Sargent and Soul Food: Americans Stir up Scandal in Paris

“I’m very sowry, but everee-one arrived at zhe same time, and zhe keet-chen makes every-sing, eeuuhh… à la minute.”

The maître d’hôtel stumbled through her English, addressing the American couple at the next table, before turning to me to repeat her apology in French so I could translate. She and I had exchanged some banter upon my arrival (How have things been since opening? Has it been busy? etc.), so she understood I was an American who spoke French.

The couple had been waiting—we had all been waiting—over forty minutes, or maybe over fifty (I eventually lost track), for our food to arrive.

“Everyone showed up at once? Yeah, that's called lunch!” I thought to myself. But it wasn’t her fault the food was taking so long, and I suppose she just didn’t know what else to say. Lord knows I’ve been there.

The worst part is that I didn’t even intend to be at l’Arrêt by the Grey that afternoon. The hugely hyped soul food spot by acclaimed American chef Mashama Bailey had certainly been on my list, but for another date.

My original plan was to see the John Singer Sargent exhibition at the Musée d’Orsay—the first ever monographic showing of his works in Europe—and then walk to the nearby Café des Ministères to try their chou farci (stuffed cabbage), which was recently named champion at the first ever national championship of chou farci. You’ve got to love the French.

The first part of my plan went off without a hitch. We arrived punctually for our 9:30 time slot at d’Orsay, shuffled through security, and joined a rather densely packed crowd which, on this Wednesday morning, comprised mostly Americans and French.

The French walked through the exhibition, visibly impressed, making their poetic remarks about this or that detail. They were stunned by the mastery of this American artist—a contemporary of Monet and Renoir—that they had never before heard of. The gasps they let out in front of Madame X were not in reaction to her scandalous posture, as was the case at her 1884 unveiling at the Salon des artistes (she looks more like a Franciscan sister of Mary by today’s standards), but rather in response to her undeniable, yet unconventional beauty.

“Yup, you’re god damn right, Frogs. That’s our boy,” was the general attitude of the American camp. My family always made a big deal of Sargent, and I walked around with an unearned sense of pride. It turns out that Sargent was born in Florence, Italy, and spent the vast majority of his life in Europe, traveling to the US occasionally for lucrative commissions and to paint some murals in Boston. But who cares, any chance to stick it to the French.

I worked up a hell of an appetite after all that gloating and decided to kick into phase two of my plan. I learned, however, upon arriving at Café des Ministères (the chou farci place), that I was a damn silly fool to think I could get a table without reserving weeks in advance. I guess that stuffed cabbage championship was quite widely publicized.​

This silly fool was quick to adapt, though. I remembered L’Arrêt was just around the corner. It too had been widely publicized since its opening in June, and I was eager to try this soul food à la parisienne.

“Great!” I thought, “This week’s newsletter will be about two American masters bringing their work to Paris.”

The welcome at l’Arrêt, as I mentioned, was chummy and warm, and I was pleasantly surprised by the room’s Parisian atmosphere. Despite its recent opening, the restaurant felt very much dans son jus (French expression meaning “lived in”). It came as no surprise, then, that before becoming l’Arrêt, the space spent roughly forty years marinating, developing character, as a casual bistrot called l‘Espérance (the old sign still hangs outside).​

I even remarked to the maître d’ how Parisian the lunch menu appeared. For weekday lunches, locals demand a formule midi (a prix fixe menu) so they can charge their company cards. L’Arrêt’s was rather reasonably priced considering its bourgeois location (smack dab in the wealthiest neighborhood of Paris)—25 euros for a starter and main, and 30 euros for starter, main, and dessert.

The dishes read similarly local. Sure, you had many nods to the old country—I mean, new country—like a bacon, egg, and cheese, a pecan pie, etc., but you also had a croque monsieur/madame, a beef carpaccio, and even a twist on the bistrot staple oeufs mayo (deviled eggs) called pickle eggs; that would be my starter.​

While the eggs arrived promptly and looked appetizing, the attempt to know thy customer proved feeble. From the description, pickled egg with anchovy mayo, I expected a nice balance of umami, acidity, fat, and salt. Instead, the egg was sweet, the mayonnaise bland, and the ensemble monotonous, and altogether, how can I say… not good.

I was dining with my mother, who was there visiting a third American in Paris (me). As I took a bite of her lima bean, girolle mushroom soup, which warmed me with its southern spice and depth of flavor, the maître d’ came to tell us that our main courses wouldn’t be ready for another 15 minutes. I didn’t really understand the warning. We had just started on our first courses, and 15 minutes seemed totally reasonable. It would soon become clear to me, though, that by “15 minutes” she meant approximately an hour.

Waiting so long gave me plenty of time to question Mashama Bailey’s strategy in opening l’Arrêt. It’s not that there isn’t an appetite for soul food in Paris—there is—but why here? Why Saint-Germain dés Prés? That had been my reaction months ago when I first read of her Parisian venture in the New York Times, and I still didn’t understand it. Sure, there are plenty of rich Americans roaming the quartier, but not the adventurous kind. They’re here for escargot and oysters and overpriced antiques, not soul food.

Why even target Americans anyway? The right bank is infinitely more dynamic in terms of its cuisine, and full of very curious eaters who are far more likely to embrace soul food, as they already have at places like Gumbo Yaya. It would have to be good, though. And timely. There isn’t a neighborhood in Paris or in the States that will accept an hour-long wait for underwhelming food.

We finally received our dishes, just as our neighbor, a twenty-something American guy, started to throw a temper tantrum. My mother’s open-faced “Thanksgiving sandwich” was a cute idea, but resembled, in taste and appearance, something I would throw together on November 30th, standing in the kitchen in my underwear.

My braised pork shank, on the other hand, was perfectly cooked and nicely seasoned with cumin and other spices, but I didn’t care; I was fed up. Not even the mashed sweet potatoes could warm my spirits. I identified more with the bitter broccoli rabe.

The French patrons, I could tell, were eager to rush back to work and tell their colleagues never to come here. Sadly, the pride I felt in my compatriot at d’Orsay had not continued at L’Arrêt. Oh well. 1 for 2 isn’t bad, I suppose.

No one gives a damn, anymore, about Madame X’s shoulder strap. Hell, no one would give a damn if she had on only a shoulder strap. The real scandal (please allow me this facile throughline) is what’s happening at l’Arrêt.

Having run out of time, we were forced to skip dessert, and although the staff apologized profusely and comped our wine, I can’t ever imagine returning.

I’m not alone in my disappointment. As coincidence would have it, the great and powerful Meg Zimbeck of Paris by Mouth just classified the restaurant as “NOT RECOMMENDED” to her 108k+ newsletter subscribers. Ouch!

It’s a shame, too. The New York Times piece gave context to Bailey's soul food, a humble cuisine shaped by oppression. It painted an inspiring picture of a young woman continuing the legacy of black Americans traveling to Paris to express themselves. That long, beautiful history is undeniably part of this city’s cultural juice. But when it comes to restaurants, the backstory is only as interesting as the food, not to mention other fundamentals like ambiance, timing, and service, which—in the case of l’Arrêt— fall a bit flat.

To be clear, I have enormous respect for restaurateurs like Mashama Bailey and all people who take such creative risks. I had fun writing this newsletter, and perhaps I indulged a little bit with the storytelling, but it is an honest summary of my experience.

I’m sorry to write a negative review. I’d much rather highlight this city’s great cooking and exciting restaurants than provide you with a place not to visit, but that’s just how things shook out this week.

As always, you can read past posts here, and feel free to reply with your feedback, or just to say hello from wherever you are in the world!

I’ll see you next Sunday,

Max