Continuing as I now was, on the recommendation of a reliable third party, I found myself wandering the myriad streets somewhere near the Gare de Lyon. I was looking for L'Ebauchoir which I'd read did a comparatively creative bistro lunch menu for 13€. I consulted the website to find a series of cool animations which seemed to represent a a fairly light-hearted atmosphere in which to enjoy a serious lunch, at responsible expense.
Given that I was so far from the beaten track I'd assumed it truly French - true in the sense that it would be frequented by either locals or those 'in the know': ie, not feeling it necessary to subscribe to the architypal street-corner act of so many bistros in the city.
I was further encouraged as to its credentials when on entering I was given a fairly frosty reception from two of the members of staff. It was almost certainly due to the heat and the fact that, at 2.30, they were nearing the end of what had been a busy lunch service. But I consoled myself with the thought that they weren't at all tourist-savvy, so to speak - that it was a shock to the system. That was fine, provided of course, they didn't think to spite this stray ros' beef. As at this point, it had become clear that is exactly what I was: I attempted a semi-franglaise/semi-mime, 'table for one?' at which point the waiter pitched, in perfect English, 'Inside, outside; sun, shade?' back at me, albeit in that irritatingly smug international accent.
I settled in the sun outside and ordered from the set menu. To begin, I selected a light, summery sounding raw, pickled herring with potatoes and a balsamic viniagrette. The fish was lovely and delicate, where the potatoes were floury and substantial. Though I found the viniagrette a little too much - too dijony and heavy for the simplicity of all else. I could, however, see a genuine attempt at something a little bit different - a sure deviation from the orthodox bistro formula.
Disapointingly, high hopes quickly turned to anti-climax when my main course arrived - a cold beef salad. Perhaps naively, I was surprised to find that the cut of meat was a cheap one - the kind of which is wonderful in a slow-braised, piping hot stew. This though was a cold salad on a hot day. Parts - the meatier parts - I enjoyed. It had been dressed, rather unusually, with mint and tarragon and was served with some seasoned rice and some crisp, dressed leaves. The problem was there was simply more than a little I didn't want to eat. I may sound like a wuss, but without lean beef, it seemed a bit of a confused parody.
I genuinely didn't want to tar L'Ebauchoir with the bad restaurant brush. I suspected that the dishes were not necessarily to my taste. More, it was so cheap and I had seen, if not in the execution, a potential for a good lunch. At 13€ it was entirely possible a set menu could have shortcomings.
I have since been twice as a result and both myself and my friends have been delighted - save for a bin-end creme caramel (which seemed to comprise three portions) that Gabs coined a 'horribly mediocre blamonge' - with all that we ate: cold courgette soup with mint, chicken with jus and pomme puree, fish and rice patties with diced tomato, braised veal with roast potatoes and good deserts like chocolate fondant and plum tart all delivered.
In nearly all the dishes, which in fairness over the two visits provided a much greater sample size, the restuarant confirmed my suspicion that there was more to be had following the first visit. It represents excellent value in a characterful french place. Saying that, the proprietor's embrace is far from warm, though my regularity has at least drawn half-smiles of familiarity. With time, maybe I'll accrue the status of a local - and they'll at least pretend to be pleased to see me.
43 - 45 rue de Citeaux, 75012 Paris
http://www.lebauchoir.com/
Friday, August 21, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
My three companions
Pieces of the first week. Michael Booth's brilliant book, sweedish plus-fours and some faux-Birkenstocks
...And a final sweet something - Laduree
To complete my hat trick of sweet delights this week, I decided to visit an institutional Parisian patisserie. Acting principally on the trusted advice of a former inhabitee of Saint-Germain, my friend Annie, I Velib-ed (Paris rent-a-bikes) my way from the 13th arrondissment north to the 7th.
Again, I would not include myself among the most religious lovers of things sweet. And again, I was alarmingly made aware of what else I didn't know about my own palate. Rows of macaroons - a rainbow of colours, a plethora of flavours - occupy the majority of the counter, behind which a brigade of bi- tri- four-bags-full-lingual assistants delicately place requests in ornately patterned Georgian-jade coloured boxes for you to take away and cherish. You are forgiven for forgetting that they are indeed to be eaten - if not at once.
These are the product of a commitment to perfection, as well as a very real duty to answer a demand - I have heard that in the Champs Elysee branch alone 12,000 of these little bad boys are shifted daily. At 10€ for 8, you do the maths!
