I was told that this place was fantastic. The guardian 'Top 10 new bistros in Paris' had listed it last summer and Isabelle, my flatmate, confirmed it as an absolute must for dinner.
It was suggested that we wait until 10ish before going...I love the fact everything occurs a few hours later here, and each time am happily reminded of being fed by my Dad, on the rare occasion that he would "cook" in the absence of my Mum, at 4.30pm immediately after getting in from school. 'Good day at school, shall we get tea out of the way, kids?'.
As much as I love tinned salmon, peas and onion-specked mashed potato, the idea of entering a Parisian neighbourhood dining room on a balmy August night filled me with excitement. Plus, I was actually hungry!
On arrival we would find a great gathering outside on the street - all smoking, chatting, and waiting to be fed. That, I think, is the best way to describe Chez Gladines: they see it as their obligation to feed you, feed you as much as you can eat for as little as they can afford to charge. Noble, huh?
To call it a soup kitchen for middle-class students would do it something of an injustice and while there was a table of 11 obnoxious, loud, ostensibly wealthy 18-21 year olds, the two dining rooms were full of people who wanted to eat well and who didn't mind sharing a table or sharing a story with their unknown fellow diners.
On our table for instance, was Stefan: a thick-set, hirsute Cantona-cum-Chabal figure of great presence who kindly offered advice on what to select from the menu.
His suggestion turned out to be one that would set a precedent for Size of Plate:Volume of Food ratios henceforth. Escalopes de Veau were flying out of the kitchen faster than one could say, 'Have you got frogs legs?' (The sole waiter was moving faster than I thought humanly possible; indeed faster than any green amphibian could move either). Xenophobic exclamation averted. Each time said waiter slalomed and muscled his way through the restaurant bellowing, 'CHAUD, CHAUD, CHAUD' the plates would receive inquisitory glances as if to say, 'what is that...that's what I want'. Going with the masses was again a triumph. This was lip-lickingly delicious, heart-stoppingly calorie-laden food at its best. A celebration of sorts to all things savoury.
Veal, ham, cheese and countless stacks of thinly-sliced, crispy potatoes formed a centre piece around which ran a moat of montagnaud sauce: rich with brandy and cream and dotted with sauteed mushrooms. Plus loads of baguette (as is standard) to mop up.
There is simply no point in coming to Gladines unless you are very hungry. I managed all but a few potatoes (at a push) and Isabelle (whose salad literally filled a stainless steel mixing bowl) unsurprisingly was unable to finish.
Neither would you wish to visit Gladines every night, not least because repeated indulgence of this kind would serve only to distort what is required of any orthodox eatery. Equally, though, it is for its very eccentricities, unrestrained energy and uniqueness, that anybody wishing to eat - eat that is, in its purest sense, must go.
It was suggested that we wait until 10ish before going...I love the fact everything occurs a few hours later here, and each time am happily reminded of being fed by my Dad, on the rare occasion that he would "cook" in the absence of my Mum, at 4.30pm immediately after getting in from school. 'Good day at school, shall we get tea out of the way, kids?'.
As much as I love tinned salmon, peas and onion-specked mashed potato, the idea of entering a Parisian neighbourhood dining room on a balmy August night filled me with excitement. Plus, I was actually hungry!
On arrival we would find a great gathering outside on the street - all smoking, chatting, and waiting to be fed. That, I think, is the best way to describe Chez Gladines: they see it as their obligation to feed you, feed you as much as you can eat for as little as they can afford to charge. Noble, huh?
To call it a soup kitchen for middle-class students would do it something of an injustice and while there was a table of 11 obnoxious, loud, ostensibly wealthy 18-21 year olds, the two dining rooms were full of people who wanted to eat well and who didn't mind sharing a table or sharing a story with their unknown fellow diners.
On our table for instance, was Stefan: a thick-set, hirsute Cantona-cum-Chabal figure of great presence who kindly offered advice on what to select from the menu.
His suggestion turned out to be one that would set a precedent for Size of Plate:Volume of Food ratios henceforth. Escalopes de Veau were flying out of the kitchen faster than one could say, 'Have you got frogs legs?' (The sole waiter was moving faster than I thought humanly possible; indeed faster than any green amphibian could move either). Xenophobic exclamation averted. Each time said waiter slalomed and muscled his way through the restaurant bellowing, 'CHAUD, CHAUD, CHAUD' the plates would receive inquisitory glances as if to say, 'what is that...that's what I want'. Going with the masses was again a triumph. This was lip-lickingly delicious, heart-stoppingly calorie-laden food at its best. A celebration of sorts to all things savoury.
Veal, ham, cheese and countless stacks of thinly-sliced, crispy potatoes formed a centre piece around which ran a moat of montagnaud sauce: rich with brandy and cream and dotted with sauteed mushrooms. Plus loads of baguette (as is standard) to mop up.
There is simply no point in coming to Gladines unless you are very hungry. I managed all but a few potatoes (at a push) and Isabelle (whose salad literally filled a stainless steel mixing bowl) unsurprisingly was unable to finish.
Neither would you wish to visit Gladines every night, not least because repeated indulgence of this kind would serve only to distort what is required of any orthodox eatery. Equally, though, it is for its very eccentricities, unrestrained energy and uniqueness, that anybody wishing to eat - eat that is, in its purest sense, must go.
Chez Gladines 5 rue des Cinq Diamants, Paris 13
Fabulous...
ReplyDeleteI went here a year ago with my husband and we often talk about it. He had the memorable Basque style Cassoulet - white beans, duck leg, pork and sausage in an earthenware dish. I had tuna with salsa. It was great- we got there at 10 to 7 and by 10 past 7 it was packed (they don't start until 7 though). So go early or late. I loved the friendly and helpful waiters and the whole vibe. All the food looked great too.
ReplyDeleteHappy Aussie :)