DINER'S DIARYDINER'S DIARYhttp://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013-05-22T09:31:11ZSquarespaceLES CLIMATS--Suave Contemporary French Cooking, Brilliant Burgundies, B+; WANDERLUST--Good Eats Where the Wild Things Are, Bhttp://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/5/14/les-climats-suave-contemporary-french-cooking-brilliant-burg.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-05-14T13:27:06Z2013-05-14T13:27:06Z
 
  This year in Paris, a late, damp and often overcast Spring has been pushing and pulling my appetite in all different directions. To be sure, I've eating as much French grown asparagus--both green and white, as I can get my hands on, but the gray skies and cool temperatures have left me yearning for sturdier comfort food than I'm accustomed to craving at this time of the year. Then I went to dinner the other night at Les Climats, a very pleasant new restaurant in one of my favorite restaurant venues in Paris, the elegant Belle Epoque dining room of a handsome old dormitory building that once housed young single ladies who worked for the P.T.T. (Poste Telegramme, Telephone), and found my seasonal groove again.
  
  In the early nineties when this place first became an open-to-the-public restaurant, it was called Le Telegraphe, and it enjoyed a two or three year run as one of the most fashionable restaurants on the Left Bank, despite the fact that the food was never better than a little better-than-average. Tipped off by a friend who lives nearby that it had recently re-opened yet again--it's been through several middlingly successful incarnations since it was Le Telegraphe, Bruno and I decided to treat ourselves to what we hoped would be a good dinner on yet another drizzly cool Friday evening. I knew nothing about the chef, but my friend did tell me that it had a 'lush' decor and that the wine list was all Burgundies, right down to a Cremant du Bourgogne instead of Champagne, and since I find Burgundies, especially white ones, absolutely perfect drinking for Spring, I thought we might be able to will the season into existence over a good glass of Burgundy or two.
   
  Arriving, we had a choice to two different settings, the dining room up front with lots of scarlet wing chairs with leopard print trim and some very beautiful Secessionist style art-nouveau reproduction chandeliers, or a pretty terrazzo-floored terrace with white wicker chairs and a greenhouse walls overlooking the lush courtyard back garden where meals are served at noon only in deference to the neighbors. Since the dining room was one of those spaces that look too designed to be comfortable, we opted for the terrace, with its mix of British colonial and art-nouveau references. 
  
 
  Over a glass of very good Cremant de Bourgogne--I long ago learned that these sparkling wines not only offer exceptional value for the money but are often excellent, we studied the menu, which had clearly been been constructed to flatter the restaurant's remarkable wine list. Willing summer to begin, Bruno ordered the sea bream carpaccio on a bed of razor-fine cucumber scales garnished with ambered colored gelee flavored with Xerex vinegar, a brilliant idea, and I had an impeccably well made Opera de foie gras on a bed of spice-bread sponge with Gewurtztraminer gelee. The steely artistry present in both of these dishes made me curious about the chef, and whom our very nice waiter informed me is Phan Chi Tam, a young Frenchman of Vietnamese origin who had most recently been working for Thierry Marx at Sur Mesure, his restaurant at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Paris.
 
  The smart counter-casting of the eager young serving staff, most of whom commute to this plush corner of the Left Bank from far afield suburbs, leavened the atmosphere of the restaurant in a useful way as well. To wit, even the stuffiest B.C.B.G. poseurs were guilessly brought to heel by the sincerity of this trying-so-very-hard-to-please young crew. 
   
   
   Our main courses were excellent as well. Bruno loved his steamed turbot with baby clams and a rich foamy dashi broth and was delighted to get his hands on a glass of the same sublime Puligny Montrachet I'd had with my foie gras (in addition to the spectacular wine list, they also offer a terrific variety of pours by the glass). My veal tartare, a fine foil for good wine, was coarsely chopped excellent quality meat that was garnished with a puree of fava beans and baby peas and very timidly seasoned with a little bit of citrus zest. Even though it was lovely with a glass of Hautes Cotes de Beaune, a little pinch of piment d'Espelette and a light sprinkle of coarse sea salt with sea weed would have given this fine product more personality.
  
 
   Desserts were excellent, too, including the Pierre Herme inspired litchi and fresh raspberry macaron I enjoyed and a lime-flavored 'boule de neige' (frozen dairy confection) with ginger-and-passionfruit coulis that Bruno chose. Though it's rather expensive at dinner--you could easily spend 130 Euros a head with a glass of wine or two, I suspect this sophisticated, worldly and well-conceived place will be hugely popular this summer at noon, when they serve two reasonably priced prix-fixe lunch menus (36 Euros and 45 Euros) in their secret garden. And after all of the years during which this type of restaurant--serious tables with seriously good French cooking for a well-heeled and well-dressed clientele, have been dying out, it's nice that even during this balkish Spring, a welcome trend to their renewal continues not only with the charming Les Climats, but Goust and places like Les Tablettes de Jean-Louis Nomicos, this latter restaurant being a real forerunner of this gastronomic redux. 
  
   
   A few days later, an old friend came to town and expected me to pull a rabbit out of a hat. She'd read about Septime, which is probably at the top of the list of almost every visiting foreign food-lover this Spring, and wanted to go for dinner. Needless to say, Septime had been full for dinner that night for many weeks, but as it happened, I'd read that chef Bertrand Grebaut had designed a menu that's being served at Wanderlust until June 21, and never having been to this table at the curious-looking lime-green Cite de la Mode et Design perched on the banks of the Seine near the Gare d'Austerlitz, I booked us a table.
  
 
  Arriving, I could see that Laurie hadn't changed a bit from the days that we worked the night shift at a bakery on the Upper West Side of New York. Her blonde rasta plaits were bundled up in a sort of scarlet do-rag and she still sported the same surgical steel ring in one nostril that she had all those years ago. As serious but slightly crazy kids who liked to have a good time, we spent many lost nights together at Paradise Garage, a big thumping night club on the Hudson, before she moved off to the woods of Pennsylvania with a Puerto Rican lady mechanic. These days, though, she lives in Austin with her cow-girl partner, whom I've never met, and we hadn't seen each other in well over twenty years. "Well, aren't you looking all Euro guy these days, Babe," she said and gave me a hug. I noticed that she'd put on a fair amount of weight, inevitable, it seemed, for a professional baker, but certainly wouldn't have said a word about it to her. "Hey, you've, um, filled out a bit, huh!? You used to be skinny as a reed, but your face still looks good." Small mercies, or something.
 
  Both of us liked the restaurant, any airy open space with an outdoor terrace, too cold for that night, overlooking the Seine and a staff of good-looking hipsters who also happened to be incredibly professional about their work. After we'd muddled the passage of time a bit with Bourbon cocktails--a sort of a riff on a Julep, we ordered, and if the food lacked a little bit of the finesse of Grebaut himself, it was still delicious and more generously served than what you get a Septime.
  
 
   I loved the buttered bread crumb garnish on veal tartare (I'm single-handedly denuding the pastures of France this Spring) on potato puree with tassels of fresh tarragon, since it was sensual study in textures within a shy band of flavors, and Laurie, who says she misses really good fresh fish in Austin, was delighted by her sea bream tartare.
 
   
  Our main courses were very good, too. A perfectly cooked cod steak with a mussel-garnished vinaigrette and grilled baby fennel for me, and baby chicken with faiselle and new potatoes for Laurie. "I love this food. It's generous and hearty, but delicate and original, too," said Laurie. 
 
  When I asked her if she wanted dessert, she shook her head and said no, "I need a smoke, and I have a little surprise for you." So I invited her to dinner and paid the bill, and then we found a bench on the quai next to the Seine and she got out a tin of the oatmeal cookies she'd carried all the way from Austin and a little bottle of Southern Comfort. "You've probably gotten too fancy for Southern Comfort, but I'm here to remind you that you used to love a Southern Comfort and Coke when we'd go clubbing." 
 
  I don't like Southern Comfort anymore, as it turns out, but Laurie's cookies were delicious. She's still a wonderful friend, too, and Wanderlust is a great idea for anyone who wants to eat Bertrand Grebaut but can't land a reservation at Septime. Oh, and as their guest-chef menu rolls on into the summer, the next up will be Christophe Pellet, who used to cook at La Bigarrade in the 17th arrondissement. 
 
