Posts Tagged ‘French’

Resto 7 Bistrot de la Porte Dorée, Paris

March 1, 2018

After a morning in the rather wonderful Museum of Immigration in Porte Dorée (worth visiting for both building and contents) we were famished. I’d scouted out Le Swann as the place to go in PD but that was shut so Bistrot de la Porte Dorée was our fall back option. And what an option.


To walk through the door was to enter a world that you’d find it very hard to find in the hipster fleshpots of the Marais or République. I suspected it would turn out to be an excellent lunch when the maitre d’ turned round sporting a burgundy shirt matched with a diagonally striped grey silk tie of which Doug Mountjoy in his pomp (c. 1978) would have been proud.


Doug Mountjoy. Welsh legend.

We were shown to a table beneath a kitsch version of a Dutch still life of fruits de mer and various other foods. Dotted around the room were portraits of legends of French chanson and film (Jonny Hallyday’s look was particularly fierce, he seemed to be giving me the gimlet the whole meal through) and the odd transatlantic icon, such as Bob Marley smoking a joint, thrown in for good measure.

A set menu was on offer, €32 for two courses and €41 for three, wine included. Bargain, especially as an apéritif of something pink and fizzy was part of the deal. The food was classic French stuff, making no concession to the past 40 years of culinary fashion and none the worse for that. With the apéro we munched on toast and pâté de maison and considered.

I went for a starter of beef cheek, always a favourite. A generous amount of cheek paired with a lentil salad and carrots. All good, apart from the carrots which were overly salted for my taste. A full-bodied 2009 Gaillac helped that down admirably and proved to be a more than adequate match for a main of rabbit and pasta. Did we want dessert? Yes, but we also wanted to be able to walk the half an hour to the Château de Vincennes so we just had a coffee instead.

So the food was good but the real joy of the room was the people watching. Our waiter, not a young man, had a plaited rat-tail beard of the kind found on superannuated trustafarians yet to reintegrate back into civvy street. Across the way a party of eight or so retirees consumed their lunches while arguing vociferously about politics. And to our left a lone lady of a certain age with improbably jet black hair demolished a bottle of rosé in single combat.

A bill of €70 was a bargain and the reason why I’ll never go back to the Bistrot de la Porte Dorée is that some memories are too good to disturb with fresh layers of experience. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go, you should.


#food #Paris

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016-18 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 6 La Petite Porte, Paris

February 28, 2018

Arrival in Paris was delayed by snow so we had to be satisfied with a planche and beers adjacent to the theatre. La Petite Porte was right next door so we plumped for that.

Good call. The bar we had been in while cheap (€3.50 a pint in happy hour) was colder than Vladimir Putin’s eyes. La PP on the other hand was warm in both welcome and ambience. We slipped into a table at the back and didn’t even look at the menu. We wanted planche (it was after all the only thing on offer) and we wanted white wine.

We took a bottle from the Languedoc that was noticeably good. The planche was a superior product with 5 cheeses (stinky, blue, goaty, creamy and crunchy in case you were wondering) and plenty of meat. Bread was hacked before our very eyes and was yum double yum if you’d not eaten for several hours. My one quibble is that the planche was undervegged, I like a bit of greenery whether it’s cornichons or rabbit food.

The room filled rapidly and by the time we left it was a squeeze to get out the door. Young went elbow to elbow with the more mature and everything was very convivial. La Petite is highly recommended.


#food #paris

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016-18 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 2 Le Jockey, Paris

January 12, 2018

Having gorged our eyes on Malick Sidibe’s photos of Malian 70s hepcats in the Fondation Cartier (to a cracking soundtrack) we didn’t want to stray too far to get some grub. Le Jockey was among a cluster of cafés at the end of the road and we were drawn in by its bright interior, the décor having a beach-house vibe about it that made a nice contrast to the drizzly grey day outside.

It was the very end of lunchtime so there weren’t many diners in the room and we took a nice booth table next to a gaggle of grannies. The menu is straight up French fare – not complicated but very welcome when you’ve been marching around all day. We both went for the special of onglet, which came with a good slew of chips but no veg, which was a bit of a disappointment. And as I chewed my way through the meat I was reminded of why I haven’t taken an onglet for some time. But at least by jaws got a work out. The sauce was excellent though and I would have liked to have had a bowlful of it.

Dessert (as it was epiphany) was a galette du roi. Crisp flaky pastry and plenty of almonds in the frangipane made for a good way to round off the meal with coffee (Richard seems to have a monopoly in Paris but at least his product is good) on the side. Service from a floppy haired beau mec was excellent and I’d go back to Le J but although I’d splash out on the entrecôte next time, the meal as a whole was excellent value.


