years, but never in this context. Le Bistrot des Halles offers a whole list of casse-croûtes, as they call them, with various combinations of cheeses, charcuteries, and produits de terroir, but I was hell bent on the classic. If it was good enough to fuel the workers who rebuilt this city during Haussmann’s reconstruction, it’d be good enough to feed me.

“Et qu’est-ce que tu bois ?”

“Beh, je sais pas, qu’est-ce qu’on boit avec ça ?” I had never considered what might pair well with a sandwich of cooked ham and butter, having, up to then, always purchased mine from boulangeries rather than bars.

“Un rouge ?” He reached for a bottle of Chénas (gamay from Beaujolais), poured me a generous glass, and got to work on my sandwich.

First the bread. His serrated knife sawed through the crisp baguette, sending sparks of crust flying in all directions, like an angle grinder through steel pipe. He set the two sections down, open-faced, on his station.

Just behind them sat a heaping mound—must’ve been five inches tall and covered the circumference of a large dinner plate—of thick, unrefrigerated butter, perfect for spreading. With a butterknife, the barman dug out a generous hunk from a divot in the top of the mass, and spread it across the bread. Then another. And another.

“Tu veux des cornichons ?”

I did want cornichons. But first the ham, which, at Le Bistrot des Halles, is coupé à la minute. He plopped it onto the slicer, shaved off a pile of thin chiffonnade, and gently draped it across the buttered baguette.

With a pair of mini tongs, he reached into the jar of cornichons—sliced in half longitudinally, like the baguette—and distributed them, sparingly but evenly, across the ham, ensuring each fatty bite would have a perfect pop of acidity. Already, this had blown any boulangerie sandwich out of the water, and he hadn’t even finished making it.

Without looking, he reached for a tall, weathered Peugeot peppermill, and ground a fine dusting over the ensemble. He closed the sandwich, cut it in half on a bias, set it on a small wooden planche, and slid it over to me.

“Voilà la bête !”

As I stared down at it, locals continued to pour in. Some joined me at the counter. A few for a sandwich, others for a drink. Many greeted each other with la bise. They cracked jokes and busted chops. I don’t remember seeing any phones.

I broke through the crust with my teeth, tore away the first bite, and my dreams came alive. There were no surprises. I knew exactly how it would taste. I had imagined this moment a thousand times, I had watched him make it, and now, I was finally eating it. This must be what it’s like to win Wimbledon, I thought.

Why, then, had I waited all these years? Why had I deprived myself of this experience?

Simply put, I was intimidated. That’s it. The guys (it’s often, but not always, guys) eating and drinking at bistrot bars always looked so damn cool. So local. So comfortable. They lean against the counter as though they had been placed there by Haussmann himself. If I were to pull up beside them, I thought, they’d spot the imposter in an instant.

Even if they didn’t oust me, I’d have felt too far out of my comfort zone, like I was playing some kind of character—LARPing (live action role play), as I believe the kids now call it (I have not yet determined whether LARPing is supposed to be good or bad). But don’t we all LARP at various points in our lives, particularly the formative ones? We’re drawn to certain behaviors and styles, and mimic them until they become part of who we are.

Furthermore, LARPing, or imitating, is a great strategy for travel. What better way to immerse yourself in a culture than to copy the locals? Of course, too much fetishization of one culture/class by another carries its own risks. But I’m no sociologist, and I’m not here to write an argumentative essay. I’m just here to tell you that, at this point in my life, I’ve done enough LARPing to feel comfortable in my own skin, at least enough to order a jambon beurre at Le Bistrot des Halles. And thank goodness, because it turned out to be one of the best sandwich experiences of my life.

‘Left Bank Treasures’ Food Tour

A little reminder that if you’re planning a trip to Paris, you can explore the city and sit down with me to try more mouthwatering delicacies on my “Left Bank Treasures” food tour/experience! Click here to view photos, info, and book. I will be opening more dates very soon.

A thousand thanks as always to my eleven paid subscribers! I appreciate your support more than you know.

See you next week,

Max

Admission Requirements:

• Sponsorship from no fewer than zero members in good standing

• A penchant for offal, rustic cooking techniques from France and Italy, and wines of the vin de France appellation (or non-appellation)

Initiation Fee:

• 20 euros for the lunch menu (entrée, plat, or plat, dessert)

Dresscode:

• Whatever the hell you have on (strictly enforced)

There’s no need to be embarrassed if these requirements intimidate you. That’s by design. But I implore you to rise to these standards so you can enjoy the…

Perks of Membership:

Walking into Chez Santa, 5 Rue René Boulanger, 75010 Paris, was like a breath of fresh air. There isn’t an ounce (or a gram) of pretension to be found in the place.

The Italian cheffe prepares a sampling of specialties from both her adopted land and her land of origin, and combines them however she damn well pleases. We particularly enjoyed the gelatinous fried veal trotter, the zingy mussels from Croisic in nduja cream, and a true tiramisu with hot espresso soaked into the biscuits beneath a heap of mascarpone.

A glass of still “blanc de noir” squeezed from cabernet franc paired perfectly with the warmth and good cheer.

Hot Dogs and Sidecars at Harry’s New York Bar

Harry’s is one of those places that, no matter how many tourists line up, can never lose it’s authenticity. It is an expat bar after all. And it’s one of the few places in Paris where I look forward to hearing the roaring voices of my compatriots. We get to sit in this cauldron of nostalgia, surrounded by dark wood and vintage college banners, and, for a brief moment, celebrate the better angels of our culture. More to come on Harry’s soon…

We enjoyed lots of sunshine on my “Left Bank Treasures” food tour this week! Plenty of spots are available for April and May! You can book here.

I’ll see you next week,

Max

A quiche, according to the French dictionary Larousse, is a savory tart of pâte brisée (shortcrust pastry) often garnished with lardons and filled with a mixture of eggs and cream. The dry, dense wedge staring up at me from my plate, then, is not a quiche. The menu called it a quiche. But a quiche it is not.

First of all, there is no pâte brisée, nor any pastry at all for that matter, only filling. Any perceivable crust is a result of that filling having been baked and browned to oblivion. Then there’s the issue of the filling itself, less a mixture of eggs and cream than a solid block of egg pancake. I didn’t think it was possible to achieve such a consistency without a commercial cement mixer. And maybe that’s true. I didn’t actually get a chance to peek into the kitchen and see their equipment.

Decorating this brick and the gritty salade de mâche beside it are black, syrupy streaks. A balsamic glaze? On a quiche? Right, but this is not a quiche. But they didn’t know that! They thought it was. I would expect such a combination in a Cranston, Rhode Island strip mall, but in Paris?

Almost everything about Le Petit Pontoise, 9 rue Pontoise, Paris 75005, is perplexing. And if I’m sharing this experience with you, it’s not to bash an independent restaurant, but to demonstrate how tricky it can be to find a decent meal in what I consider one of the best food cities in the world.

I found this bistrot the old-fashioned way, by walking by it. Initially drawn by a collage of Pudlo and Michelin stickers, I peered inside and saw a room full of what looked like locals having a jolly good laugh over big bulbs of wine and hearty French fare.

A Maître Restaurateur plaque—which, as I explain in this post, guarantees homecooking—sealed the deal. I saved the address to my Google Maps, where it has 4.6 stars with over 1700 reviews. A guaranteed gem! I thought to myself. See the fruits of aimless strolls? I’d be back very soon.

Well, today was that day, and the experience, as you’ve already gathered, was suboptimal. Terrible, actually. How could anyone have known? Well, there were signs. Signs from the moment we stepped through the door. Signs that sent my body directly into flight mode, but that my brain forced me to override. Signs I feel obligated to share with you, to spare you the same costly process of disillusionment.

The first sign came as I stepped through the door and, in a nanosecond, analyzed the decor (let’s see an LLM do that). The tables are old and tightly packed. That’s fine. But on the far wall are a pair of canvases depicting Notre Dame in gobs of colorful acrylic, the kind of thing that’d be sold to tourists in the Place du Tertre in Montmartre. Those, along with some phony “vintage” posters, rendered the vibe awfully kitsch. The first flight alarms start ringing.

The second alarm sounded when a red-headed young lady barked (in French), “Please hang your coats before you sit.” She had barely looked in our direction long enough to see that we were wearing coats, let alone greet us with a simple “bonjour.”

That’s Parisians for you, you say? No. It really isn’t. Or at least it shouldn’t be. I can’t say I really blame her, though. My bet is she was burnt out from countless interactions with tourists from all corners of the globe, clueless as to the basic customs of dining out in France, and thus she operates on low battery mode, turning off all hospitality functions in order to conserve enough energy to perform the physical motions required to carry out service. I’m not defending her attitude, but having been in similar shoes, I can recognize and understand it. In any event, it sent my alarm bells blaring.

More and more, I rely on these instincts to steer me out of trouble. Why, then, did I not press bail and walk out, as I have before? 4.6 stars on Google. Maître Restaurateur. Even François Régis Gaudry, the final boss of French food media, follows them on Instagram! Let’s give it a shot.

I settled into the red banquette along the wall and began to scan the clientele, often a good indicator of what’s to come. But here, just more mixed signals. There were French families, American families, French-American families. In one corner, an old Frenchman dressed in layers of cashmere ate alone. He seems rather discerning, right?

Still, I had my doubts; so I hedged. Rather than order à la carte—around 16 euros for an entrée (starter) and 25-45 for a main—we opted for the menu du jour at 27 euros (still pricey for Paris) for two courses. If we were, in fact, about to suffer a bad meal, we may as well do so less expensively.

“C’est terminé ? Ça vous a plu ? Pas trop ?” (Finished? Did you enjoy it? Not much?), she looked down at the nearly untouched doorstops on our plates.

“Pas trop, it’s pretty dry.” And she took them away, stone-faced, without another word.

During our long wait for the mains, they started rolling in. Germans, Americans, Mexicans, you name it. One man was so deeply confused, I heard red-hair tell him, “No, sir, you sit down first and then I will come and take your order.” Yep, she’s fed up, I thought.

We attacked our mains—a daube de bœuf with rice for me, and swordfish with julienne de légumes for my mother (visiting from the States)—not out of hunger, but just to make it stop. The daube was parsimonious, but passable, whereas my mother struggled to pull away the cooked exterior of the swordfish from the undercooked interior. We alerted the server; she looked down at the glaring mistake and, again, took it away without a word of apology.

