Montmartre's Dream Café
One of the only places on the hill where it's assumed one is local
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