Les Climats, 41 rue de Lille, 7th, Tel. 01-58-62-10-08. Metro: Solferino. Open daily. Lunch menus 36 Euros, 45 Euros. Average a la carte dinner 120 Euros. www.lesclimats.fr 
 
Wanderlust, 32 Quai d’Austerlitz, 13th, Tel. 01-70-74-41-74. Metro: Gare d'Austerlitz. Open daily: Lunch noon-3pm, dinner 8pm-midnight, Sunday brunch noon-4pm. Lunch menu 20 Euros, 25 Euros; dinner menus 35 Euros, 40 Euros. www.wanderlustparis.com 
]]>LA TABLE DES ANGES--The Discreet Charm of a Really Good Neighborhood Bistro, B+http://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/5/2/la-table-des-anges-the-discreet-charm-of-a-really-good-neigh.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-05-02T10:52:22Z2013-05-02T10:52:22Z
 
  Unfortunately it doesn't happen very often, which is why I appreciate the very rare pleasure of spontaneously deciding to try a restaurant in Paris even more. As a food writer, you see, I'm obviously obliged to keep up with the latest new addresses, and since I don't like going to restaurants on the weekend if I can avoid it--as a rule of thumb, Parisians generally cook or entertain at home then, which leaves the city's restaurants to suburbanites or tourists, and I'm also too busy to go out to lunch, this leaves me five available meals per week to test the latest openings. This may sound adequate, but recently a whole week went by during which I didn't find a single meal that was worthy of writing up here, even if only in negative terms.
  
   
   Yesterday, though, after we couldn't get into "Mud," which opened here yesterday, Bruno and I decided to go for a long walk after having spent a print-drunk day at home. Knowing that the fridge was bare, I hoped the Tunisian green grocer at the bottom of the rue des Martyrs would be open so that we could buy some asparagus and rustle up a simple dinner at home. But he'd already closed, so we keep walking up the rue des Martyrs with the idea of doing sort of a H shaped walk home. Along the way, I found myself regretting the two branches of Fuxia that have opened here--the food's okay, but it is a chain, and also thinking that it had been a very long time since I'd last eaten at Le Cul de Poule, which was packed last night. The menu there didn't really speak to me, though, and Bruno had already said he didn't want to eat at a restaurant, so we keep moving, and then it started to rain again, so we stopped under the awning of La Table des Anges to wait out the shower, and of course I read the menu posted outside. It looked really good, and there was a reasonably priced 32 Euro prix-fixe, so I turned to Bruno, who said "Non" even before I'd opened my mouth. "Well, why 'Non,'? We don't have anything to eat at home, it's getting late, I'm hungry, this place looks good." "We still have some salad." He could live on lettuce and other leaves, but I can't and won't so I told him I'd invited him to dinner and stepped inside.
  
 
  Seated at a wooden table with Kraft paper place mats by one of friendly owners, who immediately brought us a complimentry serving of speck and salami to nibble while we studied the menu, I liked the look of this place. The exposed stone walls gave it a warm atmosphere, and the slicing machine by the chalkboard announcing the daily specials inspired confidence, too. Still, tempted though I may have been, I was not going to order langoustine risotto in a Paris restaurant I didn't know--I've had good risotto exactly once in Paris during twenty-five futile years of trying, and so instead decided on the asparagus veloute and the brandade de morue, which is one of my favorite dishes. Bruno chose the homemade duck terrine and the quenelles de brochet (pike perch dumplings), and we ordered a bottle of Fleurie, a perfect Spring time wine, from the short but interesting wine list. Happily, the bright cherry-jam nose of the Fleurie dissolved whatever peevishness Bruno was still nursing over this impromptu dinner outing, and then things took a decided shift for the better when our starters arrived.
  
 
  Studded with pistachios, Bruno's duck terrine was homemade, beautifully seasoned (thyme, green pepper corns), generously served and accompanied by a ramekin of tangy onion jam. My froathy soup had a superb depth of flavor, too, and the bread served with these dishes was excellent crusty baguette with a lacy crumb and a faint perfume of wood smoke. I overheard the couple sitting in the corner across from us congratulating themselves for having found this place, too, and grinned as I watched the owner serving them each a complimentry tot of fiery hazelnut eau de vie that had been made by monks somewhere in the Yonne. I hoped we'd get to taste it, too.
  
 
 
  Since brandade de morue, that sublime mixture of baked olive-oil lashed whipped potatoes, salt cod and garlic that's perhaps best sampled in Nimes, can be a sorry business when it's not made with real care, I hoped our luck would hold with the main courses. Ditto Bruno's quenelles de brochet, which can be leaden and tasteless when made from industrial ingredients in industrial quantities. This apprehension surely explained Bruno's alarm when the waiter revealed his enormous quenelle in a covered Staub casserole. As if reading his mind, however, he reassured Bruno that it was homemade and also explained that the accompanying sauce had been made with broth and a little cream but no flour. The quenelle's delicate sauce was also garnished with mushrooms, carrots, baby onions and a potato. 
  
  Potently garlicky and almost airy in its lightness, the brandade was superb, as was Bruno's quenelle. When we claimed a well-fed pause before dessert, the owner returned to the table with two glasses of Fleurie from another producer, a thoughtful gesture, and we complimented him over his chef. "Thank you, yes, he's very talented," said the proprietor, who told us his name is Yan Duranceau, a young up-and-comer who has already worked at Le Grand Véfour, the Plaza Athénée and Taillevent.
  
 
  Both of us finished up with fine slices of brebis d’estive, which is made by Christine Arripe at her Ferme de la Montagne Verte in the Ossau valley and shipped directly to this restaurant in Paris. The particularity of this rich but subtle ewe's milk cheese is that it's only made during the transhumance period from June to September in the up-mountain valleys of the Bearn. Not surprisingly, it has won a Slow Food label, and it's just superb.
 
  And finally, two slugs of that mysterious hazelnut eau de vie, which made our eyes water and tasted exactly the way a rafter in the attic of Burgundian barn might if you gave it a good lick--grass, dust, caramel, smoke, it was just lovely, and we walked home with the fuzzy happiness of having inadvertently discovered a delightful new everyday restaurant in our neighborhood embroidered with the warm halo induced by the monks' skills with a still.
 
La Table des Anges, 66 rue des Martyrs, 9th, Tel. 01-55-32-24-89. Metro: Pigalle or Notre Dame de Lorette
www.latabledesanges.fr, Closed Sundays and Mondays. Lunch menu 16 Euros, prix-fixe menu 32 Euros. Average a la carte 45 Euros. 
]]>PIERRE AU PALAIS ROYAL--A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, B+; FISH LA BOISSONERIE--High Tide at a Left Bank Favorite, B+http://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/4/13/pierre-au-palais-royal-a-la-recherche-du-temps-perdu-b-fish.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-04-13T14:27:50Z2013-04-13T14:27:50ZPierre au Palais Royal: Asparagus with aioli Maltais, quails' eggs, hazelnut gougeres
 
   Though I certainly wouldn't enjoy a meal in an ugly dining room, and actively avoid places that are too noisy (happily still less of a problem in Paris than in other cities I know well, notably New York and London), I'll gladly admit, as I have many times before, that for me the appearance of a restaurant very much takes a backseat to the quality of what I find in my plate in terms of my overall judgement of its worth. To be sure there are a few restaurants in Paris--Le Train Bleu at the Gare de Lyon and, once in a blue moon, Vagenende (St-Germain-des-Pres) among them, that I'd go to mostly because they are so beautiful, but otherwise, I'm reflexively willing to overlook an unfortunate decor in favor of good food.
 
  With this established, a recent meal at a Paris restaurant I've known for many years, Pierre au Palais Royal, set me to wondering about the advisability of my being so aesthetically forgiving. This first time I came here, sometime in the early nineties, this was a serious old-fashioned wood-paneled restaurant with pale pink table cloths (if memory serves me) and some decorative wrought iron work here and there. It was also among the favorite restaurants of a New York magazine editor, the late David Bruel, for whom I did a lot of work at the time that he was running an excellent travel magazine called European Travel & Life, and I have many happy memories of long jolly defiantly clock-ignoring meals here during which we'd all order foie gras, boeuf a la ficelle (beef tied with a noose of string so that it could be poached in hot bouillon) and at least two bottles of Pommard, followed by what David used to refer to as a snifter of "amber fluid." No one eats or drinks like this anymore, alas, but I never walk by Pierre au Palais Royal without thinking of--and missing, those bawdy and bibulous evenings.
 
  I gave up on Pierre au Palais Royal after the long-running owner sold it to someone who never really understood why the regulars liked it so much. Instead, he ruthlessly changed both the menu and the decor and scared everyone away. A few weeks ago, however, I read an eloge to this restaurant by French food critic Francois Simon. It made me eager to return to this much-loved old place, and so when a favorite Dutch friend who has just moved back to Amsterdam after many years in Paris and who has told us that he very much misses French food, came to town, I though this would be just the spot for a reunion dinner.
 
  Arriving, we found the very tall Carel blinking and cringing in the harsh spot-lights above a table for four up front. The lighting was so bright, we all felt like we were sitting in a used-car lot, so I politely asked the very nice waitress if it could be turned down. Well, she and a colleague did all they could, but finally it turned out this dreadful lighting could not be adjusted, so the three of us moved to a table in the back of the restaurant, and once my eye balls had cooled off, I was able to see what an unfortunate new decor this place has been given. Think the type of tacky throw pillows embroidered in sequins with nonsensical sayings which are meant to be saucy but come off as more resonantly tacky you might see on a Riviera mega yacht: Bad Girls Have More Fun, and things like that, and worse, all of the chairs and the banquettes were covered in zebra stripe fabric. 
  
