BONES--A Brilliant New Place to Gnaw On in the 11th, B+

 

  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

GUY MARTIN ITALIA, C- : Giving Pasta the Boot on the Left Bank

Don't Ask, Don't Tell? Or something, at Guy Martin Italia

 

  On the eve of la rentree (fall season) in Paris, they're several new restaurants in the wings that are deadringers for major media shout-outs. La Cocotte, Philippe Stark's new high-concept bistro at the Porte de Clignacourt flea-market, is a perfect definition of media catnip, while Aussie chef James Henry's new on-his-own table and terrific restaurateur Pierre Jancou's Vivant Table, a reboot of his beautiful Vivant bistrot a vins, will be tasty fodder for seriously food-loving bloggers and websites. Then there are places like Guy Martin Italia, Guy Martin's expensive, high-production-values new Italian restaurant. With a serious PR budget being deployed by a very well-known chef--Martin is chef at Le Grand Vefour, you can be sure you'll see this place everywhere, and that it will be the recipient of polite and rather sheepishly toothless reviews in most major French gastronomic publications and magazines and newspapers with food and/or restaurant columns.

   

  With an exception or two--I love the Caffe dei Cioppi, for example, I've long since given up on eating Italian food in Paris, because it's always under-seasoned, over-sophisticated and much too expensive for what it is. Still, hope springs eternal when you love it as much as I do, and so looking for a nice place for a reunion dinner with our friends Laurent and Carole on a Sunday night, I stumbled across Guy Martin Italia, studied the menu on the website, and decided to give it the benefit of the doubt, despite the fact that I'd never liked Le Sensing, the rather forced high-concept contemporary French place it replaces.  

 

  Arriving, there was an alarming fastness in the dining room, which set off alarm bells right away, but Laurent and Carole were already seated, so we stepped inside to meet our fate. This semi-hushed very formal service style from a young serving team who took themselves seriously immediately drained off a lot of joy, however, and it also served notice that we were not meant to relax and enjoy this meal, but rather try to live up to it. That said, the bread, served warm, was good, and the short tight bouquet of summer flowers on the attractively dressed table were real.

   

  Though stiffly priced, the menu was appealing enough on paper, too, and I was somewhat heartened to know that there was an Italian born chef in the kitchen, the amiable Fabrizio La Mantia from Mantua. So each of us ordered a different anti-pasto, with me settling on the  the beef carpaccio "Cipriani" (the reference to the famous Venetian hotel should have warned me off) for 12 Euros; Carole, a mixed antipasti assortment at 18 Euros; Laurent, some Italian charcuterie for 18 Euros; and Bruno, a plate of prosciutto and burrata at 16 Euros.

  

   

  Bruno did best, since he generously received two soft white little purses of delicious Puglian curds and whey and a nosegay of San Daniele ham. Carole was basically robbed, since the stingy portion of dried tomatoes, olives, capers and braesola that came her way was just plain dull, while Laurent liked his charcuterie, but complained that he'd be so ungenerously served for what he was paying.  

 

  And me? I suddenly found myself eating business-class on Alitalia, with a flaccid flannel of flesh under a clumsy grid of yellow squirt-bottle mayonnaise, a few shards of waxy cheese and a scattering of arugula leaves that gave this dish its only flavor. So now at least I knew where I was--to wit, Martin is gunning for the same Gauche Caviar crowd (establishment power types on expense accounts) who frequent Le Dome and La Rotonde nearby and also rulers-of-the-universe foreigners who dine at Le Grand Vefour, his home crib, but prefer to bed down on the Left Bank. 

  

  Will it work? On the basis of our main courses, I don't think so. Spaghetti alle vongole is an Italian comfort-food classic with an international reputation, but based on the cool-operator service and airport-lounge decor of this place, some questions were in order. But what can really ask under these circumstances? Is it good? The waiter swooned, "Oh, yes! It's wonderful!" So Bruno and Laurent went for the spaghetti with baby clams, I fell for the gnochetti, which were actually one of my favorite Italian pastas, malloreddus, or little ribbed durum wheat shells from Sardinia. It was inaccurately translated on the menu--the Italian description mentioned squid, while the French referred only to capers and olives. Neither mentioned the tasteless cubes of cottony hot-house tomato that finally gave this dish its primary flavor. Oh, and poor Carole ended up with some spongy cubes of swordfish with a rather anonymous garnish of aubergines.