#food #Paris

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016-18 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 69 Le Moissonnier, Köln

November 26, 2017

The foodie highlight of the week, and one that we’d already booked in advance as a treat, was Le Moissonnier. It was a good job that we booked as the restaurant was completely full soon after we arrived at half twelve. The room, however, is peaceful with solid local business types as fellow diners and thus a discreet distance between tables to avoid anyone overhearing gossip of deals and trade secrets. Dotted around the walls are old French posters and ads and the whole place has the feel of a classic French bistrot à la Vagenende.

As you might guess Le M specialises in French cuisine and has done so for years. Run by a family it feels as though each of the staff have absolute mastery of their role in the business, which makes for a very relaxing customer experience. We kicked off with a sparkling wine from Alsace as an aperitif while perusing the not too extensive menu and munching on high quality bread.

There’s a tasting menu of a fistful of courses but we went à la carte. To start I had perch with pike mousse and a lot of other detail that I can’t go into here. The cooking is classic yet elaborate. My perch had been deconstructed then reassembled into a fishy masterpiece complete with its original tail for decoration. The pike mousse was fluffy and tasty and arrived in its own jar, and then alongside that some vegetables in their own dish. With three crocks per person per course it was a good job that there was plenty of room on the table!

Some thought this level of sophistication was a bit too much but I don’t often go to such high end places so I was happy to indulge. The price of the food was  slightly eye-popping (€50-60 for mains), excellent wine was available at a more modest rate. We took a dry Muscat from Corsica at €40 that was utterly delicious. This was used to wash down ris de veau, which came with mushrooms, plenty of sauce and lots of other nice little touches such as a thin sliver of foie gras on its own cheesy fluff.

By now we were into hour two of lunch but in no mood to call it a day. A dessert of chocolate ‘pizza’ (of course it was a lot more than that) was good but a slight mis-step for someone who isn’t a chocolate fan. Thankfully I had a Gerwurtzträminer to sip while I cursed myself for going against my instinct. I should have gone for the sorbet. A rum for digestif (they specialise in it here) was nearly but not quite a bridge too far but I was happy enough with that and a perfect little coffee to round off. All I was lacking was a cigar for the walk home.

This was an excellent experience but not one that my credit card could handle too many times in a season. However, to have come into a womb of sophisticated Frenchness after having spent an evening watching the most turgid Europa League match since the last one in a noisy brauhaus was a most welcome thing. And this on the back of an excellent morning in Cologne’s fine art museum where they had an extraordinary exhibition of Tintoretto. After that it was back to sausageland, the latex girls, Kölsch and a man with a very annoying drill in a terrible hotel bar.


#Köln #food #Germany

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016/7 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 62 La Terrasse des Archives, Paris

November 8, 2017


The final meal of a quick short stay in Paris is usually a relaxed lunch before getting the train. This wasn’t exactly what we got in La Terrasse des Archives. It sits beside a Nairn noticed fountain in a prime location in the Marais and so looked exactly what we were looking for. We squeezed into a corner table as the lunchtime crowd of loafers and locals started to swell.

The menu, not too long, is standard bistrot food with a few specials marked up on the board. My starter of pea gazpacho (I was still slightly stodged out from Strada) was refreshing and hit the spot. We splashed out on a Chablis, which was kept nicely chilled in an ice bucket.

Then the Labrador arrived. Not sure if he belonged to the restaurant but he certainly acted like he owned it. He was active yet not intrusive, occasionally popping out to the terrasse to see what was going on out there and other times just roaming around in an amiably woofish way.

My main of seared tuna confirmed that I was on a supermodel lunch as it arrived with a lot of courgettes but no spuds. So I nicked some of James’s (very good) chips, of which he had plenty. The chablis was slipping down pretty well but the waiter seemed to be in a hurry for us to get on with things. My plate was whipped away before James had finished his main and we were pressed for a decision on coffee or dessert.

Our attention was distracted by the appearance of a large ginger cat beside our table who stared enigmatically through the door. It seemed that La Terrasse had a fairly well-established menagerie. All power to their elbow I say but I reckon this would disturb some people.

Two coffees arrived in an instant and our wine was removed before we could protest that there was at least a glass left in the bottle. In a less benevolent mood I would have kicked up a stink but as it was I laid the money on the table and we left. The coffee was good, as was the food and the beasts, but I wouldn’t go back.


#food #Paris

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016/7 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 60 Sans Souci, Paris

November 7, 2017

Pre-gig I was a hungry chap having marched to MOMA@FLV and back. Pigalle is a new area of Paris to me so we chose a place at random.

Could we eat? Yes, but the guy said we’d have to wait till the chef arrived at 19h so we supped a beer while waiting. Good beer and not too pricy. The room was filling up and the atmosphere was perfect save for one detail.