This experience reinforced a lesson I’ve learned time and time again in Paris, that Google reviews are a worthless currency. 50 million visitors pass through this city every year, fudging the numbers with their varying food standards.

As for the Pudlo and Michelin stickers? Like I said, they were all quite dated. Perhaps ownership changed hands somewhere along the line. But what about the Maître Restaurateur? I suppose that just because something is homemade doesn’t mean it’s made well. Accolades and distinctions, ultimately, can’t replace your instincts. And after years of dining in Paris, I’m still honing mine.

If you’ll be in Paris this spring or summer, and you’d like to sample this city’s most delicious products, you can check out my Left Bank Treasures food tour!

A thousand thanks to my paid subscribers! All my posts are currently free to access. Paid subscriptions are just a way to support my writing and other work, which makes me all the more grateful.

Happy Easter to those who celebrate! I’ll see you next week.

Max

Earlier this year, I published a list of quality markers—plaques, signs, stickers—that you might find posted on the fronts of Paris’s restaurants, to help you out of a jam when you’re stranded and hungry, with no reservations. You can read that list here, along with an explanation of the meaning behind each distinction. The idea, of course, was to lessen the reliance on reservations, and encourage one small step in the direction of spontaneity.

Since that list was not exhaustive, I thought that this week, I’d compile part II to give you rock-solid fluency in these restaurant hieroglyphs. But then I reread the quote from the top of that post.

Would the journeying writers of yesteryear, like Mark Twain or the one with the bullfights who blew his own head off, even recognize modern travel? Today’s version looks awfully different than it did even fifteen years ago. A few taps on a slab of glass will summon all the practical information one could possibly desire, presenting it in concise, digestible bullets, or reels, or albums. Why, then, leave anything to chance? Why stumble through your high school French over the phone with the maître d’ when it’s easier to just reserve online? There’s simply no need to struggle. Every inefficiency has been ironed out, every challenge has been lifted, all uncertainty erased.

As recently as the 1970s, a resident of Bologna could ride the rails 43 kilometers east to Modena, and discover a curious nectar, a divine, inky syrup called aceto balsamico. What a revelation! A new world of flavor was hiding in the confines of the neighboring town!

Today, our travels are defined less by discoveries than by a sequence of preordained experiences. One might even go so far as to plan every bite, snack, and sip, of a trip months in advance, with intel from the NYT, Instagram, and ChatGPT to assuage any surprises. Paris, then, is solved. Travel is solved.

But planning this neurotically would be like spoiling the plot of a thriller before walking into the theater. It’d be like watching a baseball game to which you already know the outcome. Or like flying thousands of miles without really going anywhere. Where is the appeal?

Perhaps we’ve lost the essence of the word. To what extent, for instance, is Sergei Brin—on his 142-meter megayacht—still sailing?

The real magic of this city, of this life, is found in those events we cannot plan, in the meanderings we leave to chance. But clear expectations are a hard drug to kick. How can we possibly free ourselves from the tyranny of their clutches, and rediscover adventure?

Hemingway, Twain, and Bourdain viewed travel through a similar lens. They held no expectations, no reservations (I couldn’t resist). They weren’t hell bent on outcomes. They didn’t submit to checklists. They simply followed their whims.

Of course, that ethos resulted in more than one bad meal. But, so what? As much can be learned about a place from a bad meal as from a good one. It took the trauma of Famous Ray’s to help me appreciate Joe’s. On the other hand, those same faulty whims produced travels rich enough to fill several books and captivate generations.

On Paris and planning, Anthony Bourdain had this to say: “The absolute worst thing to do when you come to Paris is plan too much. Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, Arc de Triomphe, stand in line for hours to experience what everybody says you have to. Me? I like to take it easy in Paris, especially if I’m only in town for a few days.

“Most of us are lucky to see Paris once in a lifetime. Make the most of it by doing as little as possible. Walk a little, get lost a bit, eat, catch a breakfast buzz, have a nap, try and have sex if you can, just not with a mime. Eat again. Lounge around drinking coffee. Maybe read a book. Drink some wine, walk around a bit more, eat, repeat. See? It’s easy.”

We all owe a debt of gratitude to the planners of the world for steering our ships. Without them, we’d all be lost. But it wouldn’t hurt to remind them to relax now and then. The worst that can happen is a little wreck.

Many thanks to my paid subscribers for their support!

If you’re coming to Paris and you’d like to taste excellent products and get a solid lay of the land before leaving the rest of the day to chance, you can sign up for my food tours here.

See you next week,

Max

From behind her windshield, a woman’s eyes followed us along the crosswalk, only an arm’s length from the hood of her car. She looked vaguely familiar, but who could she be? We didn’t know anyone in town. She rolled down her window, revealing her face more clearly.

Oh right! I unzipped my jacket to show her the green, merino wool sweater I was wearing.

“You’re lucky you bought that from me, otherwise SPLAT!” She demonstrated the collision with her fist crashing into her palm, before unleashing a warm belly cackle, waving au revoir as she drove off.

“So funny. She must have just closed up for the day,” I said to Eva. I had purchased the sweater—a traditional mariner’s garment, still made in the region, with four buttons running down the left shoulder—off the clearance rack of her boutique in downtown Roscoff, an old port town in the northern Finistère department of France, right at the mouth of the English Channel. The bus from Morlaix had dropped us off just hours before, and we had been aimlessly exploring the town’s historic center, until the sweater caught my eye through the shop’s window.

I looked in the mirror outside of the changing room in the back of her narrow store, stunned that the sleeves fit my nearly two-meter wingspan. Eva, after expressing her approval, tugged my arm, directing my attention to a far more stunning sight. To my right, a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window revealed an unobstructed view of the water, dominated by the Île de Batz (Island of Batz), just a stone’s throw—if you’ve got the arm of Yoenis Céspedes—from the shore.

In the foreground of the sound, fifty meters from where we stood, were sailboats standing on their keels, propped up by a stilt on either flank, and many small fishing boats lying on their sides in the wet sand like a hundred dead fish. The dark sludge, dotted with white seashells and splotches of purple algae, glistened a platinum sheen in the evening light. I half expected one of the beached boats to give a final desperate flop.

This part of the French coast experiences some of the biggest tidal fluctuations in Europe. The next morning, the boats would, once again, be full of life, rocking back and forth in meters deep water. At least they had better be, I thought, because that flat sand bar, enclosed by a long stone port, was where we were scheduled to board the 10:45 ferry for the island, and unless it was something like Boston’s amphibious duck boats, it wasn’t going to make it over there.

Île de Batz

The tide did rise, thank God, because the ferry, as I suspected, was not amphibious. It was a tiny little thing, with capacity for no more than thirty people inside its cabin. The only vehicles on board were a Yamaha XMax scooter and a few bicycles out on the front deck, which bore splashes of sea spray each time the bow crashed into the whitecaps.

Only about 450 residents hold down the island during the off season. The summer folk, it seemed, had scheduled renovation projects during that time, as many of our fellow passengers—carrying tools and wearing sturdy shoes—were headed for jobsites. The rest were islanders, hauling back bags of toilet paper and other supplies from the continent.

It would take us roughly four hours to walk the perimeter of the island, starting out westward from the southern port, through the small village: a cluster of granite cottages with peaked slate roofs and medieval looking doors, barely big enough for a hobbit. Some palm trees spilled out of their gardens and over the tall stone walls enclosing them.

The Île de Batz, the locals assured us, is home to a “micro-climate” that resembles the Mediterranean more than northwestern France. As proof, an exotic botanical garden was established in 1897 at the east end of the island, which is now home to 1700 plant species from around the world.

“My ass,” I thought, staring up at the ominous grey clouds. The climate, to that point, had been more moody than micro, and I was happy to have my new sweater. We continued past the village, beyond its protective walls, where we met a fierce wind coming in from the sea, strong enough to whisk Eva, had she been holding an umbrella, clear across the channel to Cornwall.

We strolled down a narrow dirt path that separated the wild coast from the pastures. To our left, steel blue boulders rolled down the bluffs, framing crescents of white sand beaches. To our right, horses grazed, unfazed by the gusts, in a rippling expanse of tall grass.

“Look!” Eva pointed to balls of seafoam floating by our faces and into the fields. Our eyes retraced their flight down to a frothy bath that had formed in a cluster of rocks. The wind was stirring it up into a tourbillon, blowing the foam onto the island like a child blowing bubbles. “It looks like Aphrodite is about to rise up!”

She kindly explained her reference, after I reminded her of my American public school education, and we continued down the path—enchanted, stupefied—towards the light house on the island’s west end, the only structure in sight, barring the occasional cottage or abandoned granite barn.

It wasn’t until we rounded the lighthouse and reached the island’s northern shore—along which rows of purple artichokes grew in small parcels of rich black soil—that I broke away from the scenery’s trance and began to dream of the upcoming event, the very reason (besides some quality R&R) for our visit to Roscoff: Eva’s birthday dinner at NORI, a three-toques, one-star Michelin restaurant in an old merchant’s manor, now an Inn & Spa in the Relais & Châteaux collection. Artichokes, being an emblematic crop of the region (weird, I know, but that’s micro-climates for you), would surely appear on the menu.

Roscoff

The return ferry, lacking wheels, had to drop us at the low tide port on the far end of town. As we walked back into the center, we noticed a plaque marking a house where Alexandre Dumas spent the summer of 1869 (Bryan Adams fans rejoice) writing the “Oignon” chapter of his Grand Dictionnaire de Cuisine.

The penman of The Three Musketeers and The Count of Monte Cristo, like many French writers, was also a bonafide gastronome. But Dumas’s arrival in Roscoff likely had more to do with seascapes than with alliums. In fact, the town’s now famous sweet pink onions were previously unknown to the writer. “If, to be able to write about a subject, one must have the subject in view,” he wrote, “then it is by providence that I arrived in Roscoff at the moment the word ‘onion’ would appear under my pen.”

Today, on the town’s main drag, there’s mention of onions almost everywhere you look. The butcher sells saucisson à l’oignon de Roscoff, while the grocers sell Roscoff onion jam and Roscoff onion soup. Even the gift shops hang bunches of them alongside refrigerator magnets and alphabetized first-name souvenir bowls.

A sign outside the Maison des Johnnies recounts the history of the onion merchants of the 19th century who loaded their bicycles with the pink-skinned globes, sailed to England, and rode door to door selling their crop. Many of them bore the popular Breton firstname Yannick, which the Brits anglicized to “Johnny,” giving them their nickname, “the Onion Johnnies”.