Among my packet of pleasure, there was sticky, buttery caramel, nutty pistachio and jammy raspberry. Choosing your combination is fun enough; eating them a whole other thing.
Sheer intrigue left my box half empty before I'd even manage to take a photograph of the shop front. And with that - my picture, a sugar rush and a feeling of satisfaction - I felt composed to go on and continue my day in search of the next Parisian surprise.
Again, I would not include myself among the most religious lovers of things sweet. And again, I was alarmingly made aware of what else I didn't know about my own palate. Rows of macaroons - a rainbow of colours, a plethora of flavours - occupy the majority of the counter, behind which a brigade of bi- tri- four-bags-full-lingual assistants delicately place requests in ornately patterned Georgian-jade coloured boxes for you to take away and cherish. You are forgiven for forgetting that they are indeed to be eaten - if not at once.
These are the product of a commitment to perfection, as well as a very real duty to answer a demand - I have heard that in the Champs Elysee branch alone 12,000 of these little bad boys are shifted daily. At 10€ for 8, you do the maths!
Among my packet of pleasure, there was sticky, buttery caramel, nutty pistachio and jammy raspberry. Choosing your combination is fun enough; eating them a whole other thing.
Sheer intrigue left my box half empty before I'd even manage to take a photograph of the shop front. And with that - my picture, a sugar rush and a feeling of satisfaction - I felt composed to go on and continue my day in search of the next Parisian surprise.
...Another something sweet - Amorino
Earlier in the week, Isabelle had introduced me to an ice cream shop in between Jardin de Luxembourg and Pantheon. An Italian parlour, with native staff who form horticultural-esque creations with artistic precision, Amorino is, I am told, unrivalled in Paris.
I would not regard myself as an ice cream lover, though my combination, on trip one, of mango and raspberry (with the addition of strawberry on trip two a couple of days later) kept me smiling and involuntarily uttering sounds of great pleasure for some time afterwards. Exceptional gelati!
I would not regard myself as an ice cream lover, though my combination, on trip one, of mango and raspberry (with the addition of strawberry on trip two a couple of days later) kept me smiling and involuntarily uttering sounds of great pleasure for some time afterwards. Exceptional gelati!
Sweet Thing - Flat peaches...
"Another stall had...curious-looking flat, white peaches which I'd never encountered before coming to Paris but [which] became my favourite fruit". (Michael Booth)
Naturally, I had to try one. Sure enough, on my next visit to the fruit stand, I came across the pesche blanche and willingly threw three into my basket. I had assumed that they were unripe and would need a couple of days. Curiosity and craving would soon overwhelm any patience or logic I had previously intentioned: I reasoned after a most unscientific of prods that they were fine and began tucking in.
Alas, Booth was right. They're amazing! I urge anybody, whenever they can, to enjoy this wonderful fruit. I found it to be everything I always want from a peach but which am frequently and frustratingly hard-pressed to find. (In England, that is). It is more subtle, less acidic than a regular peach; a candy-like, almost exotic flesh. Needless to say, I greedily ate all three and after what was initial ecstasy, they have become a welcome and staple resident in the fruit bowl.
Naturally, I had to try one. Sure enough, on my next visit to the fruit stand, I came across the pesche blanche and willingly threw three into my basket. I had assumed that they were unripe and would need a couple of days. Curiosity and craving would soon overwhelm any patience or logic I had previously intentioned: I reasoned after a most unscientific of prods that they were fine and began tucking in.
Alas, Booth was right. They're amazing! I urge anybody, whenever they can, to enjoy this wonderful fruit. I found it to be everything I always want from a peach but which am frequently and frustratingly hard-pressed to find. (In England, that is). It is more subtle, less acidic than a regular peach; a candy-like, almost exotic flesh. Needless to say, I greedily ate all three and after what was initial ecstasy, they have become a welcome and staple resident in the fruit bowl.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Italiene - Les Cailloux
I had eyed this place on my first night. It looked so inviting - people still enjoying wine and digestifs at around midnight.
It sits at the junction in what might be regarded as the centre of La Butte aux Cailles - the surreally-perfect picturesque village-within-Paris in the 13 arrondissment.
I am lucky enough to live only a stones throw from La Butte aux Cailles, a minutes walk up the hill of rue Alphand. On learning that I was a temporary resident of the area, Edouard, my friend and invaluable informant of all things good and gourmet in Paris, reacted with a degree of surprise and a hint of envy - remarking that it is one of the most beautiful and unknown areas of the city. Jackpot, I thought to myself!