  Given the prices practiced here, and the equally misconceived serving style--the earnest and adorable young staff have been coached to behave in a solemn and very old-school way, which is the second seriously wrong footed aspect of the reboot here, it's hard to imagine how anyone could imagine a congruence between the likely lunch crowd of world-class taste-makers in the design and fashion fields, French government officials, and seriously top drawer executive brass from a cross-section of businesses and such a silly and unoriginal decor.
In fact given the fact that Carel is a massively distinguished museum curator and art-historian, I couldn't help but flinching on his behalf as I first took in the decor of this place. 
      
  Fleetingly, I thought of doing a bolter, but since we'd already ordered glasses of Champagne, this would have been complicated, plus it was raining that night and all of us were tired and hungry. So we stayed put. And in any event, the menu read well. So it was fat lukewarm green asparagus from the Luberon with hazelnut-studded goyeres, quails' eggs and a sublime hybrid sauce--an aioli (garlic mayonnaise, bien sur) that had been thinned with a sauce Maltaise, a brilliantly old-fashioned sauce--hollandaise to which blood-orange juice has been added, that one almost never sees anymore, for me and Carel, and a tarte Tatin of boudin noire, red onion confit and shallot cream for Bruno. 
 
   Both of these starters were superb--spectacular produce perfectly prepared as part of intelligently creative compositions of balanced taste and texture. So I asked about the chef and was told that he's a young Englishman of Polish origins, Konard Ceglowski, who worked at Gordon Ramsay and Simpson's in London before he crossed the Channel to work at the Meurice and then as the last chef at Jacques Cagna before it closed. 
   
Red mullet with fava beans and feta mousse
 
Crayfish stuffed rabbit with sauce Nantua
So the three of us had three different main courses. Carel had the grilled red mullet filets from the Ile d'Yeu with tapenade, fava beans, and feta mousse, while Bruno chose the crayfish-stuffed rabbit with fresh linguine and a tarragon-spiked sauce Nantua (a lovely old-fashioned crayfish cream sauce). Again, both of these dishes were excellent--perfect cooking times, exquisite produce, and delightfully off-center takes on Escoffier style French culinary classicism. I loved my line-caught Breton John Dory with baby squid, pousse pied (crunchy seaweed), and rosemary-scented grocchi, too. There was an impressive amount of work in this dish, and the quality of the produce was excellent, too. 
  
   To conclude, I finished up the rest of our excellent white Saint Joseph with a well-chosen and generously served cheese plate, while Carel had the brownie with sugar-syrup poached fennel and peanut butter ice cream and Bruno pounced on the honey-bergamot cheese cake with rhubarb compote and sour cherry ice cream. With delicious food, excellent service and terrific company, this was a delightful meal, and Pierre au Palais Royal once again wins a place on my go-to list for a seriously good sit-down feed. Oh, and did I mention that the decor here seems to take a leaf from a Las Vegas cocktail lounge?
  
Cockles with seared onions   
  Meanwhile, over on the Left Bank, there's some terrific news from Fish La Boissonerie, one of the most popular restaurants in Saint-Germain-des-Pres, this Spring. To wit, with the arrival of young Ducasse trained Japanese chef Taku Sekine, Drew Harre and Juan Sanchez's place has suddenly become one of the best modern bistros in Paris.
  Dining with Bruno, Dorie and Michael the other night, we ate our way through almost the entire menu, which the very serious and earnest young Mr. Sekine told us will be changing every two or three days, and were hugely impressed. Our meal began with Chawanmushi with cockles, a sublime and very delicate steamed Japanese egg custard with tiny salty shellfish, and a complimentary starter of lamb sweetbreads with green asparagus in a brilliant sauce of cider and pan drippings.
   
Kimchi soupCoddled eggYellow pollackRoasted lamb
   Other stand-out dishes from an excellent meal included a kimchi soup with grilled pork breast; coddled egg with parsley root, Swiss chard and roasted garlic; yellow pollack with curried cauliflower, garbanzo beans, and lime condiment; and roast lamb with baby peas and gnocci. Not only was the produce used in every dish uniformly excellent, but the intringuingly international flavor palates were impeccably mastered, too. 
 
  Fish has always been an exceptionally convivial restaurant with an outstanding wine list and just-fine food. With the handsomely renovated dining room--the lighting is now vastly improved by a row of retro globe lamps overhead, and Sekine leading a hugely talented team in the kitchen, it suddenly becomes a serious destination restaurant. This will inevitably make it a lot busier, which means that locals used to ambling in the door and finding a table would now be well-advised to book in advance. 
 
  Pierre au Palais Royal, 10 rue de Richelieu, 1st, Tel. 01-42-96-09-17. Metro: Louvre-Rivoli, Palais Royal, Closed Saturday lunch and Sunday. Lunch menu 33 Euros, prix-fixe menus 38, 44, 70 100 Euros, average a la carte 70 Euros. www.pierreaupalaisroyal.com
 
  Fish La Boissonerie, 69 rue de Seine, 6th, Tel. 01-43-54-34-69. Metro: Mabillon, Saint-Germain-des-Pres. Open daily. Prix-fixe 35 Euros.   
]]>GOUST--The Best New Table in Paris This Spring, A-; INVICTUS---More of a Redux Than a Victory, C+/B-http://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/3/29/goust-the-best-new-table-in-paris-this-spring-a-invictus-mor.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-03-29T18:10:25Z2013-03-29T18:10:25Z
Enrico Bernardo 
    I've known and admired Italian born sommelier and restaurateur Enrico Bernardo for a longtime, or ever since I first met him when he was working at the Four Seasons George V Hotel, the setting from which he won the prestigious title of Meilleur Sommelier du Monde (world's best sommelier) in 2004 at the remarkably young age of twenty-seven, with this honor following on the heels of Best Sommelier in Europe, 2002; Best Sommelier in Italy, 1996-97; and Master of Port, Italy 1995.
  
   Not only does the elegant and charming Mr. Bernardo have a truly extraordinary nose and palate when it comes to wines, he also has a deep hands-on knowledge of cooking that he acquired while working as an apprentice at Troisgros in Roanne and Stockholm's Grand Hotel, and it's the profoundly sophisticated and sensual complicity that he spins between these infinitely complementary realms that makes Goust, Bernardo's handsome new restaurant near the Place Vendome, the best new table to have opened in Paris for a longtime.
   
   For starters, there's an ambience of worldly hospitality in the good-looking and stylishly decorated dining room on the first floor of a Napoleon III townhouse on a quiet street in the heart of Paris. The staff are polite and precise but also warm and relaxed, a service style that's an important prerequisite for enjoying the highly curated meals Bernardo serves here. To wit, Goust is all about wine and food pairings, so the best way of dining here is to opt for a tasting menu with a different pour being served with every course.
  
   This is what I did with my friend Ammo, who kindly invited me to join him at dinner here the other night and who also was just about the perfect person with whom to have shared such an experience. Why? This tasting concept works best when you're with someone who's curious, alert and observant, and yet the pleasure of savoring and discussing each pairing would have been utterly ruined by someone who took it too seriously. Bernardo's joy is in constructing liasons that are so perfect and so passionate they seem metaphysically inevitable, which means that a meal here is an intense and intriguing experience. Fortunately, the dry senses of humor we share forestalled any drift to the lyrical. Instead we ate and drank extremely well, and appreciated every sip and every bite.
  
 
  Settling in over a glass of Champagne, we put ourselves in the hands of Mr. Bernardo, who orchestrated a meal I knew would be superb from the moment I tasted the beautifully seasoned tuna tartare with an 'egg' filled with mango coulis. And if I didn't know that chef Jose Manuel Miguel was Spanish (he's from Valencia, worked at Martin Bersategui in the Spanish Basque Country and was most recently with Eric Frechon at Le Bristol), I'd have guessed it when he sent out a ruddy and deepy satisfying dish of riso alla Bomba, the short-grain rice from the fields around Valencia, with chopped razorshell clams, a good gust of pimenton and a citrus foam.
 
   
   These days, I'm often exasperated by foam, which seems to be one of the preferred affectations of ambitious young chefs, but in this instance, the tart evanescent citric veil on the rice beautifully accentuated the gently iodine-rich flavor of the clams, which were a great foil to the al dente rice. The Manchego foam on the grilled rougets and potato with a sublime coulis of piquillo peppers was a bit timid and repetitive, however--this dish would have been just as effective in both visual and gustatory terms if it had been served nude. 
   
 
  The meal shifted to a more decidedly Gallic register with a gorgeous dish of poached egg with a generous garnish of black truffle on a bed of long-stewed beef and then a beautifully cooked duckling breast--juicy and rare, with a light jus and an intriguing garnish of lightly mentholated shiso leaves. The 2011 J.M. Doillot Volnay that was served to accompany these dishes was delightful and made a fascinating segue from the spectacular 2010 Weinbach Pinot Gris that has proceeded it (the wine flight began with a nice 2011 Louis Michel Chablis, followed by a 2011 Ferriato Grillo from Sicily, and a Lurton Rueda, the later being the least interesting pour). And dessert...to tell you the truth, I was so smitten with the final pour, a Graham's Loans Tawny Port, a real invitation to musing and meditation, or as was the case with Ammo, another round of lively tale telling, that I finished this charming chocolate composition with my mind in a pleasant muddle and my camera lying idly on the table (Unless you do a blog yourself, you can't imagine how tiresome it can sometimes be to be obliged to snap away all through your dinner instead of just enjoying it). 
    