Today the oignon de Roscoff is integral to the local DNA. The product is protected by an AOP (appellation d’origine protégée) and venerated in an onion festival held in Roscoff every August.

There was, however, a Roscoff before onions. One could even say that, just like Dumas, the variety arrived by divine providence. Legend tells of a Capuchin monk returning from a stay in Portugal with a delectable onion of a rose hue. This story is celebrated but unverified by The New York Times. (I don’t write for The New York Times, but still, I don’t think they have verified this story.)

In any event, the pink onion couldn’t have chosen a prettier place to settle. We circled the main square around the Église Notre Dame de Croaz-Batz, a baroque, granite church, with fresh emerald moss growing on its slate shingled roof, and headed back through town, past impeccably maintained stone houses and centuries-old manors, towards our hotel, home to NORI, where we’d dine the following evening.

Breakfast at the Hôtel Brittany & Spa

Dinner—if the hotel’s breakfast was any indication—was going to be fantastic. We started the day, Friday, March 13th—Eva’s birthday—with hot dashi poured over a small bowl of smoked pollack, radish, and green onion. Chef Loïc Lebail, a Brittany native, often travels to his wife’s home country of Japan. Her culture has strongly influenced how he uses the fruits of his home region.

I know what you’re thinking. The Franco-Japanese culinary melange is about as common a mix as golden doodles, but the compatibility can’t be argued, especially in the Finistère, where seaweed has long been used as a fertilizer, but only recently as food.

At the buffet-spread next to the dashi bowls sat a delicious array of mostly traditional charcuterie, like paté de tête, paté en croûte, and smoked pork belly, along with some modernized classics, like pork terrine with wakame, or seaweed tartare.

What really intrigued me though, past the egg station and across from the Breton pastries—crêpe, kouign-amann, far breton—was a selection of unfamiliar fermented dairy products. Gros lait, lait ribot—what are these things? The first was thick and custardy. The latter bubbled in its carafe. Both were porcelain white. Having suppressed the urge to try them—perhaps for lack of courage, or maybe for lack of room—I went on with my day, hoping they’d reappear at dinner.

Dinner at NORI

The maître de maison, in his great wisdom, suggested we enjoy an aperitif in the hotel’s bar before proceeding to the dining room. He must have sensed we were thirsty, because our coupes of extra brut vanished like liquid nitrogen poured into a sauna, and I had to fight the urge—while he escorted us to the restaurant—to tell him there was a hole in my glass. I’m only 27. That’s still too young for such remarks. Once I hit thirty, though, I’m letting ‘em rip.

He led us past the massive fireplace where a few logs burned, to a round table dressed in thick white linen in the back corner of the already full dining room. Had this been breakfast, we’d have requested a table in the front with a view, but the stone arched windows that so beautifully framed the seascape that morning had become black mirrors, faintly reflecting the warmly lit tables. For the first time, we noticed the room’s beauty and scale: the meticulous stone masonry, the long, serpentine beams holding up the ceiling. Then a server arrived with…

Les Amuse-Gueules:

Three tartelettes…

… arranged in a row. We started, as instructed, on the left with what tasted like the world’s greatest “French onion dip”—a shiny white globe of lait ribot (the bubbling stuff from breakfast, which turned out to be the regional term for buttermilk) topped with Fried Roscoff onion. We worked rightward to another shiny ball—maroon now, instead of white—of crème de boudin noir with something like Chinese five-spice and topped with translucently thin Granny Smith slices. The liquified boudin rested on a crispy snail-like chip, made from tightly rolling a buckwheat crêpe and cutting it into thin slices. I could have ended my evening with those flavors and been satisfied, but I opened my heart and my mouth to the final delight: smoked pollack, marinated kombu, and red currant on a tapioka chip. The bar had been set, and it was scraping the ceiling.

Bouillabaisse Squid…

… arrived in a hand crafted ceramic bowl. The staff didn’t actually acknowledge any relation to bouillabaisse, but this dish was an obvious wink to Marseille. Supple rings of poached squid sat in a viscous rockfish broth with buckwheat kernels, fennel, and a dollop of aioli at the bowl’s base. Wowed, I wondered how they would keep this up.

Red Mullet Maki

With our thumb and our index fingers, we pushed a rectangular sheet of nori (hey, that’s the name of the restaurant) into a small mass of fish and puffed buckwheat, which unfortunately overpowered the garnishes: gellified ponzu and raspberry powder. A slight dip, but our gueules were nonetheless amused by these impressive undercards.

The Main Event began with…

Foie gras…

… in the form of a millefeuille, layered with powdered pain d’épices, and topped with a mango and maracuja condiment, bottarga, and a foie gras macaron. Any intelligible commentary from Eva and me ceased, giving way to a concert of mmmm’s and oh my god’s. We enjoyed the heavenly brick, morsel by morsel, on a wedge of toasted country pain au levain.

Scallops snacké…

…or, lightly seared, were served with a steaming sauce of fish stock and milk (just trust it), and parsnips prepared two ways: puréed, and fried in the form of a nest. Sporadic dots of citrus cream brightened the otherwise rich mollusks.

Eva, who was still nursing a glass of Chablis, was now bonding with a young man on the service staff over their shared love for Lana del Rey. I used the opportunity to chat with the sommelier, who suggested I fill my dry glass with a certain red Burgundy. That would be the best match for the rest of the menu and would even go nicely with…

The best damn fish I’ve ever had

A nearly translucent pollack nacré (meaning, more or less, gently poached in butter) flaked away into delicate chunks, perfect for dragging through the limequat cream and vanilla beurre blanc, a nod to Lebail’s old mentor, Alain Senderens, who famously served lobster à la vanille at his three-star Paris restaurant, now home to Alain Passard’s Arpège.

A circular film of gros lait (that’s the other novel dairy from breakfast, which turned out to be fermented curds) covered golden brown cauliflower, Roscoff onions, and more gros lait, this time in its brut form. Both Eva and I needed a moment to gather ourselves after what was easily the best fish of our lives, which is why the…

Côte de Veau…

… topped with sea snails, felt like a sick joke. I could handle one superlative dish, but two back to back proved dangerously intoxicating. To merely describe the veal as “perfectly cooked” would be an insult to the chef. I couldn’t tell if it had been reverse seared or cooked sous vide in a bath of holy water, but the veal was so flavorful that Eva was convinced it was lamb. A jus à l’orange dressed the dish, along with seaweed tartare nestled in a brussel sprout leaf, artichokes (there they are), Roscoff onions, parsnip, and white carrot.

I’ve heard from chefs that main courses are often less interesting than starters due to the constraints, or rather the demands—the need for a protein, a vegetable, a starch—but Loïc Lebail’s main courses taste as unconstrained as a Fellini movie, with all the narrative beats of a Tarantino flick. And like so much great cinema, Lebail’s last act was decidedly…

Bittersweet

“Look how the angles of this coastline fit right into Rhode Island,” I had been rambling to Eva earlier that day, analyzing Google Maps on my phone. “I bet you they were touching back when this was still pangea. You could’ve walked a mile that way,” I pointed to the beach, “and ended up right in downtown Westerly.”

“Yeahhh… ya know… maybe!”

It turned out, not at all. But that impressively stupid statement reflected the rare feeling Roscoff awakened in me: the feeling of being home, of wanting to stay put, in a place we had never been. Perhaps the village struck that elusive balance—the one so revered by MBAs and marketing executives—of novelty and familiarity. Or maybe these two days had just been a beautiful respite from the daily striving and the constant preoccupation of our lives in Paris. Wouldn’t it be nice to stay here?

Eva, that afternoon, had been indulging in fantasies of her own, scrolling through local real estate listings. “Oh my god, only a million for this one on the Île de Batz,” she showed me an old granite house with a walled garden and water views.

“That ain’t bad.”

“Or 175,000 for this little house in Roscoff, look how cuuuuute!”

Before dinner, we took a walk by the smaller house, ten minutes inland from the church. We fantasized how we’d spend our days there. All the books to read, the coastline to explore, the vegetables to grow, the recipes to make, the stories to tell. Anything to buy more time there, more freedom.

…

With a heartfelt smile, the maître de maison brought us our prédessert, bid us goodnight, and left the stage. Only a couple of staff members stayed in the dining room to look after the remaining couples, now giggling with bellies full of wine.

We cracked our spoons through the honeycomb tuile, into sweet cream and a delightfully bitter sorbet of buckwheat and hops. Like a melancholic McCartney melody, I wanted to eat it over and over.

We hesitated before breaking into the main dessert, a trompe l’œil, which, as little Carmine will tell you, means “fool the eye.” The longer we stared at the rock-like sculpture of hazelnut and chocolate, the longer our fantasy would last. But the tonka bean ice cream was melting. We had no choice but to dig in.

“C’est comme des petits oiseaux !” — (“They’re like little birds!”) Eva exclaimed to the server when she brought us four little mignardises—mango cream and black sesame, a lemon tartlet, a pina colada choux, and a divine chocolate ganache—aligned on a branch of drift wood. She was feeling slightly less inhibited after two glasses of wine.

These mignardises at these fine dining restaurants might seem superfluous; and, at times, they are. But that night they were crucial. It’d have been too hard to leave without one last little song, something sweet to help us see the bright side. And so we savored them, contemplating how we’d spend the next morning before our departure. “Maybe we can go back to that lady and get another sweater!” Eva suggested. After all, she had been kind enough to spare us.

Nori at Hôtel Brittany & Spa

22 Bd Sainte-Barbe, 29680 Roscoff

I am very much looking forward to setting my eyes on the Atlantic and to tasting the creations of Chef Loïc Le Bail.

A Brittany native, Le Bail proudly dresses his plates with the products of his region—one that’s known, not only for its seafood, but also for its hearty root vegetables (think Roscoff onions), and dairy products like beurre de baratte.

After making his bones under the likes of Pierre Gagnaire, he has developed his own style, drawing inspiration from his many travel destinations, namely Japan, where his wife is also from.

Dents de Loup

75 Rue Marguerite de Rochechouart, 75009 Paris

This may be the year of the horse, but I am declaring it the year of charcuterie. It could just be my algorithm, but my Instagram is inundated with beautiful images and renewed adoration for things like paté en croûte, boudin noir, l’Oreiller de la Belle Aurore, and other produits de la chasse.