Prestigiously straddling rue Alphand and rue des Cinq-Diamants, Les Cailloux sits separate from a stretch of less affluent looking cafe bars who run the commonplace bistro-style menus. Steak, fritte etc.
I had enjoyed a morning in one such venue; drinking coffee and observing the ever-moving technicoloured demography of these fascinating small streets. You are as likely to see a paint-covered workman as you are a suave, blue-suited vespa-rider from the inner city; while buggy pushing bo-bo mums compete for pavement space with weathered looking old ladies and their trolleys full of fruit. All kinds of characters come and go.
Over the way, lunch at Les Cailloux seemed attractive. It was upward of 40€ for dinner and as I looked on at 1.30 trade looked in no way ready to cease. Here, I thought, busy = good. Ignorantly I hadn't realised it was Italian and to learn that even at lunch one is looking to hand over no less than 15€ for a bowl of pasta, I briefly admonished myself for relinquishing that important childhood mantra 'to never judge a book by its cover'!
Whats more, for the past year, great pasta had been at my beck and call, free of charge (as staff food) and previous to that I had enjoyed a love affair with Giorgio Locatelli and that Magnus Opus, 'Made in Italy'. I'd had my fill and I was now in Paris - for a reason.
That said, it didn't prevent me from enjoying a perfectly al dente linguine with langoustine: lots of fresh parsley and some deliciously sweet cherry tomatoes, which together with some butter formed a glossy liquor that both coated the pasta and provided a good puddle for a chunk of bread to be dipped in at the end.
I certainly did enjoy it, though I felt that I had gone for the wrong reasons and had been rewarded thus. I went because it looked cool and I have learnt, that in Paris, the real gems lay where you least expect them. And so, an early lesson has been learnt: for now, at least, as a wide-eyed would-be gourmand, be guided; and probably follow the workman on foot, not the suit on his vespa.
It sits at the junction in what might be regarded as the centre of La Butte aux Cailles - the surreally-perfect picturesque village-within-Paris in the 13 arrondissment.
I am lucky enough to live only a stones throw from La Butte aux Cailles, a minutes walk up the hill of rue Alphand. On learning that I was a temporary resident of the area, Edouard, my friend and invaluable informant of all things good and gourmet in Paris, reacted with a degree of surprise and a hint of envy - remarking that it is one of the most beautiful and unknown areas of the city. Jackpot, I thought to myself!
Prestigiously straddling rue Alphand and rue des Cinq-Diamants, Les Cailloux sits separate from a stretch of less affluent looking cafe bars who run the commonplace bistro-style menus. Steak, fritte etc.
I had enjoyed a morning in one such venue; drinking coffee and observing the ever-moving technicoloured demography of these fascinating small streets. You are as likely to see a paint-covered workman as you are a suave, blue-suited vespa-rider from the inner city; while buggy pushing bo-bo mums compete for pavement space with weathered looking old ladies and their trolleys full of fruit. All kinds of characters come and go.
Over the way, lunch at Les Cailloux seemed attractive. It was upward of 40€ for dinner and as I looked on at 1.30 trade looked in no way ready to cease. Here, I thought, busy = good. Ignorantly I hadn't realised it was Italian and to learn that even at lunch one is looking to hand over no less than 15€ for a bowl of pasta, I briefly admonished myself for relinquishing that important childhood mantra 'to never judge a book by its cover'!
Whats more, for the past year, great pasta had been at my beck and call, free of charge (as staff food) and previous to that I had enjoyed a love affair with Giorgio Locatelli and that Magnus Opus, 'Made in Italy'. I'd had my fill and I was now in Paris - for a reason.
That said, it didn't prevent me from enjoying a perfectly al dente linguine with langoustine: lots of fresh parsley and some deliciously sweet cherry tomatoes, which together with some butter formed a glossy liquor that both coated the pasta and provided a good puddle for a chunk of bread to be dipped in at the end.
I certainly did enjoy it, though I felt that I had gone for the wrong reasons and had been rewarded thus. I went because it looked cool and I have learnt, that in Paris, the real gems lay where you least expect them. And so, an early lesson has been learnt: for now, at least, as a wide-eyed would-be gourmand, be guided; and probably follow the workman on foot, not the suit on his vespa.
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