  As is true of any really great restaurant, Goust would be as good for a romantic night out as it is for a business meal. The lighting is good. The good bourgeois bones of the room with its handsome fireplace and parquet floor have been tweaked by the sort of 70s lighting fixture you'd expect to see in the old East German parliament building., which makes it witty looking. There's a nice buzz in the room, too, and it's a winningly adult, fairly priced and terrifically sincere restaurant that succeeds for being something completely unique in Paris. I can't wait to go back, although it's likely that my next meal will be in the new tapas bar that will soon open on the ground floor at this same address. N.B. Berardo has another card up his sleeve, too, which is a complete reboot of his first restaurant, Il Vino, in the 7th arrondissement. Suffice it to say that Italy will dominate the menu, and that the new place will be a lot of more relaxed than Il Vino, which I always liked but always found a bit too serious. Or a place I definitely wouldn't have enjoyed going with Ammo, one of my favorite partners in gastro crime.
    
   
   A bit too serious was the theme of dinner a few nights later at Invictus, the restaurant that chef Christophe Chabanel, whom I knew in the nineties when he was cooking at La Dinee in the 15th, has just opened in the former premises of the long-running but now defunct La Table de Fez in the 6th arrondissement. Since I'd last seen him, Chabanel, who was doing modern French bistro cooking before anyone had parsed it out from traditional French bistro cooking, spent some years in South Africa and was most recently in northern France before his return to Paris. 
   
  I was looking forward to this meal, but I was disappointed. Why? All good bistro cooking spins on the axis of generosity, and even allowing for the fact that the dining room was packed with people who were there due to a special discounted offer on the restaurant-reservation website La Fourchette, a clientele that probably swoops in the for the low hanging fruit and then moves on, this meal lacked charm and a culinary signature. The beef cheek that Bruno has as a main course served on a bed of pre-cooked tubular pasta with a spindly carrot, see above, tells the whole story here.
    There seemed no point in photographing the wiltingly stingy pours of wine-by-the-glass, the uninteresting dining room, or anything else at Invictus but my first course, a Tatin of endives stuffed with goat cheese. Seeing it on the menu made me grin--it was sort of like time travel, because I used to order this all the time when I went often to chef Francois Pasteau's L'Epi Dupin in the rue Dupin near the apartment in the rue du Bac where I lived for many years. So does this dish belong to Chabanel or Pasteau? It's not an urgent question, but it was amusing to come across it again after such a longtime, and it also made me think a little bit about the whole idea of paternity in the kitchen. This is a subject often gets chefs a bit chuffed, but to me it seems the important thing occurs when a dish is good enough to be widely copied. So score one Chabanel, score one Pasteau, in no particular order, and insofar as Invictus is concerned, it's just fine if you happen to be staying in a hotel nearby on a rainy night, but I definitely wouldn't go out of my way for this one.   
   
Restaurant Goust, 10 rue Volney, 2nd, Tel. 01-40-15-20-30, Metro: Opera or Tuileries, Closed Sunday and Monday. Lunch menuy 35 Euros, Prix-fixe menus 75 Euros, 130 Euros (with wine), average a la carte 85 Euros (wine included), www.enricobernardo.com
Invicitus, 5 Rue Sainte-Beuve, 6th, Tel. 01-45-48-07-22. Metro: Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Closed Saturday lunch, Sunday, and Monday lunch. Lunch menu 21 Euros, Dinner menu 32 Euros, average a la carte 35 Euros.
]]>NEW PLACE SETTINGS IN PARIS--LE MARY CELESTE, B; CRAVE PARIS Supper Club, B; JEANNE B, B+http://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/3/17/new-place-settings-in-paris-le-mary-celeste-b-crave-paris-su.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-03-18T00:51:53Z2013-03-18T00:51:53Z 

  Though Paris continues to be subjected to a surfeit of B & Bs--burgers and beets, and I've also noticed a growing number of dishes on young-chefs' bistro menus that feature the tastes of fermentation and smoke, the most interesting trend I've observed locally this year is that the forever-amber format of a restaurant meal in the French capital--you call and book a table, you arrive and sit at this table and are fed, then you pay the bill and leave this table without having spoken to anyone but the people you came with and those who served you--is in the midst of a very welcome melt-down. For a dramatic example of how a trendy new Paris restaurant is re-slinging Paris dining, take a peak at Miss Ko, the Philippe Starck designed Franco-Asian restaurant that recently opened on the Avenue George V in the 8th arrondissement. 

 Table d'Hotes at Miss Ko

  Here, a table d'hotes with a glass top protecting video screens that show non-stop excerpts from various Asian news shows (a rather wearying design element, since its on a constant noisy loop) runs almost the entire length of the restaurant, and you sit on high stools to dine. Or if you come as a group, you can book one of the tables for four, six, etc. that are arranged perpendicular to the long table d'hotes, but it's the table d'hotes that gives this restaurant its personality. It's also clever marketing in a neighborhood that's a prime up-market destination for the type of unattached Parisians who would unblushingly describe themselves as 'single,' since the constant sensory input and prompt service mean that most people come for a quick stylish and gastronomically non-committal bite to eat and then are on their way. 

   As seems to be generally true in Paris these days, however, the best declension of the new-format trend is found in the quieter neighborhoods usually lesser to little known to tourists. One of the best recent meals I had in a longtime was a totally off-the-cuff meal with someone I almost literally bumped into in the street, a friend who'd been an editorial assistant at the same New York publisher I worked for before she was somewhat improbably romanced by a wealthy doctor old enough to be her father while visiting her grandmother in Florida. The last I'd heard of her, in fact, was that she was training to become a yoga instructor in Boca Raton. "Well, in some freaky way, I really did love him, the doctor, but there was just way that could have been forever," she explained after we'd settled down over cocktails at the rather fabulous Le Mary Celeste in the northern Marais. 

   To make a long (but juicy) story short, Marsha has long since bolted out of that marriage, first living with a lady plumbing contractor in Austin, Texas for a while, and now with the Dutch environmental landscape architect from Rotterdam she'd met when she took her kids from Florida on safari in South Africa two years ago. Since it was a surprise shading to a shock to run into her, I wasn't really thinking a lot about where we'd go to sit down, but it just so happened that Le Mary Celeste, a place I'd been wanting to try, was right across the street. So early evening, we had no trouble finding seats at the bar, and it was nice to run into Carlos, the terrific bartender who'd previously been the talented drink meister at L'Hotel on the Left Bank.

  Though I was thoroughly preoccupied by the chance rediscovery of my old pal--and it really did feel like we'd last seen each other yesterday afternoon, especially when she insisted on paying for our drinks, because she actually remembered owing me $5 from 25 years ago, Jeesh, I also couldn't help but noticing that we couldn't possibly have found a better setting for our reunion. The nice looking room, kind of a charming hybrid between Marblehead, Mass. oyster house, Dublin pub and Marais tavern, had a great atmosphere and a wonderful looking crowd. Our "Raindogs"--Bourbon and citrus cocktails, slipped down a treat, and rightly suspecting that we'd be drinking a wee bit, I suggested we shift to wine--a nice bottle of de Moor Chablis, and that we have some oysters--the wild English ones from Maldon were gorgeous miniature maritime mines of briny flavor, and order a few of chef chef Haan Palcu-Chang's (ex- Le Verre Volé) small-plates, including sublime kimchi and small puffy Chinese crepes with pork knuckle and celery.

   So we miscellaneously ate and drank for three hours until Marsha had to dash off to get her train at the Gare du Nord, and after she'd left it occurred to me that I'd enjoyed this untethered free-form feast more than anything else I'd eaten in Paris in a very longtime. If Marsha's company was the real treat, and the Raindogs left us both happily muddled, what made this interlude so much fun was that it wasn't following any map except our spontaneous desire to celebrate a carpe diem moment and let ourselves off the leash in doing so.

An Edible Dunce Cap? 

  A few days after my reunion with Marsha and a meal with Bruno's parents at Le Musigny, the only one-star restaurant in the small northern French city of Valenciennes where he grew up, which left me wondering if they'd hired the surely senile art director from the TV show "I Dream of Jeannie," I went on a mystery dinner date in eastern Paris. I'd been invited to be one of the guinea-pig guests of Crave Paris, a new supper club being set up by three decidedly talented recent graduates of Ecole Ferrandi, which I think offers the finest professional culinary education currently available in Paris.