Charcuterie poses a bit of a pickle for tourists, because it is typically something locals pick up from a good traiteur/charcutier and enjoy at home. That can be intimidating for a foreigner, and not ideal for someone staying in a spartan hotel room.

Dents de Loup has solved this pickle with its butcher/counter/restaurant format, meaning customers can enjoy their beautiful products sur place!

À La Renaissance

87 Rue de la Roquette, 75011 Paris

This old café de quartier has stirred up quite the buzz. I—in typical out-of-the-loop fashion—know nothing about it. And that’s the way I like it. I’ll be going in blind. The photos, in any event, have me salivating.

I’ll be headed there with Caitlin Gunther of to see what’s what. Will report back

Feel free to reply or comment with some of the restaurants, products, or destinations on your radar. I’ll see you all next week with regularly scheduled programming!

Max

It’s February 25th and I’ve just answered “yes” to the question of whether I’d like ice with my limonade. I’m seated on a boardwalk of sorts, taking long sips of the thick spring air, perfumed by the blooming cherry blossoms to my left. The sunlight is bouncing off of white facades across the vast open space below.

I barely have the heart to tell my friends back home, who have just risked life and limb shoveling out feet of snow from a record setting blizzard, that two days ago on the very same terrace and in the very same weather, I ordered a pair of n°2 oysters (n°2 is the gauge) supplied, according to the menu, by Monsieur Johnny (whoever the hell that is). I slurped them down, thus opening the gates to a flood of childhood memories, not of eating, but of being tumbled over by ocean waves twice my eight-year-old height. They had the same unpleasant brininess of a gulp of Atlantic sliding down the wrong pipe.

I began to believe that I really was on the coast, with the sound of seagulls squawking in the distance, until I looked up to waves of hurried travelers with suitcases and headphones stepping off the escalator to join me on this elevated pavilion, reminding me that I am not actually in Biarritz, but on the Rue d’Alsace in Paris’s gritty 10th arrondissement. The harbor below is one of iron rails, carrying trains from all across central Europe to platforms of Gare de l’Est. Mixed in with the luggage-pulling passersby are many local residents of this ethnically South Asian neighborhood, going about their business.

My fellow lunchers on the terrace of Café Les Deux Gares, on the other hand, are decidedly bobo (bohémien, bourgeois: French shorthand for hipster), drawn here by a list of natural wines and the seasonal sensibilities of Chef Jonathan Schweizer.

And who can blame them? While I can’t say I enjoyed that oyster-induced flashback of beach day tumbles, I did rather enjoy returning inland to a crunchy bite of Jerusalem artichoke—advertised on the menu as confited, but let’s be honest, it was just roasted—served with silky and sweet crème de ricotta et courge, and brightened by sprigs of dill and razor-thin cedra slices.

If the weather was no indication of the season, my main course certainly was: a hefty hunk of boudin noir with pommes grenailles, glazed carrot, cime di rapa, and a sweet and punchy sauce moutarde.

Café Les Deux Gares does an impressive job of walking the neobistrot tightrope, embracing the brighter angels of new-age cuisine, while forgoing the fluff. The boudin dish was hardy and honest enough to satisfy the most ardent sticklers for rustic tradition, but not without touches of modern finesse.

The bite and bitterness of the cime di rapa—not something you’ll see on traditional bistrot menus—rounded out an otherwise soft dish. Its broad leaves acted as a barbecue brush, basting my palate with intense, savory jus.

More bistronomique flares showed up in our dessert. Bergamot zest played a sweet melody over an otherwise classic île flottante—among the best I’ve ever had, not that I’m really in the habit of ordering île flottante—and although we were forced to have our cheese at the same time (we were told the kitchen would soon be closing), we could be thankful it was a mild and delightfully creamy Brillat-Savarin, and not something potent like a blue. I wouldn’t have liked the taste of roquefort with crème anglaise.

A signature bistrot blend of espresso rounded out the meal, with notes of charred earth and cigar butt. My friend, in his wisdom, ordered a noisette so as to soften the bitter blow with frothed milk. The coffee, plus a juicy glass of gamay, brought my three course lunch to just over 37 euros. Not bad for two imaginary hours of basking in Biarritz.

‘Left Bank Treasures’ Food Tour

If you follow me on Instagram, you may have seen that I have launched a very special food tour starting at the pantheon and culminating with a tasting in a truly magical private péniche, right at Pont Neuf. The 3 hour experience with the first group of this tour is something I hope I’ll never forget.

If you’re coming to Paris and you want to taste your way through the city’s most charming neighborhoods, all while learning the stories behind every bite, you can check out my booking page here.

I look forward to having you!

Finally Switched to Substack

I don’t know what the hell took me so long, but you can now see my posts on your Substack feed, in addition to my website or in your inbox.

Feel free to comment on this post if you enjoyed it, or even if you didn’t honestly, have a good time! And if you really liked it, I would greatly appreciate if you shared it.

See you next week,

Max

Share

A waitress at a New England diner might approach your table with a bulbous carafe of coffee and offer to “warm you up” before refilling your inch thick mug with scorched black brew. The Greeks and Turks, on the other hand, use small copper pots attached to long handles to cook a steaming coffee sludge, spiced with cardamom, cinnamon, clove, etc. Meanwhile, in gay Paris, thousands of allongés and cafés crèmes pass across the trays of les garçons de café every day.

These are local coffee traditions, and they teach us a great deal about nations, regions, and towns. But across the world today, and increasingly in Paris, there’s a new generation of coffee shops devoid of any local culture. These shops don’t typically open their doors until around 9:30, and close them around 5 pm, limiting their clientele to remote workers, unemployed people, and trust fund babies. They also usually suffer from hipster service, meaning the staff is either completely indifferent to the presence of customers, or treats them as an imposition. They let you enter, watch you squirm for a while, unsure how to order, and then they have the nerve to address you with the utmost casual familiarity.

This week, in an effort to kill thirty minutes between appointments, I stepped into one of these hell capsules in the 5th arrondissement. The man at the counter invited me to take a seat, without ever bringing me a menu, and since not a single employee seemed to notice my presence, I decided to scan the other tables to discern my options.

Next to some of the laptops, I noticed tall cups filled with what looked like drip-filter coffee, so I did my best to order it with the information I had.

“Tu veux un v60 ou un café filtre?” (“Do you want a v60 or a filter coffee?”) a server finally asked me.

The Sopranos; Paulie orders just a coffee HD

I could barely hear her over all the remote workers, shouting Zoom-meeting insights into AirPods, their voices ricocheting off the bare concrete walls, rattling my every organ. But it wasn’t just the acoustics that irked me. It was the avocado toasts coming from the kitchen, the sloth-like pace of the staff, the whole damn miserable vibe.

My day may have been ruined had the coffee not been… well…delicious. Each sip was was fruity, funky, warm, and toasty. It was a far cry from the old school cafés, that—as far as I’m aware—don’t even use coffee beans. They just collect the prior day’s cigarette ashes and press them through the machine.

As I’ve written before, I frequent the old cafés, not for their coffee, but because they hand you a menu when you arrive, and they take your order promptly; because the tables are sturdy and the chairs don’t give you scoliosis; and because, if I were to suddenly wake from a deep sleep in one of these cafés, I’d see the zinc bar, the mosaic tiles, and the cast iron pillars, and immediately know I was in Paris. Wake me up in a new school coffee shop, on the other hand, and I wouldn’t be able to tell Massachusetts from Mongolia.

But sometimes, after drinking my umpteenth cup of cigarette ash, my tastebuds just can’t take anymore abuse.

Simple Coffee, 78 Rue des Martyrs, Paris 18

It has been an unlikely love story. On paper, Simple Coffee represents everything I try to avoid: vaguely American food, stratospheric prices, incomprehensible coffee terminology. And yet, I’m curiously head over heals for this place. But we’re all full of moral contradictions—Donald Trump’s most trusted advisor, for example, is somehow both jewish and a nazi—so if I can contain mine to my coffee shop preferences, I think I’m in pretty good shape.

I never would have gone to Simple had I not been invited by a friend about a year ago. I ordered a double espresso and a granola bowl which were both inconveniently outstanding. The coffee tasted like dried red berries and rich dark chocolate. The bowl was full of fresh fruit, home made rhubarb jelly, a ginger condiment, and creamy fromage blanc.

I’ve returned frequently since that first visit, trekking across most of the menu, and each time I’ve been similarly stunned. It all made sense when I learned Simple’s chef, Margaux, had cut her teeth in some of Paris’s most reputed bistronomique restaurants, like Les Arlots and Le Sélune. Those are some serious chops for a coffee shop.

But it’s not just the quality of the products that keeps me coming back. How refreshing it is to be served by a staff that actually want to be there; that take pride in what they make, even if what they make is a little hipster.

Falling in love with Simple Coffee has taught me, among other things, that I’m an asshole, and that there’s no reason to lament the new wave of specialty coffee shops in Paris; because, if Simple is any indication, they’re just another place to nerd out about food and drink. There’s plenty of room in this city for the old and new schools to co-exist, and thank God, because we need them both.

As always, feel free to reply to this email if you enjoyed this week’s newsletter, and click here to read past issues.

See you next week,

Max

The unofficial mayor of Montmartre works at a little bistrot on the Rue de Caulaincourt called Au Rêve.

“T’as de la chance, eh ? C’est le dernier,” — (“You’re very lucky, that’s the last one,”) she told me as she took my order.

She skips the formal vous and goes right to the tu, not because it’s fashionable and “bobo,” but because she assumes—if you’re here at this tiny Montmartre institution where everyone knows everyone—that you’ve been here before and that you’re part of the crowd. Even if you aren’t, and you’ve arrived knowing no one, you’ll probably leave having gotten to know someone.

“J’ai pris le dernier œuf mayo !” — (“I’ve got the last œuf mayo !”) she shouted to her colleagues as she walked back inside from the terrace, her arms full of dishes, pushing the door open with her foot.

Au Rêve had recently won an award for their œufs mayonnaises—a fact I had completely forgotten until that day. I was drawn there, not by the eggs, but by the sunshine on the terrace, the convivial atmosphere, and a general curiosity about the food at a bistrot I had often been to, but only for coffee or libations.

When my eggs arrived, the man at the next table said, “ah, tu vas te régaler !” — (“You’re gonna love them!”)

“I’m told they’re the best in Paris.”

“Du monde !” — (“In the world!”) he corrected me, pointing to the fresh white lettering on the window behind my head.

