How to Properly LARP in Paris (Le Bistrot des Halles)
The secret is sandwiches, not bérets
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
I don't even like ham, but you made this sound so delectable that I'll have to try one the next time I'm in Paris.
Would the bar man have actually te toi-ed you ? Tu veut ? Im curious. I feel as the French never use toi unless they really know you.