  Even though I explained to him that I like the intimacy of the private dinner party format, enjoy playing the odds of its Joker factor, and have often eaten some excellent food in such settings (the late lamented Hidden Kitchen in Paris comes to mind, along with the supper club that Chef Mun used to run in Buenos Aires) Bruno, whom I spared this particular outing, thought that I was mad as a hatter to go off to dinner with total strangers. Happily, he was completely wrong, since this was a charming and ambitious meal targeted at those whose food tastes blazed past Chicken Breasts 101 a longtime ago. 

Eric from Florida, Rita from Taiwan via Canada and Camille from Hawaii via Washington, D.C. let it rip on a sophisticated meal that showed its cards right off the bat with pats of umami-rich miso butter to be smeared on good bread. And so their cooking often tilted to the Orient for inspiration. Here's what we ate:

Amuse Bouche: Crab, turnip, cucumber kimchi, citrus, salmon roe

Starter: Salmon, wasabi mayonnaise, ponzu vinaigrette, parsley oil, fried caper

Fish: Sea bass, leek, pea, miso, dashi, carrot, brioche crumb

Meat: Pig Snout, king trumpet mushroom, Asian pear, kohlrabi beignets, black mustard, preserved plum

Pre-dessert: Lemon Cremeux, olive granita, olive oil

Dessert: Chocolate Cake, macha powder, chili whipped cream

  And before anyone panics over the idea of finding themselves in front of a pig snout, a few observations.
1) It was delicious, and 2) The Crave Paris team always inquire about dietary restrictions and/or preferences.
For my part, it was a lively evening and a pleasure to have such an intimate and personal experience of three newly blossoming talents.
   
  
Jeanne B
 

 With table d'hotes, impromptu bar eating, and supper clubs propitiously popping up all over town, perhaps my favorite idiom among the new feeding formats in Paris are the increasingly numerous new breed of casual-dining neighborhood places, a delightful example being the just opened Jeanne B, an Epicerie-Rotisserie-Table d'Hotes that's the latest address of exceptionally talented restaurateur Frédéric Hubig, who also owns Astier, Jeanne A, Sassotondo and the Cafe Moderne. 

Lobster Croque

  Meeting my tropical gal pal Cynthia from Singapore for dinner on a snowy Monday night, this place turned out to be just the ticket, since it was relaxed and friendly but also delivered some exceptionally good Gallic comfort food. We sat up front at the table d'hotes instead of the handsome blue dining room, so we could watch the snow falling through the big picture window, and also because we liked the sort of boffo Seventies decor where the late but forever lovely Dalida, Montmartre's most famous recent songstress, would surely have felt right at home.

  Hungry, we shared three starters--a nice fat artichoke, some excellent pate en croute, and a lobster croque, a recent invention of Hubig's which is comprised of focaccia like bread topped with Parmesan cream and lightly grilled before getting a final garnish of perfectly cooked lobster tail medallions and claw meat. Having neatly cut this latter sandwich in half, we scarfed our portions down in deeply contented silence, which we broke simultaneously with the same shared regret: "We should have ordered two of these." This sandwich is so good, in fact, that it will be a certain reason I go AWOL in the middle of the day, since Jeanne B is just a brief hike up the hill from me.

 

  Our rotisseried mains, both of which came with salad and Dauphinois potatoes, were fine produce well-prepared, too. My roast lamb was juicy and generously served, as was Cynthia's chicken, and the wines poured by the glass by the exceptionally charming young manager were excellent. We finished up with good fresh fruit salad and a pleasant tart sable with caramelized pineapple that brought Mom's vanished into the mists of time pineapple upside down cake pleasantly to mind. With gracious friendly service and good food at fair prices, this place will surely become a big hit, especially since it's as perfect for the locals as it is for travelers exploring the neighborhood, so my hope is that Hubig will be tempted to open a whole alphabet of Jeannes all over Paris. And if he's looking, the Turkish carpet shop across the street from my front door has just gone out of business, and I know he'd make a mint in the 9th. 

Le Mary Celeste, 1 rue Commines, 3rd, Tel. 01-23-45-67-89. 
Metro: Filles du Calvaire and Saint-Sébastien-Froissart, Average 25 Euros, Open daily 5pm-2am.
www.lemaryceleste.com
  
Crave Paris Supper Club. Upcoming dinners March 24 and April 7. Suggested donation 39 Euros per person. BYOB. For reservations and more information, contact:  crave.paris@gmail.com Facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/CraveParis
  
Jeanne B, 61 rue Lepic, 18th, Tel. 01-42-51-17-53. Metro: Abbesses or Lamarck Caulaincourt. 

Prix-fixe lunch menu 15 Euros, 17 Euros; Prix-fixe dinner menus 23 Euros, 27 Euros. Average a la carte 35 Euros. www.jeanne-b-comestibles.com 

]]>LE STUBE - The Best Place to Rhine and Shine in Paris, Bhttp://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/3/7/le-stube-the-best-place-to-rhine-and-shine-in-paris-b.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-03-08T01:21:50Z2013-03-08T01:21:50Z 

  Everyone has their own personal geography of gastronomic pleasure, which is why you might occasionally have trouble navigating mine without some help. My love of stuffed grape leaves? They were served as part of father-and-son Cub Scout banquets at a Bulgarian restaurant which once rather improbably existed in the decidedly Topsider shod Connecticut town I grew up in. A weakness for fresh mangos? I associate them with the first heady days I lived in my own apartment on West 85th Street in New York City; I'd never eaten a mango before, and noticing them for sale outside of a bodega one night on my way home from work, I bought one out of curiosity, almost lost a thumb trying to cut through the thick pit I didn't know they had, and finally peeled off a patch of green skin and cut out a juicy deep orange chunk of the fruit, which was sweet, succulent, sensual, tropical. And during that same new-in-New York time frame, I also developed a life-long love of pastry stuffed with poppy-seed filling. This was not something I grew up with either--the baked goods in my life up to that time ran to cinnamon-crumb-topped coffee cakes, brownies, layer cakes, the occasional pineapple upside-down cake and apple pie, bien sur. 

   I didn't even know poppy seeds were edible the first time I stepped through the front door of the Louis Lechtmann bakery on West 86th and hungrily took in the linzertorte, rugelach, streudels and mohntorte. If two of the solid older blonde women who worked in the bakery were stern and often impatient Germans, the third was a jolly, ample and, for a sixty some odd year old woman, surprisingly flirtatious Hungarian. I asked for a loaf of rye bread and a confectioner's sugar dusted jam cookie, and she looked me up and and down and shoved a slice of mohntorte into the bag with the cookie, amiably shaking her head and muttering "sovány fiu"(skinny boy). As surely as the mango did, the poppy seed filling, which also included Corinth raisins which had been soaked in something alcoholic, instantly propelled me thousands of miles from Manhattan and deep into the heart of a Mittel Europa I'd never laid eyes on. I loved not only the taste and texture of the poppy seeds but also the very idea of poppy seeds, seeds from a flower, which is why it was a huge pleasure to sample them again for the first time in many years when I stopped for an impromptu lunch while doing some shoe-leather research on the covered passages of Paris the other day.

   It's rare for me to be out at noon--I'm invariably shackled to my computer, so there was something festive about rummaging around in Paris in the middle of the day, and since I'm an inveterate menu reader, I stopped in front of the tidy good looking store-front of a German restaurant called Le Stube as soon as I came upon it in the Passage Verdeau, one of the quieter covered passages, which has its northern entrance on the rue du Faubourg Montmartre in the 9th.  

   I'd actually been thinking about something Asian for lunch, but the more I read of Le Stube's menu, the more tempted I became, and so I finally went in to inspect what was on display in the glass cases. The pastries looked wonderful, and based of their visual quality, I guessed that the bratwurst I was also craving would be good, too, and went upstairs to the eat-in dining room. 

   While sipping a nice glass of Grauer Burgunder, a pinot gris from Baden, I noticed that the dining room was filling with regulars--they were warmly greeted by the head-waiter, always a good sign. My nice fat bratwurst looked so good when it came that I was instantly tempted to order a second one, but tamped down this gluttony and tasted the accompanying kartoffel salad instead. This was beautifully made German style potato salad, and the bratwurst, which was drapped with sauteed onions and came with small tidy pumps of sweet and hot mustard, was delicious, which set me to thinking about how nice it was to be sampling the comfort food of another European kitchen instead of running into yet another cheeseburger in burger mad Paris. Don't get me wrong--I really like burgers and I'm delighted that you can now get a decent one in Paris, formerly a near impossibility, but I also love gastronomic variety, and the burger trend in Paris seems to be developing sort of snow-balling copy-cat momentum that's pushing other possibilities to one side.

 

    The chatty antique-dealers sitting next to me had ordered sauerkraut plates, which looked wonderful, too. And so I found myself wondering why German food, which I've always loved, is so under-appreciated, especially when it's not only regionally varied and delicious, but Germany has some of the most stringent food purity regulations in the world. Years ago, on Sunday visits to the Metropolitan Museum in New York, we'd eat at the long-gone Cafe Geiger on East 86th Street, and I craved the Königsberger Klopse--meatballs in creamy caper sauce, from one visit to the next. I also loved sauerbraten (marinated pot roast) with red cabbage and potato dumplings. But most of all I looked forward to dessert, usually a slice of Palatinat, or very light cheesecake.

   Palatinat was on the menu at Le Stube, but I had my head set on some Mohntorte, and it was unexpectedly excellent, with a perfect dry crust and impeccably spiced poppy seed filling. I was so impressed by the quality of this pastry, in fact, that I ran amok before leaving Le Stube, and brought home a slice of the Sachertorte, which was easily the best Sacher Torte I've ever eaten, some sour cherry streudel--superb, and slice of feather-weight Palitinat, which is surely the most elegant cheesecake in Paris and will be a revelation for anyone who's accustomed to the very heavy thick New York style cheesecake that predominates in the United States.

Sachertorte

  I was so amazed by the quality of this pastry, in fact, that I looked up Le Stube when I got home, and found out that it has three addresses--another one on the rue de Richelieu and a stand at the Goethe Institut in the 16th arrondissement, and that it's the latest endeavor of Gerhard and Sylvie Weber, the charming couple who ran the very good Le Stubli in the 17th. Gerhard Weber, who's originally from Sachsenberg in Germany, is a fifth generation pastry chef and baker, and he's the one who assures the spectacular quality of the bread, cakes and pastries sold at Le Stube. And so my life in Paris acquires yet another outpost of permanent and powerful temptation, since it's not going to be easy to resist the Lorelei like call of Gerhard Weber's bratwurst and mohntorte.

Le Stube, 23-25-27 Passage Verdeau, 9th, Tel. 01-47-70-08-18. Metro: Le Peletier, Grand Boulevards, or Richelieu Drouot. Mon-Sat 8.30am-8.30pm, non-stop. Avg 15 Euro

]]>LA REGALADE CONSERVATOIRE - Another Superb Performance from Chef Bruno Doucet, B+; L'AFFRIOLE - In Top Form After All of These Years, Bhttp://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/2/23/la-regalade-conservatoire-another-superb-performance-from-ch.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-02-23T17:47:59Z2013-02-23T17:47:59Z

  Ever since he took over the original La Régalade in the 14th arrondissement from founding chef Yves Camdeborde in 2004, Bruno Doucet has continued to delight bistro-loving Parisians with his shrewd and technically impeccable modern French bistro cooking. First he rebooted the menu at La Regalade, making it brighter and more modern than what Camdeborde had originally been doing, and then he opened a branch, La Régalade Saint-Honoré, in the 1st arrondissement.

  For anyone who hated trekking to the outer reaches of the 14th arrondissement--and most people did, this second address was a real blessing, not only for its convenient location, but also because the contemporary bistro cooking served here is so outstanding. Now Doucet's launched a third address, La Régalade Conservatoire in the gorgeous new Hotel de Nell, which opened two weeks ago and has already become one of the hottest boutique hotels in Paris. 

  Arriving with Bruno, Tina and Francois on a wintry night, we had a drink in the bar with a glass room behind reception, and enjoyed the gorgeous hand-made oak furniture that is a major component of the interior design that brilliant designer Jean-Michel Wilmotte did for the hotel. Here, Wilmotte, black-and-white checkerboard floor, solid oak chairs, and tables with beige runners create an atmosphere that's profoundly Parisian, but modern by teasing the usual nostalgia this term so often implies when used in a decorative context with strong graphics and a rigorous Zen design aesthetic. This is the second restaurant I've recently dined in by Mr. Wilmotte--the last one was Yannick Alleno's Terroir Parisien, and I have to say that he's become one of the best restaurant designers working in Paris today.

   Doucet's menu for this handsome dining room rolled out some terrific new dishes I'd never seen before, too. What I really wanted was the creamy cauliflower, Stilton and bacon soup that Tina had, but since I'm still flogging some of the caloric discipline I learned during a week of low-calorie thalassotherapy in Brittany, i went with the marinated scallops with Granny Smith apples and aged Comte in a fine cubed hash adding texture and a gently acidic bite to the creamy scallops under a thatch of frisee dressed in chive oil. I also loved the quiet daring of pairing cheese with scallops, since according to conventional Gallic kitchen wisdom the only dairy produce appropriate for this shellfish is cream. Instead, the comte deliciously enunciated the natural creaminess (sic) of the scallops.

   After our main courses, a few sticking points registered. When the delightful hotel manager excused himself and went home, service fell off a cliff in the dining room, with the waiters clustering behind the bar like a bunch of crows and almost pointedly ignoring their customers, and this was after they'd failed to present the complimentary terrine that's one of the signatures of a La Regalade meal without being prompted. The bread was also dull, and lighting in this dining room needs to be tweaked, since the built-in ceiling spots cast small short hard beams of light instead of illuminating the room gently and thoroughly. And as good as the food is and as attractive as Wilmotte's dining room may be, this place has very little atmosphere. All of these flaws will doubtless be remedied as the restaurant settles in, however.

  Our main courses were excellent. Francois tucked into a big juicy steak sliced and presented on a mound of stewed beef cheeks and carrots in a red-wine enriched jus; Bruno and loved our griddled half-salted cod with a pistachio crust on a bed of winter vgetables and shellfish (mussels and cockles) in a delicate shellfish bouillon, and Tina wolfed down a grilled breast of veal with winter vegetables.

  Rice pudding with caramel sauce, a classic La Regalade dessert, and pomelo-and-pineapple fruit salad with excellent ginger sorbet concluded this very good meal, which had a particularly festive air for me and Bruno, since this new branch of La Regalade is a very easy walk from our front door.

 

  The following night, after we'd both had non-stop days during which neither of us had time to shop, we decided to meet for dinner somewhere midway between Bruno's office and our apartment. I asked Bruno if he had any ideas. "That's your job," he said. Oh, okay. Well, I left it until the last minute, and then was trying to think of someplace relaxed, pleasant and reasonable on the Left Bank, no small order, when it occurred to me that it had been years since we'd been to L'Affriole, a long-running and very good bistro in the 7th run by chef Thierry Verola, who'd worked with Alain Senderens a longtime ago. So I booked us there, and our first surprise was that the warm honey-and-ochre vaguely provencale dining room of yore had vanished in favor of a good-looking and much hipper decor that referenced various Fifties French classics--the green chairs have the shape and design of those found in public parks like the Jardins du Luxembourg or French classrooms, and the tile walls and factory-style suspension lamps also had an appealing retro look.

   

  The chalkboard menu offered all sorts of appealing choices that night, but both of us started off with the butternut veloute, which was rich and pleasantly garnished with Savoy cabbage, and then Bruno had sea bass with a red wine sauce and winter vegetables en cocotte, and I continued on my cod bender with a perfectly cooked filet in a creamy soubise sauce. Our desserts were excellent as well--ile flottante with creme anglaise for Bruno and apple-and-raisin compote for me. All told, with its warm friendly service and reasonably priced wines, L'Affriole is a very good neighborhood bistro that well deserves its swarming crowd of regulars.

L'Affriolé, 17 Rue Malar, 7th, Lte. 01-44-18-31-33. Metro: Pont de l'Alma Closed Sunday and Monday. Lunch prix-fixe two-courses 26 Euros, three-courses 30 Euros; Dinner prix-fixe 36 Euros.

La Régalade Conservatoire, Hôtel de Nell,  7-9 rue du Conservatoire, 9th, Tel. 01-44-83-83-60. Metro: Bonne Nouvelle. Closed Saturday lunch and Sunday. Prix-fixe 35 Euros.

]]>PARIS NEW YORK--Basta With the Burgers Already! C- ; KHAOSAN ROAD--Not My Thai, D ; VERJUS--Chef Braden Perkins is on a Roll, A-/B+http://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/2/8/paris-new-york-basta-with-the-burgers-already-c-khaosan-road.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-02-08T17:31:31Z2013-02-08T17:31:31Z
   
  Mea culpa, but it's the middle of winter in Paris when the days seem to last fifteen minutes and everyone I know is sun-and-fun deprived and slammed with work. So you do what you can, which in my case meant an impromptu decision to have a big fat burger for lunch after a morning of appointments in the 10th arrondissement. Truth be told, I'd have preferred the Daily Syrien, for Ahmad's fabulous falafel and turnip pickles, but it was packed, so I crossed the street to Paris New York, the latest high-concept burger joint in Paris and hoped for the best. The brief menu offered a choice of 4 differently garnished burgers made with Breton Pie Noir beef from Le Poncelet, a prestigious butcher shop, or a portobello mushroom burger; fries; cheesecake; various craft beers; wine by the glass at three different price points, the most expensive being Francis Ford Coppola Diamond Collection red and Newton Chardonnay. 
 