CHAMPION DU MONDE DE L’ŒUF MAYONNAISE
2026 

I chuckled. World champion? Who the hell is making œufs mayo apart from the French? It was like a Pennsylvania diner claiming the best scrapple in the universe.

“Bon appetit,” he said smiling.

Like most of the patrons on this sunny Saturday in February, he had arrived alone, hoping to run into some familiar faces, which, of course, he immediately did. He sat down with his beer at the table to my left to join a young lady—a former employee at Au Rêve—who put away her book to catch up with the old pal.

My œufs mayo looked about as pretty as an œuf mayo can look, which is still not all that pretty. After all, it’s a boiled egg with mayonnaise. The aesthetic ceiling is only so high.

As I went to take my first bite, a honking moped zipped by with a girl on the back shouting “Papa ! Papa !” and waving.

“C’est ma fille, ça ? Avec un garçon ? Je vais l’appeler.” — (“Is that my daughter? With a boy? Let me call her.”)

The eggs sat atop a disk of confited leek with a light vinaigrette that cut through the rich homemade mayo, while a pressed crouton disk—clearly made in house from artisanal bread—provided a necessary buttery crunch. Lovely.

I had gotten to know my neighbors a bit better by the time I received my tartare de bœuf with scrumptiously roasted pommes grenailles. The young lady who remembered me from her time working there had quit to continue her studies, while the gentleman nursing his beer turned out to be the brother of the owner. Suddenly the sighting of his daughter seemed less coincidental. They probably drove by expecting to see him.

“How funny that everyone seems to know everyone,” I remarked.

“Beh oui, c’est Montmartre !” — (“Well yeah, it’s Montmartre!”)

Tartare, in my opinion, is a great way to size up a café/bistrot. There’s really no place to hide when all you’ve got is raw beef, seasoning, potatoes, and a little salad. This one came préparé, meaning the sauces and accoutrements are already mixed into the beef. At some establishments, one can find it—or request it—non préparé, meaning the shallots, capers, cornichons, etc., are all neatly separated on your plate, allowing you to choose your own adventure.

The accoutrements were fresh, the seasoning spot-on, and the beef tender and room temperature, rather than cold from the fridge—hallelujah! I only requested tabasco for added kick and to cut through the creamy egg yolk.

My neighbor stood up to greet a pretty, bespectacled woman—his wife—and she sat down to join our chatter corner. By that time, the winter sun, filling the sky with blue, had conquered the cool breeze such that I began to sweat under my layers of clothes.

Paris has far fewer traditional bistrots than it did decades ago, but there seems to be a resurgence taking place. The younger generation is taking stewardship of many old haunts, oozing with character, developed over decades in some cases, centuries in others. The annual bistrot awards (a separate entity from the one responsible for the mayo egg championship), hosted by the food critic Gilles Pudlowski, have recognized the trend, this year adding the category meilleure ouverture (best new opening). The 2026 awards created more buzz than ever before.

That day, I understood why. The terrace was brimming with laughter, gossip, friendships old and new; and Au Rêve, in that moment, epitomized l’art de vivre à la parisienne. That’s a culture worth celebrating.

Finally the woman arrived with my chocolate mousse: an airy mass with elegant contours from the spoon that had scooped it. “What a befitting name,” I thought as I sunk my spoon into the gleaming confection… “Au Rêve.”

We’re all in on the bistrots recently. Feel free to reply to this email with some of your favorite traditional repaires in Paris. And don’t forget to share Club des Meal with your foodie friends!

See you next week,

Max

You’d never expect it, walking up the Rue de Belleville—something of a Chinatown in Paris’s 19th arrondissement, with blocks of Chinese groceries, noodle shops, and dumpling houses; themselves worth the metro ticket—to take a right and suddenly BAM, there she is: La France !

For the average neighborhood, Le Baratin would be as inconspicuous a bistrot as one could possibly imagine, but in Belleville it sticks out like a Dutchman in North Korea. In terms of pricing, however, for this working-class quartier populaire, the bistrot fits right in. 23 euros for an entrée, plat et dessert at lunchtime.

You’d better reserve, though. Le Baratin was busy enough before it was named third best restaurant in Paris by Time Out in 2025. And you’d better time your call right too. That’s right, your call. RESY and other restaurant modernities have not yet penetrated these walls.

“Dans deux semaines ? Rappelez-nous trois ou quatre jours avant. Je ne sais pas si je serai toujours en vie dans deux semaines.”

“(In two weeks? Call us back a few days out. I don’t know if I’ll still be alive in two weeks),” was the advice from the man who answered the phone. Advice we heeded.

When he crossed my name off the reservation list two weeks later, I understood why. The man was on the older side, yes, but appeared to be in good health. He was just too damn zen, too present in the moment, in the bistrot, to bother with two weeks from now. He watched over his kingdom from behind the counter. Solid. Confident. Sipping his white wine. He was like something out of Greek mythology. A bistrotaur: half man, half bar. (Yes, that’s a Larry Sanders Show reference).

That whole “third best” business meant nothing to me. I understand how ridiculous these restaurant rankings are. For 23 euros you can’t expect to be blown away—just that the food be hot and edible.

I got the feeling here, more than almost any Parisian restaurant I’ve been to, that I’d entered someone’s home. Books are jammed precariously into every available crevice of a densely packed bookshelf. Supplies and miscellaneous objects are stored under the leather banquette, and the ambiance is animated, despite the (in some places) sparsely decorated walls.

The staff interact with each other like family (perhaps they are), and treat customers with a calloused Parisian warmth; which, frankly, is exactly the level of geniality I desire in the miserable month of February. I’m not feeling chatty. Although, I may be in the minority. Some Google reviewers seem to have taken the Parisian charm quite badly.

Entrées were the croustillant de boudin noir (crispy black pudding) for me, and the fraise de veau à la tomate et épices (veal intestines in tomato and spices) for my friend.

The feeling of home is as present in the cooking as it is in the atmosphere; from the simply dressed salade de pourpier and the hearty black pudding, right down to the open-too-long glass of red from the Jura. Diners of almost any European nationality would have tasted the delightfully simple fraise de veau and recognized it as grandma’s cooking.

Our mains, too, were “ugly-delicious,” a refreshing aesthetic in a world where most restaurants are too concerned with visuals to remember the essentials. Pork juice and paprika seeped out of the steaming rib into my decadent potatoes, gratin dauphinois. The rib was tasty and succulent, albeit a bit chewy. Food for the soul.

The word “baratin” means hot air. Smooth talk. Sleazy seduction. The type of nonsense to spew from the mouth of a grifter. Perhaps that’s a nod to Belleville’s historic reputation, but I couldn’t think of a less befitting name for a restaurant as honest and as authentic as this.

As we ate our desserts—a deliciously nutty glace au praliné (hazelnut praline ice cream) and a slightly less nutty pistachio pudding—I asked myself the famous François Simon question: Y retournerai-je ?

Oui, carrément !

As always, feel free to reply to this email if you enjoyed this review. Click here to read past issues, and don’t forget to share with your foodie friends.

See you next week,

Max

Club des Cent has counted among its members titans of industry like Robert Peugeot; aristocrats such as Jean de Luxembourg, Éric de Rothschild, and Albert II of Monaco; and even legendary chefs and culinary critics like Paul Bocuse, Alain Ducasse, Henri Gault, and Christian Millau.

However, the activities of these centistes—unlike those of the Bonesmen—do not involve grave digging or God knows what else. Rather, they revolve around—in typical French fashion—the rituals of haute cuisine; for the Club des Cent is, more than anything, a gastronomic society.

Its history is not dissimilar to that of the Michelin Guide, a publication over which les centistes have allegedly enjoyed great influence. Early last century, some high-society motorists were dissatisfied with the dining options along their grand tour routes; so, in 1912, they gathered one hundred friends (hence the name Club des Cent) to share their very best addresses for room and board in France. The novelist and centiste Curnonsky demanded a list of “maisons où l’on mange de très bonnes choses, sur du linge bien blanc, et dans de la vaisselle bien propre” (addresses where one eats very fine things, on very white linens, from very clean dishes).

The club famously hosts weekly lunches every Thursday from 12:40 to 14:30 at a different restaurant in greater Paris. Special members known as brigadiers are responsible, on a rotating basis, for selecting the location and organizing the meal. In the early days of the club, many of these gatherings took place at the famous Art Nouveau pearl of Paris, Maxim’s.

Prospective members must be sponsored (parrainés) by two existing members before being subjected to a rigorous inquisition on matters of food and wine. Eighteen members of a jury hurl questions such as, “What distinction would you make between a repas gourmet and a repas gourmand?” The goal is to discern the depth of appreciation and knowledge of les plaisirs de la bouche (pleasures of the mouth).

If you find yourself among the lucky few (nine in ten are allegedly rejected by the jury) who make it past this grilling, you will enter a period of stage, where you will remain until one of the hundred members dies. And when that fateful day finally arrives, rather than mourn the death of a centiste, you will revel in receiving your official member number (1–100).

The Club des Cent is, unsurprisingly, known for its lavish affairs. In 2012, for the club’s centennial, the wine baron Éric de Rothschild hosted the ninety-nine other members at Château Lafite, where he served a 1912 Lafite Rothschild.

With a level of secrecy and machismo reminiscent of Skull and Bones, it also comes as no surprise that the Club des Cent has always been a boys’ club. But where Yale’s secret senior societies eventually opened admission to women and to a diversity of races and creeds, the Club des Cent remains one hundred percent male and, I’m guessing, mostly white. Only one female member, sometime in the 1930s, it is said, ever earned membership in the club.

I, personally, see the exclusion of women as a fundamental problem, especially for a gastronomic society. Discrimination is, of course, wrong in and of itself, but my gripe has to do with matters less righteous. I would argue, after much observation, that women generally have far more sophisticated palates than men. How is it possible, then, to have a club dedicated to les plaisirs de la bouche when you’ve excluded the gender most capable of enjoying them?

The Birth of Club des Meal

Less than four months ago, I sent out the first issue of this newsletter to eighteen people—almost all friends and family—whom I added to the subscriber list without consent. Most have kindly stuck around, enduring my silly reviews cluttering their inboxes every Sunday. We now have over mille (1,000) subscribers, so I thought it was high time I explained where this little blog gets its name.

One day, flipping through the food encyclopedia, On Va Déguster Paris, by François‑Régis Gaudry—which I referenced heavily for this issue—I came across the page dedicated to the Club des Cent.

