Vive L'Omelette
and the Establishments that Serve Them
“Vous ne servez pas d’omelette ?” A woman asked me, looking up from the brass menu stand in front of the restaurant, through her thin spectacles.
“Si si, au petit déjeuner madame, mais pas le midi.”
I could hear the frustration in her charming British brogue. I guessed—judging by her crow’s feet, silver hair, and confidence speaking French—that she’d fallen in love with Paris decades ago, and had been visiting ever since. But in recent years, each new visit less resembled the last, and the Paris of her twenties faded further into the obscurity of her memory. Where did the damn omelettes go, for instance? I wasn’t about to compound her disappointment by revealing myself as American. Luckily, I can hide it if I keep my sentences short.
“Quoi ? Mais ce n’est pas Françay ça ! On ne mange pas d’œuf le matin !”
My manager, Jules—the maître d’hôtel and a career bullshitter—swept in to soothe her with a series of commiserations, more or less amounting to “sister, you don’t know the half of it.”
It’s true, omelettes at breakfast is not very French. But I hadn’t chosen to work at this café/brasserie for its respect of French tradition. Quite the opposite, in fact. Paris had changed in more ways than just omelettes, and this place was a prime example.
We were located at Porte Maillot, just over the bridge from Neuilly, across the street from a major convention center, and a short walk from the Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Élysées. That meant a largely international clientele of professionals who were there because they had to be, and Americans who were there because they were on their “Europe trip” and they booked the neighboring Hyatt with points. Nobody, apart from some well-heeled Neuilly folk, would be back anytime soon—a reality that instilled an ethos of “give them what they want, and take what you can get.”
Among our best sellers: a cheap matcha latte made from a pale green powder cut thinner than a two-dollar eight-ball (not that I would know); French onion soup (actually pretty good), even on the most scorching of summer days; and, yes, omelettes at breakfast.
As soon as the unsuspecting diners finished their overpriced eggs, I’d rush over to present my payment machine, revealing the final, most egregious of Americanizations: a tip suggestion of 5, 10… 15 percent? Such a notion—inconceivable not 5 years ago—shocked most everyone, even my fellow Americans, who were at least well enough informed to know that, in France, tipping is optional.
Offensive as it was, the tip machine paid my modest rent and then some. But I, too, had grown tired—by the time Ms. British francophile showed up, towards the end of my tenure as garçon—of the bizarro version of France that was this brasserie.
Omelettes have always been a heavy hitter in my home lunch repertoire. Recently, it’s been ham, chive, and cheese. Each one I make inches closer towards perfection. I’ve made them so often, in fact, that my body instinctively senses when the steel-clad skillet has reached the perfect temperature: hot enough to turn nonstick, but not so hot that it burns the butter. I can even hear the voice of Jacques Pépin in my head, encouraging me as I flip the half moon with the flick of a wrist. With a green salad and some good bread, there’s no lunch quite like it.
But as delicious as they are, and as much pleasure as I take in making them, I’ve begun to understand my British friend’s yearning. After all, we share the same idealized vision of France, so common among native anglophones. The Paris I imagined growing up, the one sold to me by PBS, Rick Steves, and Remy the rat, promised me a city paved with omelettes. Fine herb omelettes, cheese omelettes, plain omelettes, where the hell were they?
It would be rather nice to enjoy one on a quaint sidewalk terrace, yet I seldom see them on café lunch menus. Then again, I never looked too closely.
This week, I decided to rectify that; I’ve kept my eyes peeled. I even had one in my sights on Avenue de la Motte-Picquet, around the corner from Les Invalides…
The chalkboard read, “L’ardoise du jour: omelette aux œufs bio et morilles au vin jaune…”
There it is! I thought, until my eyes followed the dotted line to a price so stratospheric, it defeated the very purpose of the omelette… 39 euros. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to find any bargains next door to Napoleon’s eternal resting place. My search continued…
I will be back next week, come hell or high water, with my finds.
If you’re planning a trip to Paris and you’d like to explore the best products this city has to offer, you can book my guided “Left Bank Treasures” experience! I am only giving private tours at the moment, which you can book by emailing me directly at max@clubdesmeal.com.
As always, a thousand thanks to all my paid subscribers. I appreciate your support more than you know.
See you next week,
Max