  Well, while I was waiting for my burger the place filled up quickly with a gaggle of twenty-somethings who spent a lot of their time poking away at their phones even if they were with friends. So my "Smoky Blue" burger came, and it was so sparsely garnished with the promised Stilton, bacon and onion confit that they didn't register on the palate. The fries were lukewarm, but pretty good. The lemonade in a Ball Jar, something I haven't seen since a meal at Mrs. Wilkes Boarding House in Savannah, Georgia twenty years ago, was more Brooklyn than Biloxi--or tart than sweet, and this was a blessing. This meal happened in twenty minutes, left me 15 Euros poorer, and the most interesting thing about it was that I had the opportunity to taste Heinz Balsamic Vinegar Ketchup, which I found surprisingly delicious--I'd assumed it was a no-interest gimmick, and also to realize that I have become hugely weary of the wave of edible Americana that just keeps washing over Paris.
 
  Don't get me wrong. It's nice to be able to get a half-decent burger in Paris (none of the burgers in Paris are better than that), since I remember the days when the truly lousy Joe Allen and a couple of other similarly underperforming faux Yankee tables ruled the roost when it came to nostalgic eats. But the phenomenon has now gained so much self-perpetuating momentum it's becoming a serious bore. I can't help but thinking that a lot of the clever young backers of the ever-growing number of Paris burger places have realized that they can be real gold mines, since all you need are some good graphics, some better-than-average sourcing, respectable foot traffic in a neighborhood where a lot of people work in front of computer screens, and you're done, since there sure isn't any serious cooking going on in any burger shop. I mean, even a really good Croque Monsieur or Madame require more effort. 
  
Doesn't Look Like Thailand to Me....
 
  The same day that grumpy burger fatigue set in, Bruno galloped through the door at 8pm and wanted to eat Thai food for dinner, because a year ago we had just landed in Bangkok at the beginning of a brilliant three-week trip through Thailand, Laos and Vietnam. The fridge was bare, so I agreed to the idea of going back to a local Thai table where we'd had dinner with four other friends right before Christmas. Despite the fact that an oceanic amount of Domaine d'Uby Colombard-Ugni, a frisky little white at a too friendly 18 Euros a bottle, had been consumed, I had a vague memory--this meal was more about the conversation than the food, of having been surprised by better-than-average eats. I'd also been hugely amused to find myself in a Bobo petting zoo of a restaurant almost without equal in Paris. But would the charm hold a second time?
  
 
  Alas, what followed was a depressingly mediocre meal that made me nearly weepy for REAL Thai food. The green papaya (which was tasteless and soggy, like some kind of food-service-industry pre-prepped product) salad with shrimp (frozen, tasteless, flacid) was seriously underseasoned and the only possible interest of this dish were the freshly roasted peanuts. Vegetable samosas and shrimp ravioli tasted like deep fried paper towels, and the two curries were ordered were made from the same mother sauce, with a good dose of chili oil making mine the three-alarm hot indicated on the menu.
  
  Looking around, I honestly wondered what people were doing here, and then I kind of got it. This is a restaurant that you come to in Ouija Board hommage to that so-long-ago happy-go-lucky back-packing trip during which you let someone give you dread locks on the beach, smoked so much dope one night that you actually ended up having a good snog with the handsome but impossibly poseur Australian surf dude you'd taken an instant dislike to as the caps were being clicked off the first bottles of Tiger beer at the sundown beach party, slept with someone who's name you don't remember today, and picked up a minor social ailment that was the source of excruciating embarrassment when you went to the doctor after getting home to Paris. That was then, and now you're a PR associate, or an assistant editor, or a stylist, or a real-estate agent, and you like coming here because even though this place has absolutely nothing to do with those lost weeks on Kho Cuckoo, it at least reminds you that you were once someone else. Maybe because Bruno has only been to Thailand with me, he disliked this noisy place with slap-dash and off-handed service so much that he told me he'd wait in the street outside while I paid the infuriatingly expensive bill. Khaosan Road is a textbook example of everything that can go wrong with a popular restaurant in a well-heeled Bobo neighborhood in Paris.
 
  So this week wasn't bringing great joy until I went to dinner at Verjus, American-in-Paris chef Braden Perkin's place in the Palais Royal. Here Bruno and I joined a bunch of old and new friends for a tasting meal in the new and really great looking indigo-painted private dining room Perkins and partner Laura Adrian, Paris's most charming bar keep, have created on the third floor of their space between the rue Richelieu and the Palais Royal. As soon as I went upstairs and saw this room--and I'm sorry, no photo, but it was so dimly lit that my iPhone, which was all I had on me, was useless, I was delighted, because it can seat 12 at a pinch and so becomes my perfect recommendation for anyone who wants a private space in Paris. I was also happy, because I've always liked Braden's cooking, but in my antic effort to keep up with the new, new, new I hadn't been here in a year.
 
  So we ate, and it was fascinating to see how Perkins' style has become quieter, subtler--well, more French, since he first opened. To be sure, each tasting plate is as intricately and logically constructed as a Swiss watch, and most of them induce real pleasure in anyone who was willng to accord them a more than a few very necessary moments of meditation. But even though Braden still looks like an endearing Grant Wood subject circa 2013, a certain sophistication has set in, and this is a good thing. He hasn't lost the wiry winsomeness he brought with him in his back pocket when he first showed in Paris after cooking in Seattle, but he's learned a lot. The thing is, though, most of what he's learned, he's intuited from the spectularly good French produce he works with--like any seriously good chef, his produce cues him. And in this case, the cue was to turn the flavor spectrums down a few notches so that we could relish the perfect freshness and natural tastes of his produce.
 
  After an amuse bouche of citrus-cured trout with smoked fingerling potatoes and trout roe, we had a superb little clam chowder made with Portuguese cherry stone clams, celery root, thyme oil, wild thyme, lovage, homemade harissa and a crumbly garlic crouton. This was a beautiful little miniature that created a tiny universe of ricocheting tastes which made me think of minnows left behind in a tidal pond. Then a gorgeous slow-cooked egg yolk under a tiny thatch of frisee on a bed of soft polenta with salsify, sweet onions, baby leeks, pumperknickel crumbs and finely chopped kimchi.   
  
 
  Duck breast with winter sauerkraut, orange, rye, and smoked celery root skin--Braden likes smoke, and so do I--came with a brilliant side of baby spinach leaves, hazelnuts, pickled grapes, crimini mushrooms and frozen foie gras shavings that lasted seconds before they dissolved into the leaves while remaining the base note flavor of this terrific little dish.
  
   
  Braden's gifted Korean pastry chef Cassandra offered up three desserts, and if all of them were impeccably conceived and executed, the one I liked best was the walnut tart with bergamot jam. All told, this was a fascinating meal, because it highlighted the ways in which a talented and ambitious young American's cooking has become more gastronomically elegant--bien sur, we're talking casual elegance here, the longer he lives in Paris.
 
   Daily Syrien, 55 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, 10th, Tel 09-54-11-75-35. Metro: Strasbourg-Saint-Denis, Bonne Nouvelle or Château d'Eau. Open daily. Average 12 Euros.
  
   Khaosan Road, 52 rue Condorcet, 9th, Tel. 01-49-70-07-06, Metro: Anvers, Cadet, Saint Georges. www.khaosan.fr Closed Sunday. Average 35 Euros.
  
   Paris New York, 50 rue du Faubourg-Saint-Denis, 10th, Tel. 01 47 70 15 24   Metro: Strasbourg-Saint-Denis, Bonne Nouvelle or Château d'Eau.
  
   Verjus,  52 rue Richelieu, 1st, Tel. 01-42-97-54-40. Metro: Palais-Royal Musee du Louvre or Pyramide. Dinner only. Closed Saturday, Sunday. Prix-fixe 60 Euros.
]]>BONES--A Brilliant New Place to Gnaw On in the 11th, B+http://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/1/28/bones-a-brilliant-new-place-to-gnaw-on-in-the-11th-b.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-01-28T15:02:07Z2013-01-28T15:02:07Z
 
  Last summer I had the insane good luck of going somewhere I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd see in this lifetime: Tasmania, the stunningly beautiful island which looks like a piece of Australia that snapped off and floated 150 miles south. Flying down to Hobart, Tasmania's largest city, from Sydney to meet my friends Peter and Mike for a week's exploration of this heart-breakingly gorgeous place, I sat next to a chatty lady who poured a tiny bottle of gin into her orange juice and told me she'd moved to the island from Melbourne a year earlier for 'private reasons.' And when I didn't touch that bait, she changed course and went on and on about the island's wonderful food and wine. I had, to be sure, heard friends in Sydney rave about Luke Burgess at Les Garagistes, but nothing prepared for me for the unselfconscious and sinewy genuis of the head-to-tail farm-to-table ethos of brilliant little restaurants like Ethos or the wonderful Pigeon Hole Cafe, which served me one of the best caffe macchiato I've ever had. To wit, the best young Australian chefs not only source as carefully and locally as possible, they grow and make as much of what they serve as they possibly can, and its the pervasive seriousness of Tassie's artisinal food culture that ultimately makes the island such a superb place to eat.
 
