Kris Kringle, Cassoulet, and the Myth of Paris

It’s like finding out Santa isn’t real. You think it will be just like in Ratatouille, but then it’s time to check in for your reservation. You open the door, and a tsunami of American accents hits your ears; a sea of Patagonia puffers meets your eyes, and the myth of Paris deflates like a sad soufflé. 

I’ve lived it countless times and yet it still manages to disappoint me. At L’Assiette, the intimate Left Bank bistrot, it happened once again. This time I held out hope though, because I’ve learned, over the years, that the presence of Yanks is a disappointment—yes—but not always an indictment. After all, these could be Yanks who know, right? L’Assiette has been the favorite restaurant of Patricia Wells, author of The Food Lover’s Guide to Paris. She should know, shouldn’t she? The New York Times named their cassoulet the best in Paname. They should know, shouldn’t they?

The initial shock only took a few seconds to wear off, thanks in great part to a warm and professional reception. The American voices quieted as we took in the enchanting room around us. I looked over the maître d’s shoulder as he crossed off my name from his list, into a bustling rustic kitchen. Patinaed copper pots hung from the ceiling as cooks worked swiftly over a center island. In the doorway, a nicely dressed waiter smiled and welcomed us. 

I understood immediately why my compatriots come to this restaurant. It matches perfectly the image of France that Julia Child imported to us; it satisfies all of our quaint expectations.

The menu struck a similar tone. These were dishes we had seen before on television being prepared by none other than Jacques Pépin and Julia: ballotine de pintade, paleron de bœuf braisé au vin rouge.

Behold our starters: confited mackerel with caviar d’aubergine, which is some French approximation of baba ganoush, and a duck pâté en croûte. Both were delightful. 

The mackerel, fatty and warm, flaked away delicately in my mouth, while the “eggplant caviar” hit me with a waft of smokiness. The seasoning, heavy but not excessive, perfectly accentuated the flavors of the dish. I chuckled at the dramatic 1990s presentation, but the tuile and radicchio rounded out the textures with a toasty crunch and a fresh, bitter crisp. 

Now, I LOVE pâté en croûte, and this one was no exception. It’s encouraging to see a restaurant using the whole of the animal across its menu. This pâté included meat from various parts of the bird—that red circle towards the top is the heart—and was elevated by the presence of foie gras and pistachios. The pickled vegetables on the side were tasty and nicely acidic, but too salty. 

After les entrées, our server suggested that we take our main courses one after the other, which would allow us to share each dish, and also give the cassoulet time to cook and develop the proper crust. 

First came the tourte de canard au foie gras, which was very well executed—I’ll admit—but I can’t help but feel that this kind of meat preparation, much like a Wellington, is more impressive to the eyes than it is to the taste buds. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the buttery and flaky pastry. The slight dullness of the meat inside was saved by a scrumptious jus. The confited cuisse, on the other hand, was an absolute home run. 

By this time, around 8:30 p.m., something interesting happened: all the Americans started getting up to leave. Of course! They had been on dessert! Maybe L’Assiette isn’t just a tourist restaurant for Viking cruisers after all, maybe it was just early! 

And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the main event. The cassoulet came out piping hot. Steam and bubbles escaped along the edge of the terra-cotta cassole and through the cracks of the browned crust that had formed on top.

At roughly the same time, the French started rolling in—some older couples, and a group of rowdy forty-something gents. It’s happening!

Actual butterflies fluttered in my chest when I cracked through the top crust with a spoon to serve my girlfriend, and for the next 20 minutes we let out audible “mmm’s” and “wows” as we savored our cassoulet bit by bit. The beans were silky and soft, the pork belly cut like butter even with the dull side of the knife. 

A slice of morteau, the king of French sausages—having sat near the top of the slop in the oven—underwent a delicious Maillard browning, but remained succulent and juicy. The real star of the show, though, was the confited duck leg, which, through the process of slow cooking, had given as much flavor to the dish as it had soaked up from it. The meat fell off the bone and basted a medley of flavors across my tongue. 

The forty-something Frenchmen were getting rowdier. They had been in and out several times already to smoke their cigarettes and still hadn’t ordered. Now the chef-owner David Rathgeber, wearing his blue chef’s toque, joined them for the fun. 

The cassoulet would have been plenty filling on its own, but I couldn’t skip dessert. Not here. I ordered a baba au rhum, which our server doused with enough booze to put me to sleep, and, while the flavors generally underwhelmed me, I was just tickled pink to be seated with ma chérie in what turned out to be an authentic, living piece of Paris. Spirits were high, laughs were loud, and I learned a valuable lesson: that Santa is real for those who believe; he’s just smart enough to show up after you’ve gone to bed.

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See you next week for our regularly scheduled email,

Max