They were playing the very dregs of phil Collins on the jukebox. Yes, they started with Another day in Paradise and followed that with yet more turgid crap, including the crime against humanity that is Phil’s take on the Motown classic You Can’t Hurry Love. Fortunately, by the time our food had arrived the tunes had skipped on to the Bee Gees. Never had I thought that I would use the phrase Thank God they’ve put the Bee Gees on. Marginal gain. Nausea mitigated.

I had a cheeseburger. It was excellent, reminding me of how a MacDo should taste when you’ve played 2 hours of football, been out all night and just want filthy food for lunch. Superb chips (ok, frites) with that and a charming feller serving us with a whole Californian surfer look going on. 

You have to do some Voltaire-ish (oh, Voltaire, will you reopen?!) shenanigans to get in and out of the table but that’s more of a pleasure than a chore when you’re on holiday.

If it wasn’t for Phil this would have been an 8.


#food #paris

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016/7 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 57 La Mezzanine, Paris

October 11, 2017

For a quick lunch after the train my newly Parisian old boy appointed La Mezzanine as a good place to meet. He was right.

I was early so I took a table on the mezzanine (well I thought I ought to) and supped a Stella. That going down well we had another one each when he turned up.

The menu is pleasingly brief with a set menu on the blackboard at a very reasonable price for two or three courses.

But we weren’t that hungry. I got rump steak and chips, he had the tartare. My steak was pleasingly dinky as I planned to have a bit of bait later in the evening. Chips were crunchy salty and the chimuchurri sauce was pretty good too. I demolished the lot swiftly.

The room is nice and airy with mostly French clientèle and in this area you could pay twice our €20 a head and eat far worse.


#Paris #Food

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016/7 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 55 Dalla Terra, Covent Garden

October 8, 2017


We were fortunate enough to have had tickets to Michel Hazavanicius’ latest, Le Redoutable, on Saturday. Contrary to what Jonathan Romney insisted on saying time after time in the Q&A with the director afterwards the film is not a comedy. It has plenty of comic moments (and I mean plenty, though the scenes of Godard repeatedly breaking his glasses, while funny, brought back some painful memories) but at its core it is a tragedy. It describes the quotidian tragedy of a marriage breaking up.

The radical politics of May ’68 in Paris act as a backdrop to the couple’s growing apart but it is gender politics that inform the moral of the film. Godard’s wife, Anne Wiasemsky, realises that the revolution that would enable her to attain personal autonomy is not Maoist but feminist. She isn’t oppressed by the capitalist system exemplified by the movie business in which she works. Rather she’s oppressed by a husband who while seeking to liberate himself from that system acts as just as much of an authority figure as the despised CdG when it comes to the domestic environment.

So we had a lot to discuss as we searched for somewhere civilised to eat in the West End on a Saturday night. Italian, French or Russian (that came out of nowhere!) was the request and we wandered up to Covent Garden and took a chance on Dalla Terra as it didn’t look too busy. Giving the eyeballs to a sharp elbowed couple who tried to jump ahead of us it was gratifying to see them stuck on high stools at a sharing table while we got a more lizardly spot by the window.

Geoff reflected on the fact that there’s no elegant way to eat on a high stool and then peered at Denize through the gloom of the restaurant. He wondered if she too was finding it difficult to read the menu in the stygian darkness. 

‘Yes’, said Denize, ‘It is a bit dark isn’t it?’

‘And the music.’ ‘Too loud.’ ‘I agree.’ ‘It’s like a nightclub.’ ‘Full of old people.’ I thought they were young.’ ‘It’s relative.’

We looked at the menu, which wasn’t extensive but did have what we were looking for – a high quality planche of meat ‘n’ cheese. We got that with a bowl of very, very good olives alongside. In the glass a bottle of Pinot Grigio (for a whiff of Venezia) that was rou. 

The service was excellent given that they were pretty full and we got stuck into the bits. Meat in a satisfying range of varieties, one of them good and spicy. The cheese was outstanding and for roughage there was a rather meagre slathering of sun-dried tomatoes and aubergine. No salad. Always a controversial issue.

Geoff surveyed the plate and realised that there was not to be any salad. The last time he’d been to a restaurant with Denize and there was no salad it had caused a minor breakdown in marital relations as he really likes La Fabrica and knows that they give you plenty of vegetables even if there’s no salad per se on the menu.

You know Geoff thinks that I’m obsessed by the salad but in fact he’s the one who brings it up every time there’s no salad on the menu, and even sometimes when there is. And is it unreasonable to ask a restaurant to make a small salad when you know that they have the ingredients in the kitchen?