James Henry   Curiously enough, I found myself replaying these summer meals as I walked through the snow near Place Leon Blum in the 11th arrondissement the other night on my way to Australian born chef James Henry's new restaurant Bones. Following my trip down under, I had a keener understanding of exactly why I'd liked Henry's cooking at Au Passage, where I'd first come across him after he'd moved on from a stint at Spring, so much--he's a quintessentially Australian chef in terms of his relationship with the produce he uses and his cooking and hospitality style, which is warm, direct, and completely unpretentious.
  
   Settled in over funky good bottle of La Peur du Rouge, an unsulphured natural white wine from Domaine Le Temps des Cerises in the Languedoc, a lot of familiar food-and-wine faces popped from one of the hippest crowds in Paris these days, and yet there was nothing about this massively popular place that suggested it was a scene or would become a scene. Oddly, but sort of wonderfully, it's almost as though Henry built-in some sort of circuit breakers which will put off the poseurs who charge after every hip new address in the weekly style supplements. 
   
  For one thing, the lighting, such as it is, is harsh, with two old factory lights casting everyone in sort of a cold metalic rail-siding-in-the suburbs of Birmingham light. And then there's the fact that the young staff here are just plain nice. In fact it's pretty clear they're all working here for the same reasons that are pulling customers through the door--they're seriously committed to Henry's sincere hearty locavore cooking and natural wines and they're hoping to have a good time. Or in other words, there's zero attitude here, which gives this place a laidback, democratic quick-with-a-smile vibe that has a lot more in common with Hobart than Paris (to say nothing of Brooklyn, and can we please say nothing about Brooklyn and Paris in the same sentence again for at least a decade? Thank you!).
 
  So in Parisian terms, this place is actually sort of eccentric. Sure, they're a couple of other local restaurant people who are deeply into coining a new idiom for casual good-times good eating in Paris--Pierre Jancou, Charles Compagnon, and Samuel Urbain notably among them, but without giving it too much thought, Henry is really pushing the boat out even further, since Bones may be many things, but it's not a French restaurant per se. And that's one of the reasons that it's so interesting, so irresistible as a totem of Paris still teething its way into the 21st century.
  
  James's food is very nice, too. For all of the forearm tatoos, dude strut and punk-rock sound-track (fun!), Henry is a damned serious eye-on-the-ball chef, which is why his constantly evolving prix-fixe menu is a challenge he lives up to. 
  
 
   I really liked this flirty little hors d'oeuvre of shaved celery bulb with smoked trout and trout eggs, was happy to taste his griddled squid with baby onions and squid's ink again (a version of same was on the menu at Au Passage), and his yellow pollack (lieu jaune, in French) with candy-cane carrots from potager princess Annie Bertin was very good eating, too, as part of his 40 Euro prix-fixe menu. The dish that really bore Henry's signature, however, was the pigeon with kale--a big crinkly leaf of this still little-known in the Old World vegetable that was a sight for sore eye, and salsify with a punch-you-in-the-nose-mate sauce of blood, bird juice and gizzards; I loved it. 
  
  In fact I think Henry really likes giving his clients the bird, as it were, and when we had a chat, he told me that once he knows his following here better, he'd love to serve a lot more offal and other bits and pieces that might rough up a young French crowd that's been slowly sucuumbing to one of the most heinous of all American vices--chicken breasts. The only reason I learned to eat--and love, snouts and feet and innards of all sorts is that I moved to France, so the idea that a younger French generation is becoming disaffected with barnyard eating is an honest heart-ache for me. 
  
   
  Since my date was flu-ish we skipped the cheese course from the Auvergne, and side-swiped dessert instead. A composition of almonds, coffe and lemon, it was just fine, but nothing memorable--I've never asked him, but I just don't feel Henry to be someone who cares very much about the sweet end of a meal. Instead he's all about the energy and agitation of getting the feed started and the almost literal blood-and-guts of making sure you're well fed. So despite the fact that his cooking isn't very precise and lacks the cool-operator suave of Louis-Philippe Riel at Le 6 Paul Bert, this place matters most as the launch pad for a young man who is quite certainly fated to become a very successful and well-known chef, whether this future unfolds in Paris or elsewhere. It's also just a big sweet gulp of fresh air for anyone who wants Paris to ignore the 3 Bs--Berlin, Barcelona and Brooklyn, and coin its own idea of a grandly Gallic good time at the beginning of this new century as surely as it did the last one.
  
43 rue Godefroy Cavaignac, 11th, Tel. 09-80-75-32-08. Metro: Charonne or Voltaire. Open Tuesday-Saturday for dinner, bar up front is open from 7pm-1am. Prix-fixe dinner 40 Euros for four course, 47 Euros with cheese. www.bonesparis.com
]]>LE RICHER -- A Perfect Neighborhood Joint That's Worth A Journey Across Town, B+http://alexanderlobrano.com/blog/2013/1/15/le-richer-a-perfect-neighborhood-joint-thats-worth-a-journey.htmlAlexander Lobrano2013-01-15T23:51:02Z2013-01-15T23:51:02Z
 
   I know, I know, I'm a bit odd, because I actually like winter. Some part of this preference may be due to my New England upbringing, but most it surely comes from the DNA I inherited from stalwart ancestors 95% of whom lived in cold, light-deprived parts of Northern Europe my surname notwithstanding. So sallying forth on a winter night when big fat lazy snow flakes were whirling to the ground, I was in fine fettle, because I was meeting a friend at the new Septime La Cave, the wine-bar annex of Septime, a restaurant I like very much.
 
  Alas, my pal didn't turn up, and though Septime La Cave is a pleasant enough spot for a glass of wine or two if you happen to be in the neighborhood (the deep 11th arrondissement in eastern Paris) on your way to dinner at Septime, Le Bistrot Paul Bert, L'Ecailler du Bistrot or Le 6 Paul Bert, it's not really a destination in and of itself. So after a bracing pour or two, I got on the horn to the indefatigible Bruno, and we met at another place I've been wanting to try, Le Richer, which is in the buzzy quarter around the rue du Faubourg Saint Denis in the 9th/10th.
 
  The already flannel-clad Bruno nicely agreed to change back into street clothes and meet me, and as soon as I walked in the door at Le Richer, which is run by the same team as the swell L'Office across the street, I knew I'd love this place. First of all, the aesthetics were impeccable, with an old corner cafe having been transformed into a really good-looking neighborhood bistro with exposed stone walls, perfect lighting, an oak bar, and a sound-proofed gray ceiling which meant that you could enjoy the funky retro music but still here a pleasant background noise of conservation.
 
  Since every table in this no-reservations place was full, we sat at the bar, and had a glass of excellent of Vin de Pays d'Allobrogie Domaine des Ardoisieres Argile Blanc, a superb Savoyard white, and studied the short menu. Though starters like a saute of butternut and pumpkin with mustard greens and burrata and cream of celery soup with blue-cheese whipped cream, sliced pears and walnuts sounded terrific, we both just ordered a main course, since it was late. 
  
Pan-roasted duckling breast
Roast lamb in potato foam
 Both of them were brilliant winter eating, which is to say really consoling and warming food that also surprised by being light, precisely cooked and cleverly garnished. Bruno's ducking came rare as ordered with sliced beets, beautifully made gnocci Parisienne, and a sublime mole-spiked nougatine, while my roasted lamb was tucked under an airy potato foam with firm chunks of Jerusalem artichoke and a scattering of verjus-moistened mustard grains. Accompanied by a terrific Domaine Combier Crozes-Hermitage, these dishes vanished in a heart-beat, and suddenly we were very happy for having a place we really liked not too far from home that we could go to last-minute seven-days-a-week.
  
  The charming and attentive service of Raoul, the friendly bar tender-barrista, added a lot to our good time, too. Like all really good restaurant people, he takes sincere pleasure in seeing other people enjoy their food and their wine, and this sets in motion a pleasant pendulum of mutual satisfaction between the server and the served. He also filled us in that the chef in the kitchen is a really talented young Japanese man and that Le Richer's coffee comes from Coutume, the great little cafe and roaster over in the rue de Babylone.
  
 
  We hadn't really planned on having anything more, but Raoul vaunted the cheese plate from a fromagerie in the rue Cadet, so we decided to share one and were generously served. The cheeses were terrific.
  
 
  The apple tart with lime-spiked cream and the floating island with caramel and mango both sounded wonderful, but struggling to stick with a new (and miserable) low-calorie regime, we gave them a pass, although I know I'll definitely have dessert when I come over here on my own for lunch without Bruno sometime very soon. So let's let this be our little secret. As it is, I doubt Bruno would be very happy to know that I've already let the cat out of the bag by blogging about a place he liked so much, but with any luck at all, this terrific place will serve as a model for the renovation of many other drab and struggling neighborhood cafes all over Paris.
 
  Le Richer, 2 rue Richer, 9th, No phone/no reservations, Metro: Poissonnière, Grands Boulevards, Bonne Nouvelle or Cadet. Open daily for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Average two-course dinner 30 Euros. Sandwiches, tapas and other light eats are always on offer.
 
  Septime La Cave, 3 rue Basfroi, 11th, Tel. 01-43-67-14-87. Metro: Ledru Rollin, Voltaire or Charonne, Closed Sunday and Monday.
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