The Neighborhood Bistrot Defying Inflation since 2002

In Paris, there exists a place—just when you’re about to crack from the tiktokification of your brain, the homogenization of the world, and the death of authenticity—that will, at least for the duration of a meal, cure you of all your cynicism. A place so stubborn about tradition that it hasn’t budged on the price of its signature dish since 2002. A place well known to Parisians, but completely undetectable to the tourist radar, where the patrons are families and people from the neighborhood, and not wannabe influencers like me. 
“Impossible!” you’d say. “Those places died with the invention of the algorithmic timeline.” Well, I’m heartened to report you’d be wrong.

Since the bistrot in question remains a real local canteen, largely untouched by Instagram schmucks like me, I felt obligated to write about it rather than film it. So on this day, my phone stayed mostly in my pocket.

The authenticity of this restaurant remains intact thanks partly to its location. My stomach grumbled with anticipation as I stepped off the metro 7bis at Butte Chaumont, a station named for a hill on the northeastern end of the city, home to perhaps the most magnificent park in all of Paris, but much too far from any attraction like Notre Dame or the Eiffel Tower for most tourists to “make the trek.” The air felt cleaner out there, away from the city center, and the cold wet sidewalks were comparatively empty; just a few young locals and a father on his way to eat with his son, presumably at the same place I was going. 

After a five minute walk, there it was on the corner, marked by its sage green awning, underneath which a yellow sign boasted its claim to fame: “poulet fermier frites, 6.86 €.” That’s free range chicken and fries at six euros and eighty six cents (corresponding to 45 francs in 2002). Yes, you read that right. Not even the bouillons are that cheap, and they benefit from tremendous economies of scale. It’s a price I previously thought economically impossible in Paname, but never have I been happier to be proven wrong. 

Inside, long communal tables covered with red nappe à carreaux stretch from the entrance to the zinc bar. Surrounding them were families with young children, groups of friends and colleagues who—I was stunned to find—ALL spoke French; an incredibly rare occurrence in one of the most visited cities in the world. Tucked in the corner at a small table were two women who were either sisters or had been friends since at least the 1970s. A bald gentleman seated me just behind them next to a radiator, which I thought might be turned on for such a cold rainy day, but the buzzing presence of patrons had already warmed the place enough—and why not save some money when your margins are so razor thin. 

Aside from the tables and the counter, no surface is free. Every centimeter of shelf and wall space is covered with an eclectic assortment of objects; an ideal terrain for a game of “I Spy”—but I reminded myself to order before I got too lost in the decor. The menu is no frills, traditional bistrot: terrine de campagne, rillette de la Sarthe, bavette à l’échalote, etc. I  settled on the hits: eggs mayonnaise as a starter, poulet frites at 6.86 € as a main, and I gave my order to a woman who, at the risk of sounding diminutive, looked like she was straight out of central casting for “Parisian woman over 50”—dark hair, fair skin, lipstick, elegant and hardened at once, leaving a waft of Chanel Mademoiselle in her wake as she walked away from my table. 

Voila my eggs mayonnaise, which might sound boring and even gross, but I swear, sometimes there’s nothing better, and this was one of those times. The eggs, thank goodness, were room temperature and not cold out of the fridge, topped with tasty mayo. The tomato wedges were red, juicy, and flavorful. The salad, dressed in vinaigrette, was crisp and fresh. I devoured the whole of it very quickly. 

Things were off to a good start, but nothing could have prepared me for the 6.86 € poulet frites. The perfectly caramelized chicken leg sat in a pool of hot fat and steaming deep amber jus, emitting a deep savory smell that curled up to my nose like a chum slick to a shark. The skin on the edge of the thigh audibly crisped as my knife cut through it, and the rendered fat trapped in the skin exploded over my tongue as I ate it. The first few bites I needed to try pure, just the chicken dragged through its juice, but as lunch went on, I helped myself to a dollop of mustard from the little glass jar they’d left for me on the table—a tasty addition. The fries, hot and crispy, got better with each bite as they soaked up the fatty chicken juice beneath them. Once I was through with the chicken and fries, I mopped up what remained of the juice with a hunk of baguette ordinaire. Another spot hit, another plate devoured.

I really was the only Instagram schmuck in the place, but I can pass as French if I keep my sentences short, so I disguised myself pretty well. Many among the rest of the crowd were regulars whom the staff addressed by first name. “L’entrecôte c’est pour Stéphane!” the maître d’ shouted to the kitchen just before taking my dessert order: la tarte au citron meringuée. A waiter pulled it from the dessert case and plopped it in front of me. This thing was an absolute behemoth, probably equal in calories to everything else I had eaten to that point. The meringue, copious and cloudy, covered what seemed like a home made lemon custard, free of the artificial yellow coloring that one often finds in this city’s boulangeries. The pâte sablée was so thick it almost bent my little sheet metal spoon. The tarte was very tasty, but so intensely sweet that I had to order a coffee just to wash it down. I received an espresso that smelled like a burning hand-rolled cigar, and while it may have made a hipster coffee guru wince, it was just what I needed. 

It’s an interesting dilemma as a tourist, that part of what makes a place so alluring is the lack of people like us. All the same, my hope in writing this review is to share a piece of Paris that one might otherwise have thought dead, and to encourage you, my dear reader, to experience it for yourself. But if and when you do go to Le Bar Fleuri, 1 Rue du Plateau, go with the understanding that it’s not a tourist attraction, nor is it just cheap nostalgia; it’s a real neighborhood bistrot feeding real people their actual lunch. 

So my advice for you at Le Bar Fleuri serves also as general travel advice: don’t try to bend the place to you and your habits; bend yourself to the place. At Le Bar Fleuri that means sit down, order promptly, and take a couple pictures because you simply have to, but otherwise keep your phone in your pocket, enjoy your company if you’ve got some or your solitude if you're alone; savor your meal, and keep it pushin’.

Feel free to reply (even just a smiley face) if you enjoyed our first edition.

See you in a couple weeks,

Max