LETTER FROM PARIS #33Promises. Promises.

I adore children. I do not adore parents who insist on bringing ones to restaurants who shriek, cry, whine, or generally make themselves heard above the din. But I make an exception for one adorable, smiling, contented baby in a restaurant that deserves praise not tantrums.

We were seated next to a couple, perhaps 30-somethings and their baby, who could not have been more than 16 months old. I asked if this was their first. “No, we have another (gesturing grown up) at home.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. A little pie-faced, but only from that infant chubbiness, he gurgled contentedly through what would turn out to be among the best meals we have had in Paris. (I know, I snuck in the kid as a pretext to talk about food – you say.)

The point of the child is that our meal was not spoiled. It was enhanced by the baby’s presence. Unlike the other night when we lined up at Relais de Venise and were treated to screaming from an uncontrollable child. The mother was beside herself. Nearly or really in tears. Fractious children should remain at home until they are fit to be taken to a public place. They are demanding attention I know.

Sometimes a happy child is a reflection of the kind of care he gets. I did ask: “Est ce qu’il est boujour heureux?” The parents smiled and said “Oui.” He, it turns out is a film cameraman who has been to Toronto. He shot a film there, and from what I gathered it was an industrial film for a French company.

Enough backing and filling. The REAL story here was the food, the presentation, the taste. We had been looking for a place called “Balthazar” which had good reviews and was about a ten minute walk away. We never found it at the intersection where it was supposed to be. But we did find “Aux Saveurs du Marche.” I was just a bit put off at first by the designer attempt at chic. It was good. Spare, but not minimalist. Nicely lit. I couldn’t help thinking of the cookie-cutter renovations so popular on TV’s “Restaurant Makeover.” It was just too-too…But I quibble.

That’s where anything negative ends. We both ordered Medaillons de Veau. What arrived was finely sliced, exquisitely prepared prime veal in a light, creamy sauce. Every mouthful was tender and succulent, the taste added to by tiny mushrooms and topped with a sprig of fresh, fragrant rosemary. Once again – potatoes. Not frites, but mashed. This is the second mashed potato ambrosia. The French can take such an ordinary, pedestrian dish and turn it into a magically fluffy, tasty confection. (The other was at L”Empire on the Rue de Bac.)

Shirley, who has to stop eating chocolate, suffered through a Moellet de Chocolat, which is a chocolate fondant served alongside a scoop of ice cream. Mine, and I surprised myself, was Tiramisu. (I say surprised, because I usually avoid it, Tiramisu has become something of a cliché, like Cherries Jubilee.) Not this time. None of your out-of-a-pressure can whipped goo. This was Tiramisu aux fruits rouge. Meaning fresh raspberries and strawberries in an elegant coulee of the same fruit. I dug in and was utterly blown away by the white stuff which I think was concocted mainly from mascarpone. I ate it slowly. Small mouthfuls. Like you did when you were a kid trying to make it last forever. Topped of course, with a fresh sprig of mint.

This trip to the sublime was not inexpensive but far from prohibitive: 75 Euro, including a large bottle of fizzy water.

I’ve said it. I’m not sorry. Neither will you be if you go to 73 Avenue Neil in the 17th arrondissment.