  

 

 

  The real high-speed Neapolitan car-wreck here, however, was that the spaghetti alle vongole came with shelled clams! Madonna! Shelled clams! No Italian I know would ever have accepted this dish, since the shells are a warrant of freshness and contain the salty juices that make it so good. So I inquired. "Oh, er, yes, our customers always tell us that they're very happy not to have to deal with the shells," the waiter who recommended the dish said rather briskly. So the worst of effete Parisianisme struck again.

 

  And then there was my dish, with more of those suspiciously micro-fine food-service parsley flecks, tasteless olives, the offending tomatoes, and catch-of-the-week calamari rings. The pasta was cooked correctly, however, and the sauce was nicely emulsified, the problem was that it delivered no flavor. And Carole's kitchen-sponge swordfish warrants neither comment nor photo.

 

  So we arrived at dessert, which Bruno, Laurent and I scrubbed, while Carole succumbed to the mango and vanilla panna cotta. I didn't taste it, but I did observe its firm gelatinous flanks and fussy decor.

  

 

  In the meantime, however, the po-faced waitress had assiduously poured us through two bottles of shreikingly overpriced Vermentino di San Gimignano (you can find it in supermarkets in Italy for about 4 Euros, here at 32 Euros, or some such) and two bottles of Chateldon. Clearly, up-sell is a major part of staff training at Guy Martin italia, which is one of the most calculating restaurants I've been to in a longtime. 

   

  In fact, this place could serve as a Harvard Business School case history to illustrate why it's not always a good idea for a chef to expand beyond the kitchen where he actually works. I doubt it will still be open in a year's time, or at least not in the same format--maybe Martin will try his hand at a Texan style barbecue restaurant next time round? In the meantime, it'll be oddly fascinating to watch the inevitably cautious and very polite reviews roll in.

 

  19 rue de Bréa, 6th, Tél. 01-43-27-08-80, Metro: Vavin or Montparnasse. Open daily. Lunch menu 50 Euros, Dinner menus 75 Euros, 95 Euros, Average a la carte 70 Euros.  

AU PASSAGE--A Great New Wine Bar, B; AUX VERRES DE CONTACT--Could-Do-Better Bistro, B-/C+

Bruno pondering Aux Verre de Contact  When it reopens on Tuesday (August 23), I suspect that Au Passage, a terrific new wine bar tucked away in a funky lane between the Place de la Republique and the Place de la Bastille may be taken by storm, because people have been talking about this place all summer. I went just before the team here, which includes some really nice Spring alumni--Audrey, former hostess at the restaurant, and talented Australian chef James Henry, who was part of the kitchen cast, took a much needed summer break, and not only was the food very good but it was a lot of fun. 

   A perfect example of one of the most welcome recent trends in Paris--relaxed and affordable wine bars serving interesting small plates and 'natural' or organic wines (others include Le Dauphin, Vivant, Les Fines Gueules, Frenchie Wine Bar, and Le Verre Vole), it occupies an old atelier space and is furnished with an appealing mix of flea-market finds (N.B. The decor may have changed, because they were planning a major renovation during the summer). The chalkboard menu changes daily, but runs to edgy modern French comfort food that offer delicious cameos of James Henry's fertile culinary imagination, and it's quickly become one of the most popular addresses in town with the smart, younger tribe of chefs, wine merchants and food writers who are propelling the wine-bar trend. Everyone seems to know each other, so there's a lot of chatting between tables and stepping outside with glass of wine for some fresh air or a smoke. It doesn't feel clubby, though--everyone's welcome and there's zero attitude here. Instead, this crew really seems to enjoy what they do and in sharing it.  

   Just sitting at the table with a glass of white wine waiting for my friend Ona, a glamorous Turkish journalist who's new in town, I was having a good time, which led me to reflect on the fact that good hospitality is often the X factor in a restaurant. A chef can be really talented but if he or she and their team don't actually like the front of house side of this business, which is greeting and serving, a restaurant can fall flat, a regretable example of same being Guillaume Delage's just opened Aux Verres de Contact (reviewed below). Chefs who don't like their customers make me think of travel writers who disdain tourists, it just doesn't make sense. Anyway, the crowd here was clearly having a great time, and it became more obvious to me than ever that this new breed of wine bar have filled the gap left behind my the rolling demise of Paris's traditional neighborhood bistros, i.e. casual, affordable places where you get a good feed while having a great night out. As they've become rarer but still much sought-after many bistros have gone decidedly upmarket in terms of their prices and serving style, a case in point being Au Bon Accueil in the 7th arrondissement.

  

  When Ona showed up, tousled but beaming after an assignation with a very famous French business man (married, bien sur), it took me a while to figure out what she meant by "I hoped it would not become like Mr. Rarfeller," which I finally realized was a surprisingly arcane reference to Nelson Rockefeller's amorous demise--you just never know what's going to come out of this one's mouth, and that's why she's so much fun. That solved, I wasn't interested in more details, so we ordered a bottle of Loire Valley coteaux de Giennois and savaged the menu. We started with a salad of Joël Thiébault vegetables, octopus and squid and a terrific vaguely Catalan dish of seared tuna chunks, mussels and tomatoes with just a whisper of saffron and pimenton in the light mayonnais-y sauce, and both were delicious wolfed down with real country bread--thick crusted and tangy, made by chef Thierry Breton of Chez Michel, which is one of my favorite bistros even though it now runs 50 Euros a head--restaurant prices have gone through the roof in Paris this year.

  Though it's become pretty ubiquitous, we also ordered some burrata with heirloom tomatoes--I can't ever get enough burrata, that creamy cousin of mozzarella from Apuglia, and glasses of an excellent red Sancerre from Pinoz Dauny to go with a superb steak tartare and the best dish of the evening, which was seared steak with kimchi style cornichons that James Henry had made himself. Though there's doubtless some arcane Parisian law against doing so (drinking in a public space), everyone ended up taking their bottles outside and standing around chatting until 2.30am under umbrellas in a driving but warm summer rain storm. This is a swell spot, and I'm sure I'll be here often this Fall.

  Because he's a very good chef, I'm sure I'll also give Guillaume Delage's Aux Verres de Contact another try, too, but my meal here with Bruno and friends Laurent and Carole didn't hit the sweet spot I'd been hoping for. Delage is the chef of Jadis, a bistro in the 15th that I've been crowing about for a while, but I haven't been back there for the last couple of months either. Why? It's dispriting to travel to such a remote location--Jadis is in the deep 15th near the Porte de Versailles, and experience exasperated and long-suffering service. The waiters at Aux Verre de Contact were friendlier than the dining room staff at Jadis--and mind you, I don't like Saint-Bernard-in-heat-style all-over-you service at all, but still distracted and absent minded. Our aperitif glasses were still on the table when we paid our bill, and a request for some much needed salt elicited a rolled eyes response; I wish restaurants would just put the salt and pepper on the table and be done with it. The absence of this duo often communicates a chef-knows-better sort of attitude that's never a good sign.

  As four, we were able to eat our way through most of Aux Verre de Contact's menu, and if the food was pretty good, it was also very expensive for it was and everyone hated having to order side dishes at additional expense. Among our starters, Laurent's marinated herring was the star, athough the warm potato salad mentioned on the menu had been replaced by lentils vinaigrette with no warning; Bruno's marinated salmon was decent but dull; and Carole's salade du jour of roasted peppers and little balls of goat cheese brought catered business lunches to mind. My shrimp with curried vegetables and smoked duck breast didn't really coalesce in terms of tastes and textures either.

  

  Main courses were pretty to look at and better-than-average, too, but none of them were memorable. I had to ask for the aioli that came with my cod, and the overcooked fish really needed it, too, but Bruno's steak tartare was excellent--as well it should have been for 23 Euros with a few leaves of salad and a couple of soggy fries. Seventeen Euros seemed like an awful lot of money for a couple of fried eggs with ratatouille and a few slices of smoked tuna, which is what Carole had, and Laurent would have liked his pork breast both crunchier and more tender, too. 

 

   Since I like Delage's cooking so much, and it was my idea to come here, I was more tempered in my opinions than the other three. The kitchen obviously cooks with excellent produce, and I'd much rather eat here than at any brasserie I can think of, but in the end, I had to agree with Laurent's assessment of the meal: "Pas mal, mais trop cher et service a revoir" or "Not bad, but too expensive, and the service needs work." Dog days of August oblige, I'll give Aux Verres de Contact another chance, but really hope they move over to a prix-fixe format before I come back. 

Au Passage, 1 bis passage Saint Sébastien, 11th, Tel. 01-43-55-07-52. Metro: Sébastien Froissart, Open Monday to Saturday for lunch and dinner. Average 30 Euros. 

Aux Verres de Contact, 52 boulevard Saint-Germain, 5th, Tel. 01-46-34-58-02, Metro: Maubert Mutualite. Open Monday to Saturday for lunch and dinner. Closed Sunday. Average 40 Euros.