“That sounds cool… but too snobby and exclusionary. Mille! That’s more than a hundred. Club des Mille? Aha! Club des Meal!”

Hence the decision to spell “meal” without the s, as the s would ruin the pun.

So there you have it: three words combining two languages with vastly different phonetics, plus a very obscure cultural reference, resulting in a name that is completely incomprehensible even to the vast majority of my target audience. I’m a branding genius, right?

I knew that if I agonized over the name much longer, I’d never get around to pressing “send” on the first newsletter. Ultimately, I like that it references the Club des Cent while alluding to something more accepting, where the only requirements for membership are an interest in food and/or Paris—especially since I myself am very much an amateur.

Since gaining a small following on Instagram, some people have assigned me expertise when, in fact, I have none. Such is the illusion of the internet. The only area in which I—and other internet creators, regardless of niche—can credibly claim expertise, is the making of videos optimized for “the algorithm.” Real expertise in food and other subjects is much quieter and harder to come by.

What I try to share in my videos and newsletter is my experiences and my passion. What does it feel like to sit in these Parisian institutions? To bite into a fresh profiterole with cold vanilla ice cream and hot chocolate sauce, seated beneath a massive stained‑glass dome? To slurp down a classic oyster with mignonette on a sidewalk terrace?

My sole ambition is to capture the magic of this city and its food, and to share it with you. If that’s something that interests you, stick around. And if a friend might be interested too, you can send them this link.

As always, feel free to reply to this email if you found it interesting, and click here to read past issues.

See you next week,

Max

Of course, that’s a fine analogy for Mr. Guidara’s three-star palace, but Le Bouillon Pigalle in Paris’s ninth arrondissement is a different bird entirely. Diners don’t spend months trying to secure a reservation; they spend hours lined up by the sex shops of the Boulevard de Clichy waiting for a table. And it isn’t a world-renowned, multi-course meal that draws them, but a menu of French staples at rock-bottom prices.

I could see them through the window, hundreds of them packed on the sidewalk like Black Friday shoppers circa 2012, itching for one last retail rush before the Mayan prophecy wiped them all out.

We were all lining up for our 11:55 pre-shift briefing. I was dressed in a white shirt, black tie, black vest, and a half apron, about to start my very first shift. In five minutes, the floodgates would open, and I wouldn’t get my head above water, apart from a one-hour break, for another 12 hours.

The Bouillon’s director—a tall, sturdy, neatly-coiffed, blond man approaching his forties—ran quickly through roll call, just as the last team members rushed inside, still exhaling their final puff of cigarette smoke. We were twelve servers, a handful of commis de salle, three maître d’s, and one cashier.

In his strong Belgian accent, the director used the remaining minutes to instill in us the Bouillon’s chief values. There’s no time for “unreasonable hospitality” at the Bouillon Pigalle. The name of the game here, rather, is “pump and dump.” How else are you supposed to make over a million euros a month, charging just €3.80 for a French onion soup? Get their order, get them their food, and get them out.

At noon, the doors opened, commencing a customer service frenzy that I can only liken to a less luxurious version of Yubaba’s bathhouse. My section filled up almost immediately. I started by taking the orders three tables at a time: drinks, appetizers, and main courses all at once. Then, equipped with my large oval tray known as a torpilleur, I rushed to the back.

My first stop, right by the dish pit, was the drink station. I danced around my colleagues to grab carafes of water and Coca-Cola, and to fill up one-liter quilles of red wine from a series of taps (a huge selling point at only €15.20).

With all my liquids pushed towards the center, I carried my tray above my left shoulder over to the line. “Va te faire enculer!” (“Go f*** yourself”), one colleague shouted to another before kicking through the swinging double doors. Pans clanked, meat sizzled, and doors slammed as several servers and commis, all carrying trays, muscled themselves into line, shouting out their orders to the various sections of the kitchen.

There are no tickets at the Bouillon Pigalle; everything is announced verbally, and you are not allowed to leave the kitchen until every dish you’ve announced is on your tray. I started by pulling my cold starters from the fridge: œufs mayonnaise, poireaux vinaigrette, terrine de canard; and then announced the hot items: “Les entrées s’il vous plaît! Deux soupes à l’oignon, deux os à moelle et trois escargots s’il vous plaît!”

The cooks prepared the starters at lightning speed, slamming them onto the pass with a frisbee-like flick. I packed the plates tightly onto my tray until they overlapped like fallen dominoes fanning outward over the edge.

The last obstacle was the cashier who sat right at the exit of the kitchen. She inspected my tray, verifying that its contents matched what I had entered into the POS system with my pad (a busted-up iPhone at least five generations old). “N’oublie pas les pinces!” she shouted. I grabbed several little tongs for the escargot, placed my overflowing tray onto a stand, and served the various dishes to their respective tables.

And so it continued, hours on end, except that from then on, each time I went into the kitchen, my tray would be stacked high with dirty dishes, and I’d have the following courses of my existing tables to remember in addition to the new orders I took.

Needless to say, I was less the swan gliding across a tranquil pond, and more the limping pigeon, flapping in a puddle of sewage. I lasted only five days before deciding to find a job at a restaurant where I was less likely to develop scoliosis.

During those five days, I developed enormous respect for my colleagues and a strong curiosity about my customers’ experience. Were they actually enjoying this? Was it worth waiting upwards of an hour in the cold? A significant portion were tourists, sure, but not all. The French also came in droves to fill up on cheap wine and enjoy the belle époque nostalgia. They seemed to be satisfied, and that perplexed me. So this week, nearly a year after my last shift, I decided to experience the Bouillon Pigalle as a customer.

We arrived at precisely 18:59, and the line already stretched around the block. It was broken into two sections so as not to obstruct the entrance to the neighboring McDonald’s and the infamous “CinéX,” allegedly a porno movie theater, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what goes on in there, or at least not all that goes on in there.

My partner and I agreed that if we made it to the end of the first section in fifteen minutes, we’d stay; if not, we’d eat at our favorite ramen shop just around the corner. She halfway hoped we wouldn’t make it, and technically, we didn’t; but just as we were about to abandon our mission, the line advanced significantly in a sudden wave. And, although the past quarter hour was a sunk cost, we decided we were “priced in” (to use poker jargon) and that we might as well stay the course.

“Are you guys French?” a feminine Aussie accent inquired from behind.

“She is, I’m not,” I replied.

“Oh, do you know if this place is good? The receptionist at my hotel told me to come here. I have no idea what it is, like, I didn’t know there was a line or anything. I’m here for one day, then I’m going to Disneyland Paris. Do you know if they have snails?”

There ya go, I thought to myself. Case in point, why people think French food is overrated. They come for one day, and they’re sent to the Bouillon.

I did my best to rectify this injustice. For the remainder of our wait, we engaged in friendly conversation and provided several restaurant recommendations that I hoped would redeem the image of French gastronomy in her eyes.

Finally, exactly one hour after getting in line, a host brought us to our table. Our server was visibly “in the weeds,” 8 pm being the peak of the peak. He ran up to our table with a stack of menus, asking, “You want eengleesh?”—a question we hoped was more indicative of the general clientele than the look on our faces.

Having found his rhythm, he took ours and the neighboring table’s order just a few minutes later. From then on—boosted by our nethermost expectations—we enjoyed an evening of pleasant surprises.

Eva’s onion soup, while heavy on cheap stringy cheese, was deemed “ya know what, not that bad,” while my onion and goat cheese tarte tatin earned the official rating of “ça passe eh… ça passe de ouf.”

Having gotten my fill of meat over the holiday, I continued with a heaping plate of ravioles du Dauphiné (cheese and parsley ravioli) in creamy leek with a gratin top. The flavors were rich, but not heavy. Eva opted for a second starter: quiche Lorraine and mesclun salad. Each received the respectable distinction of “c’est bon, franchement.”

And we admitted to each other, as we polished a scrumptious crème brulée, that there’s something special about a place like the Bouillon Pigalle. Beyond the food, they’ve engineered a certain magic. It starts outside, waiting in the cold, then crescendos as the line snakes indoors. Just being seated becomes the principal victory. Finally, nestled tightly around a table, one can enjoy the frantic energy, that classic Parisian spectacle of pigeons flapping in a puddle. Whatever follows is gravy, provided expectations remain measured.

As always, feel free to reply to this email with any thoughts or greetings, and click here to read past installments.

See you next week,

Max

Paris was covered in snow this week. This image captures the feeling better than any of my iPhone pictures.

Travel is like a shipwreck, and those whose boat has not sunk will never know anything about the sea.

Nicolas Bouvier, Le vide et le plein: Carnet du Japon 1964-1970

While I don’t hope for your Paris trip to turn into a shipwreck, the sentiment remains. There’s something to be said for embracing spontaneity, not only because your journey will—despite your best efforts—not go as planned, but because some of the most magical moments in this city come from aimless wandering.

In the event you do find yourself adrift in the streets of Paris with a grumbling stomach, there are some beacons of hope, some lifeboats, that can sail you to a delicious shore; you just need to know what to look for.

Here are 5 plaques you may find on a restaurant’s facade and what they mean.

Number 1:

Maître Restaurateur — 100% Homemade, Guaranteed by the Government

Have you noticed how the restaurant business, especially in the States, has mostly become the “heated-up Sysco food” business? Well, French restaurateurs noticed a similar trend in their industry. True artisans struggled to compete amidst cheapening standards.

In 2007, the Ministère des PME, du Commerce et de l’Artisanat (Ministry of Small and Medium Businesses of Commerce and Craft) decided to redeem the dignity of the profession by creating the Maître Restaurateur, a label that guarantees 100% made-in-house from fresh, unprocessed ingredients.

Members are subject to independent audits to verify the professionalism and qualifications of the Chef, as well as the adherence to the values of the association.

Number 2:

le Collège Culinaire — The 2011 Dream Team

While spectacular thefts such as the Kim Kardashian robbery or the Louvre heist pervade French media, a far more sinister, ongoing theft remains largely uncovered by the press—the perpetrator: industrialization, the jewel: French gastronomy.

In response to the Nation’s pleas for protection and justice, fifteen of France’s most esteemed culinary heroes, the likes of Alain Ducasse, Paul Bocuse, Pierre Troisgros, Anne-Sophie Pic, and Guy Savoy, all patted the dust off their capes to found le Collège Culinaire de la France.

Whereas the Association Francaise des Maîtres Restaurateurs is run and administered by the French government, le Collège Culinaire is an independent association financed by over 3000 members (over 2000 restaurants and 1000 artisans/producers).

The association organizes hundreds of events every year for the promotion and advocacy of quality French cuisine. Its members can be identified by the elegant oval plaque shown above.

Number 3:

Gault & Millau — the Inspectors

We are all familiar with the three stars of the Michelin Guide, but do you know the five toques of Gault & Millau?

Founded in 1969 by journalists and food critics Henri Gault and Christian Millau, Gault & Millau is a gastronomic guide testing restaurants across the country. Its impartial inspectors rate restaurants on a 20-point scale—just like the French academic grading system—based on taste, presentation, and creativity.

• A Table Original (0 toque, 10-10.5 points) offers simple but sincere cuisine, either traditional or contemporary.

• A Table Gourmande (1 toque, 11-12.5 points) offers a solid classic base, good technique, and a good choice in products.

• A Table de Chef (2 toques, 13-14.5 points) offers impeccable products cooked by a versatile chef who not only has excellent technique, but has the skill to make creative variations to traditional or contemporary cuisine. These restaurants sometimes also have one Michelin star.

• A Table Remarquable (3 toques, 15-16.5 points) displays excellent execution by a committed chef with their own signature style.

• A Table de Prestige (4 toques, 17-18.5 points) connotes a cuisine d’auteur (signature cuisine? difficult to translate) made with exceptional ingredients where the chef’s personality and the emotions of the flavors are masterfully crafted… whatever that’s supposed to mean. Expect to be moved at this level. These restaurants can have up to three Michelin stars.

• A Table d’Exception (5 toques, 19-19.5 points) is the very pinnacle of gastronomy. These restaurants are unique, memorable, and simply perfect. They very often have three Michelin stars.

Number 4:

Les Grandes Tables du Monde — la crème de la crème

In the event your trip to Paris does become a shipwreck, it’s very unlikely this plaque will save you; just as it’d be unlikely to have a Hinckley as a lifeboat. Les Grandes Tables du Monde is an association of the finest, most upscale restaurants in the world. Thus, it’s highly unlikely—but not impossible—to dine at one without having reserved well in advance. Nevertheless, you may see the above image of Le Coq Gaulois etched into a gold-plated plaque and wonder what it means, so here it is…

In 1954, six titans of French gastronomy, including Claude Terrail (La Tour d’Argent), Louis Vaudable (Maxim’s), and Raymond Oliver (Le Grand Véfour), were having a friendly discussion, presumably over a glass of cognac, and decided to unify, creating the association Tradition et Qualité. Five years later, Jean Cocteau drew a blue, white, and red rooster (Le Coq Gaulois) on a tablecloth at Le Grand Véfour. The drawing became the emblem of the association.

“Les Grandes Tables du Monde” is the name adopted by the club in 1990, which today comprises over 200 restaurants worldwide. Its mission is to celebrate excellence, unite the passionnés (passionate people), and connect those who make gastronomy with those who experience it.

Number 5:

Michelin Recommended — The Red Standard

If you’re subscribed to this newsletter, you likely know the story of the Michelin Guide and its stars.

Still, many are unaware that it’s not necessary to have a coveted star to be featured in the guide. In Paris, 353 restaurants possess the “Michelin recommended” distinction (a plain red Michelin plaque), while another 36 hold the “Bib Gourmand” designation (a plaque featuring the head of the Michelin Man), a marker of excellent value for money.

We are almost at 1,000 subscribers! It’d be great if you could encourage your foodie friends to subscribe here to get us over the line.

As always, feel free to reply to this email if you found it interesting or useful.

I’ll see you next week,

Max

The waiters, in their black bowties, step into frame right on cue, executing short lines and gestures with choreographed precision. The patrons dress with a casual sophistication taken right from the wardrobe of a mid-century thriller.

On one occasion, tucked away in a discreet corner on a velour banquette, I found myself sucked in by a curious conversation between two characters—Hitchcock’s would-be protagonists—seated side by side at the neighboring table. A scandalous dynamic unfolded.

The gentleman, dressed in tweed and sporting professorial spectacles, dictated his schedule to the lady, while she flipped through a planner, scribbling down the appointments, occasionally interjecting, “Ah non, you can’t that afternoon, you have a conflict.”

He addressed her with the informal tu, while she responded to her superior with the formal vous. They were seated awfully close to one another for colleagues, I thought. Then, she turned to him, “Monsieur, vous me manquerez tellement, monsieur (Sir, I’ll miss you so much),” prompting a passionate embrace.

The cinematic vibe at Balzar is rather apropos, considering it sits sandwiched between Sorbonne University buildings and a cluster of Paris’s most iconic movie halls: Le Champo, La Filmotèque du Quartier Latin, Reflet Medicis, and Cinéma des Écoles. Balzar has thus been a favorite of giants of La Nouvelle Vague, like Louis Malle, or Hollywooders, like Johnny Depp. (Fun fact, I once sat next to Natalie Portman through an entire movie (Night of the Hunter) at Cinéma des Écoles. No one else seemed to notice her.)

Walking by Balzar this week, the sidewalk chalkboard caught my eye—soufflé au comté and tête de veau, sauce gribiche—but, inside, the staff were still eating their meal; so I stopped by the Filmotèque around the corner to see, not a Hitchcock film, but Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard, the classic flick about Norma Desmond, a fictitious former star of the silent film era who makes a forlorn attempt at a comeback in the age of the talkies.

If Balzar disappoints, I thought, it’ll be the perfect metaphor. “Mediocre brasserie clings to a bygone era.” This newsletter will practically write itself.

My stomach rumbled by the end of the movie at around 9:40 pm. Unfortunately, the chalkboard specials that initially drew my attention were sold out, so I went with les oeufs mimosas (deviled eggs) followed by the only remaining special, tripes au calvados (I don’t think I need to translate that one).

I held out very little in the way of expectations because, as you may have guessed from my description of the ambiance, one doesn’t really come to Balzar for the food. It’s a good thing because my eggs left a lot to be desired and required a significant wrist workout with the salt and pepper grinders. Then came my server around the corner with a large, hot cocotte. He placed it on his station, dumped its contents into a bowl, and served me my tripe.

At this point in the evening, the remaining tables consisted mostly of well-dressed men enjoying a meal in solitude—the kind of character for whom Hitchcock may have cast Cary Grant. I was in good company.

My tripe, coated in a rich, gelatinous broth, took me completely by surprise. Each bite was delightfully tender and packed with meaty flavor. And although I had initially resolved to forgo any alcohol, I ultimately required a robust grape juice to wash the tripe down. A glass of Bordeaux, Château de Brague, would do the trick. I remembered my grandfather, a bona fide bon vivant and a great fan of offal, as I wiped my plate clean with the mini boule in my bread basket.

It’s rare these days to see tripe on the menu of a brasserie, but as of 2018, Balzar has been under the ownership of Alain Grandière, a butcher and a true passionné with the mustache to prove it. Where others saw a fading star, Monsieur Grandière saw a living legend.

Sure, the cuisine isn’t always exceptional at Balzar, but that’s not the role we ask of it. On the other hand, the things Balzar does reliably offer—professional service, thick white linens, a dazzling interior—have become increasingly rare and deeply appreciated commodities. And while I’d have liked my silly Norma Desmond metaphor to hold up, I’ll happily admit that the sun has yet to set on Brasserie Balzar.

We have reached 1,000 subscribers! It shocks me that anyone reads this, but I am infinitely grateful that you do.

As always, reply to this email if you enjoyed this week’s edition, and click here to read past installments.

See you next week,

Max

There’s a difference between cooking well and cooking with soul. I was recently reminded of this fact when a Chef invited me to dine (with my camera handy, of course) at his eponymous, Michelin-starred restaurant. He and his team cooked with impressive technical skill. Each dish was plated meticulously with irreproachable ingredients. The truffles were aromatic, the poultry was succulent, the produce was fresh and flavorful, and yet I left underwhelmed, and ultimately decided not to post the video.

“How on earth could a restaurant of that caliber be bad?” you might ask. “Bad” is a strong word, but I’ll compare his menu to a tacky outfit. I can’t dispute the quality of a flashy Swiss watch and “designer” brands (actually, the latter I could), but where is the soul in such a getup? What is the reasoning behind the outfit other than “look at me!”

Then there’s the kind of outfit that, instead of saying “look at me,” says, “this is who I am.” Each component adds to the whole. The outfit is expressive of the person wearing it, while showing great consideration for those who have to look at the damn thing. And inside all that woven thread is a person with confidence.

My faith in modern fine dining needed some restoring after the disappointment at the nameless restaurant. I became hopeful upon reading of a former Noma cook who had recently joined forces with the ex-sommelier of the two-Michelin-starred Jules Vernes (that’s the one in the Eiffel tower) to open a restaurant on the Île St Louis in the heart of Paris. They called it Cypsèle, meaning dandelion seed, perhaps a reference to Chef Marcin Król, who, throughout his career, has drifted wherever the winds of culinary inspiration have blown him, before finally growing roots in Paris.

I nearly hacked up a lung when we arrived at the start of dinner service for our reservation. Quentin, the co-owner and sommelier, seated us right next to the open kitchen whose ventilation system was clearly malfunctioning. That’s not exactly what you want to happen when you cook over a wood fire, but Quentin and Chef Marcin seemed very relaxed about the situation, and not at all worried about our comfort or ability to breathe.

These were clearly experienced restaurateurs. They knew we could feel their calm confidence. And so for no other reason than blind trust, we assumed the situation would resolve itself, and sure enough, it did. The smoke cleared just as Quentin poured us two coupes of champagne, and the masterclass commenced.

Les Amuses Bouches

Pear wedge, pistachio condiment, kintoa pork

Tartelette, brocciu, amandes

The sandy pastry dissolved in our mouths. We start to see Mr. Król’s affinity for citrus, which nicely accents the sheep’s milk cheese.

Fried potato nest, octopus, chervil

Simply delicious and deliciously simple. Good octopus, fragrant olive oil, and a whole bunch of chervil. It’s here that it begins to dawn on us that “this is gonna be really good.”

Diced squid, rose, and last year’s preserved tomatoes

A surprising dish and a highlight of the meal. The rose added elegance while the tomato provided structure. “Oh wow, okay. This is gonna be really good.”

Le Pain

Homemade sourdough with red Camargue rice, Le Beurre de Madame

Les Entrées

Dentex carpaccio, kiwi, tarragon, oyster leaf

This was perhaps the most whimsical dish of the meal, with delicious interplay between the tarragon and the kiwi, while the oyster leaf blew our heads clean off.

Quenelle de St Jacques, langoustine nantua sauce, horseradish oil

A lyonnais would recognize this classic until they took a bite. Scallop replaces pike in the quenelle, and langoustine replaces crayfish in the sauce. Horseradish oil adds an interesting top note.

Smoked trout, Bayonne ham broth, charred brussel sprout

The chef made good use of his wood-fired barbecue by hanging the trout overhead to smoke it in-house.

Les Plats Principaux

Grilled Monkfish, charred fennel, caramelized fennel purée, chamomile butter sauce

Luxurious, buttery, nutty, refined.

Kriaxera canette (female duck) aged one week, duck prosciutto, radicchio, duck skin lardons, chive, date vinaigrette, mystery zest

Le Fromage

Bleu d’Auvergne, caramelized endive, wood-fired crackers with Rangpur lime

A sacred trinity (citrus, endive, blue cheese) creatively executed. Rangpur lime was a revelation.

Les Desserts

2 Pears sorbet, rose marinated cedrat, sparkling sake

Paris Brest, hazelnut diplomat cream, confit of quince, cardamom leaf ice cream

Chapeau to pastry chef Marissa Kimi, a fellow Rhode Islander! The cardamom leaf ice cream was another revelation, with warm and floral flavors.

You can watch my video review on Instagram or YouTube.

Share this with your foodie friends, or anyone you know traveling to Paris, and click here to read past editions.

As always, feel free to reply to this email if you enjoyed this week’s newsletter.

See you next week,

Max

Honestly, the place irks me. I started this newsletter to share with you—and find out for myself—the true meaning of Parisian cuisine, not to eat a godforsaken lobster roll. Still, each time I walk by, it causes me to wonder: in a hyperconnected world where everything is available everywhere, what’s the point of traveling?

Biting into a pressed pork head on the rue Henry-Monnier, I found my answer. My knife cracked through the crispy skin into a shredded layer of meat. After adding a slice of pickle to my fork, I dragged the combination through the sauce bois boudran, an herbaceous condiment usually made with vinegar and Worcestershire, not dissimilar to the seasoning of a tartare. The interplay of acid and umami, the crispy pork skin, the zingy pickle, the shallots, the herbs, they all came together to form a gobsmacking symphony.

That was my first bite at Magnolia and my favorite bite of the year, not only because it was delicious, but because it reminded me—despite the new wave of New York-style pizza joints, lobster roll shops, and matcha bars—that this city still has something unique to offer.

In reality, it isn’t necessary to fly to Paris for escargot or steak au poivre. You can find those dishes at French-themed restaurants around the world. Magnolia isn’t French-themed, though; it’s French. They aren’t interested in the played-out classics; they’re interested in giving locals a new perspective, and tourists a reason to book a flight.

Take a tarte tatin, for example. The typical version with apple and caramel, while tasty, excites no one. Make it a shallot tarte tatin instead, with reblochon, bone marrow, and bear’s leek sauce, and suddenly everyone’s talking.

If modern “bistronomy” is the defining culinary movement in Paris today, then Magnolia is its Platonic ideal. How wonderful it is to enjoy Michelin-caliber cooking without the deranged pricing and oppressive service that often accompany it.

A waiter—while serving me monkfish with black trumpet mushrooms, rutabaga, and smoked butter sauce—spared me the long-winded Michelin spiel on the chef’s inspirations, opting instead for a simple smile. The dish didn’t need a backstory; it spoke for itself, and it said “hallelujah!”

Nearly every dish, over the course of four separate visits, surprised me with its completeness.

I had never expected a chicken neck, for example, stuffed with poultry mousseline, foie gras, and mushrooms, to taste so balanced and bright; or for a scallop, with boudin noir and apple, to taste so earthy and spiced. The veiled magician heading the kitchen was playing these French ingredients like Miles Davis played the trumpet.

You can then imagine my shock when I learned that the man concocting this nouvelle French cuisine was not a young chef from Lyon or Brittany, but an American from Kentucky named Noah Howell. Wow. I finally understood how Anton Ego felt when he learned that Remy was a rat.

I felt embarrassed to have lamented the effects of globalism on Parisian culture, to have complained about coffee bars and slice shops. In the end, the same forces that brought lobster rolls to the rue des Martyrs also brought Mr. Howell and his revelatory cuisine to Magnolia. And if I can’t have one without the other, then I’ll happily take both.

I’ll see you all next week. Until then, you can read past editions here.

Wishing you a Happy New Year,

Max

Number 5:

Quedubon, 22 rue du Plateau, Paris 19

As much as we love the creativity of the Paris restaurant scene, sometimes we aren’t in the mood to identify novel herbs we can’t pronounce or taste a rare citrus in a sauce or a dessert. Actually, I take that back; we’re always in the mood for that. I guess what I’m trying to say is that where some chefs play to your frontal lobe, Chef Ollie Clark cooks for whatever part of the brain says, “Christ, that’s good.”

That is not to imply, however, a lack of finesse in his cooking. On the contrary, we were delighted by the delicate balance of textures and flavors in the pressé de tête de cochon (pressed pork head). Fresh herbs accentuated fine confit pork, while osetra caviar brought a luscious salinity, and toasted breadcrumbs added a nice crunch.

Quedubon specializes in offal delicacies, like poached veal brain with lemon butter and capers, but there are still plenty of options for those who don’t wish to stray too far from the noble cuts. The vol-au-vent, with morteau (smoked sausage), pork belly, and guinea fowl, was the best I’ve ever had; while our desserts, a bruléed cassis tart with crème crue and a clementine montblanc, were simply delightful.

Number 4:

Cuisine, 50 rue Condorcet, Paris 9

Somewhere between the diner from Wong Kar-wai’s In the Mood for Love and Alex’s apartment in Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange, Cuisine’s dining room pulls you out of Paris into a cinematic dreamworld.

The food—similarly enchanting—nagged at our memories persistently enough that we returned several times; a notable feat in a city with so many dining options. And like in all recurring dreams, each visit blended familiar touchstones with Lynchian shake-ups.

Mainstays, such as the pigeon karaage with Sichuan pepper and the monkfish liver with grated daikon and ponzu sauce, have established permanent residence on the menu. Meanwhile, the rest of the entrées give way to a rotating repertoire of Franco-Asian creations like smoked eel and veal tongue with watercress and wasabi celery remoulade.

Two main courses—one meat, one fish (sorry vegetarians), one classic, one creative—are all you need. But for these two foodies who refuse to admit they have a sweet tooth, it’s the matcha ice cream with mochi, red bean, and seasonal fruit that really has us swooning.

Number 3:

Double, 87 rue Lamarck, Paris 18

Remember, in old cartoons, when a visible smell trail would drift to a character’s nose, causing them to levitate and float over to its delicious source? That’s what happened to us one day, walking down the rue Lamarck. No guides, no phone, just the intoxicating smell of frying food led us to this intimate counter where the works of Chef Tsuyoshi Yamakawa are on display.

Mr. Yamakawa’s cooking isn’t macho. He doesn’t aim, as François Simon once put it, to carve his initials in your stomach lining. Instead, his personality shines effortlessly through seven courses.

He’ll introduce himself with something comforting like a fried sunchoke, koji mayo, and cedrat. As the conversation progresses, he might show off his Italian—albeit with a Japanese accent—and serve a crab raviolo with cauliflower, black garlic, and ginger.

And while the dishes pick up in intensity, subtlety and sophistication remain throughlines. For example, you might notice a hint of bergamot with your scallops, or find lemon balm leaves on your pigeon, or hibiscus in your red beet purée.

Double would have easily clenched our number two spot were it not for the mixed execution at dessert. On our first visit, both the prédessert—a lemon-ginger granita with espresso ice cream, orange-anise, and meringue—and our main dessert—chocolate mousse with mango, hot pepper, lemon cream, and licorice—were among the best confections we’d ever tasted.

The second time around, we were less impressed by a matcha granita, followed by a corn ice cream with overly acidic marinated cherries.

Nevertheless, the creativity, conviviality, and incredible value (7 courses at 62 euros) of this restaurant earn it the number 3 spot on our list.

Number 2:

L’Arpaon, 57 rue Montcalm, Paris 18

L’Arpaon may be only a stone’s throw from the accordion music and caricature artists of Montmartre, but it’s worlds apart. This restaurant is for Parisians. Tourists would never venture this far north of Sacré Cœur, and even if they did, their eyes somehow wouldn’t detect the bright green facade, somewhere between chive and Nickelodeon slime. That’s a radioactive shade one only begins to see after drinking this city’s tap water for several months.

These Parisians aren’t the scruffy, tattooed lot of the 11th, nor are they the Barbour-bearing bourgeois of the 16th; they’re somewhere in the middle. That same balance of energy—playful, unfussy, elegant—is reflected in everything from the dishes to the interior design.

At the back of the narrow dining room, counter-to-ceiling glass reveals the chef and two cooks prepping plates and torching langoustine tails, which we sprinkled with a bacony smoked salt and ate “taco style” in leaves of crisp lettuce with mango-chili mayo.

The flavor bombs continued with dishes like beef tartare with kumquat and cashew, or creamy morel mushroom pasta, but it was the veal chop with silky sauce au poivre that completely blew us away. We cut through a glistening amber brown crust into what was undoubtedly the most tender, succulent veal we’ve ever had.

After dinner, we couldn’t resist the alluring affogato served up in an ornate stainless steel coupe, into which our server poured a hot stream of espresso. And while we may have worried, at first, about the caffeine ruining our REM, we slept peacefully, sedated by satisfaction.

You’d think we’d have more to say, but it’s hard to find the words when you have “no notes.” We wanted for nothing—not flavor, not quantity, not beauty, nor comfort—earning L’Arpaon the number 2 spot on our list.

P.S. There might now be a slight international presence ever since our video review went semi-viral on Instagram… whoops!

Number 1:

To be revealed next week…

But if you’ve been following along on Instagram/YouTube, you may have an idea.

A special thank you to Eva Mayer for her contribution to this piece. (She’s the one with the real palette; I just write what she says.)

This newsletter will land in almost 600 inboxes. I can’t believe a single soul has subscribed, but I am grateful for your readership! I’ll see you next Sunday for our number 1 restaurant. In the meantime, you can read past issues here.

Wishing you a wonderful week of festivities,

Max