‘It doesn’t look like we’re going to get any salad.’ ‘ …’ ‘I’ll go to the loo.’

The big drawback to Della Terra is that it’s severely underbogged for a busy Saturday night. There was already one feller waiting for the sole trap when I got there and I think whoever was in there was squeezing out a dead otter so I thought it best to hang on till home and return to collect the bill.

It wasn’t an awful lot of food for thirty quid a head and the music made it quite difficult to talk to one another. However, I reckon it’s worth returning to Dalla Terra as a daytime venue as the wine and food was excellent and would be ideal for when you’re pooped from artlooking/shopping and wanted an idle hour chatting or reading a book. 


#food #london

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016/7 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 51, Vallée du Kashmir, Paris

September 6, 2017

We wanted something cheap and cheerful before seeing Dunkirk (or Dunkerque as they have it round here) in the Gaumont up the road. I was drawn into the Valley by remembrance of curries past, specifically of eating in an Indian by the Jardin des Plants after a freezing day’s walking with my then small children and the manager bringing us our own table-side calor gas stove. I was so cold and grateful I nearly cried. That is what I call customer service; the food wasn’t bad either.

We didn’t need a heater in the V du K but I would advise sunglasses. They have enough lights inside to land a jumbo jet. Flashing lights that would have Huw Stephens giving a stern avertissement for those with epilepsy. Lights in the ceiling. A TV churning out cheesy Indian pop videos. Lighted walls. Hell, I suspect they have lights on their lights.

I can just imagine their discussions with their accountant when they’re asking him why they’re not turning a profit:

‘But guys, in a businesses of your size you really shouldn’t be spending €20,000 a month on electricity. Are you sure someone hasn’t hooked up your supply to an industrial turbine?’

‘It’s the lights. We like lights.’

‘The lights? Yeah, I noticed those … And I’m blind. You need to do something about that.

‘We worship the lights.’

‘Bof, it’s your money.’

They like lights. They worship lights.

There was only one other guy in there but it was early by French standards. I remembered that things come in a curious order in French Indians but I couldn’t remember exactly how. We went for standards (as usual when testing a new place) with samosas and onion bhajia up front then a chicken jalfrezi for me for main and a Himalayan lamb for him. One popadom was placed on a side plate so we ate it while waiting for the beer (I didn’t know they did kingfisher in bottles so small but it was good and cold). We wondered why there were no chutneys but the mystery was solved as they arrived with the starters. As did the nan. Hmm.

The samosas were excellent, plenty of veg inside, and spicy. Onion bhaji in France is an onion ring, which is not to the British taste is it? I wanted sweatyoily balls of gut destroying deliciousness. These seemed insipid and trop civilisés. We were waiting for him to bring the mains but eventually realised that we were expected to eat our nan first. We chutnied the nan, the chutneys were good if nothing special while the bread lacked the crispness and ghee enriched luxury of its British cousin.

Then for the curries. My jalfrezi was curry but it wasn’t as ferocious as I wanted it to be. Oh my Standard, oh how I missed you. I’ll never betray you again. I couldn’t even see evidence of chili. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. I took a swig of Kingfisher and mopped up the last of the juices with RICE. Not nan because we’d eaten that. Everything was out of whack. Though the service was exemplary it didn’t make up for the wrongness of the food.

Perhaps my Valley of Kashmir induced hankering for Britain was responsible for my weeping through Dunkirk. Or it might have been Hans Zimmer’s astute, just this side of cichéd use of Elgar on the soundtrack. Or it might have been a not particularly good actor reading Churchill’s speech on a steam train (you can’t ruin rhetoric like that, it’s inobliterable). Or Nolan’s direction. Anyway I did that and I don’t mind, it’s good to have a good cry every now and then isn’t it?

Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can. Sorry Jay, you can’t; and I’ll never go for a curry in Paris again.


#Food #Paris

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016/7 check out my GoogleMap

Resto 50 Bistro l’Envie, Paris

September 5, 2017

It’s always a good idea to try your nearest café wherever you are. So we met for dinner at Bistro l’Envie, warming up with a Ricard. There’s a few tables on the pavement (recommended for people watching) but we chose to sit inside to eat. There was a smattering of locals and ourselves.

The room is sparse but all the better for that. Tastefully done and encouragingly normal. On the food side things are uncomplicated but well executed. We shared charcuterie to start and in less capable stomachs that could have been the meal. But we pressed on and my volaille was crispy skinned good thing. Mash, not so keen but that wasn’t the main event. A red Ventoux on the side did no harm to the conversation and I was content, very content.

So content I went back for breakfast.


#food #paris

To see which other restaurants I’ve visited in 2016/7 check out my GoogleMap

%d bloggers like this: