LETTER FROM PARIS #35 the paradox

“There are many restaurants in Paris that are not very good,” said this tall, youngish, very handsome, dark, jeans-wearing “hunk.” Everyone seemed to be waiting on us. The waitress who took our order, an Indian-looking gentleman who bussed and asked how we enjoyed lunch, and this big hulk of a guy who rattled off dessert specials far too quickly for me to grasp anything but the word “chocolat.”

The paradox of Paris: world famous for fine food but with just as many mediocre, verging on bad restaurants, along with perhaps fewer really good places to eat.
Paris the centre of fashion, but in five different shops Shirley could not find any slacks that were not made for tall, slim, young women.

I will try not to dwell on the menu (no promises) but to examine the paradox. For that I will need two restaurants, one we visited yesterday for a very late lunch, and the other where we lunched today and chatted to this good-looking young man. (Shirley guessed he may have been the owner.) He was as passionate about what he served as the waitress in yesterday place was indifferent about what she brought to the table.

We’d been off in the east end at Hopital Saint Louis. (Not to worry, I’m recovering.) Shirley couldn’t take her eyes off the doctor. He was tall, He was dark, He was squarely built, and Hollywood handsome. I throw this in because she can’t stop talking about him. (Which makes me what – chopped liver?)
Among foodies and food critics there are rules about choosing a restaurant. One of them is that you should avoid ones with pictures of their food. (Denny’s is O.K. but they’re not Paris.) We had already visited a couple of places around Place des Ternes. One, on our way to a concert at Salle Pleyel – overpriced and not very good. The other, a spot called “Indiana.” Why I have not idea. Twice we tried. First time we sat at there on the sidewalk for ten minutes being ignored. Then we went inside where you could fire off cannon and not hit anyone but when we declined one of those absurd little tables for two the waitress wouldn’t let us sit at a larger table. AND THERE WAS NO ONE IN THE RESTAURANT!

So we tried the place on the corner: Hippopotamus. You guessed it. The menu was all pictures. It was a steak house, so there were tempting pics of every kind of steak from filet to T Bone. What arrived bore utterly no resemblance to any of the pictures. It was about a quarter of an inch thick and heavily laced with fat and gristle. I had my choice of “sides” so I chose “haricot vertes.” The French are famous for their skinny green beans. What arrived was a large portion of beans that looked like they had languished in a bain Marie since morning, and tasted like it. They didn’t mind replacing the beans with frites. The cost was more than it should have been, but by now, we are used to mediocrity at absurd prices.

One day later we are at “Maison de Campagne,” which is on Rue Bayen just up the street from where we stay. Shirley had a food book called: Hungry for Paris: the ultimate guide to the 102 city’s best restaurants. Good book. I recommend it. written by a man who seems to have tried every restaurant in Paris, He recommended the Bath’s, celebrity chef and all. Where it was supposed to be was where we found Maison de Campagne and the “hunk.” (At this point I suggest to all readers who are tired of my food critiques, to jump ahead a few paragraphs.)

The ambience was county, not unlike Toronto’s Le Papillon but much simpler.
The menu was compact with about six mains and a similar number of entrees.
Shirley chose a “Carre de Veau” which was a sort of cutlet on a bed of pureed carrot. I tasted them. Redolent with cumin and faintly Indian. Mine was a kind Casserole of little lardon and postage-stamp sized ravioli on a delicate sauce. Both were superb. Both looked superb. Pictures were taken before we dug in.

Desserts: mine was a three-scoop portion of different sorbets with a kind of raspberry coulee. Shirley had a Blueberry fondant with sherbet. Both were photo-worthy.

So there’s the paradox. Two restaurants in two days. One verging on insulting. The other verging on heavenly. And the comment from our brawny serveur that boiled down to: Paris is famous for food but not all food in Paris is famous. What is important for us, (and if that sounds like puffery it was not) is good food at a reasonable price.

The Hippopotamus was more than 60 Euro. The Maison de Campagne was 44 Euro, including a large bottle of fizzy Badoit.

What is perhaps even more interesting is the perception that they have of themselves, and the respect they maintain for their traditions. He was simply, without vanity or pretension, being faithful to his vocation. I like a man with passion.