Here’s a nice thing to do on a rainy Paris day, such those that have been steadily accruing under the banner of low grey clouds that increasingly choke the cool blue late autumn skies. Take yourself off somewhere that possesses a sense of literary history worthy of the greatest libraries, a lauded decorative aesthetic reminiscent of a much-loved museum, and a warmth and vigour that transport’s one to the private parlours of modernity’s cultural heroes. In short, take yourself to Brasserie Lipp and partake in your own slice of Parisian history.

When ruminating about Brasserie Lipp, I can’t say that it is the kind of place that you might necessarily frequent for the food. Whilst the quality of the fare is very solid (with some of the finest mash potatoes that I have eaten on the Left Bank), it must be said that Lipp is both something to aspire to and something to be comforted by. Nourishment is guaranteed, even if it does come at a price.

Many people complain about the Lipp experience. The food isn’t cheap and it wouldn’t meet the high standards of the ‘gastro-revolution’ that has swept much of Paris. The seating is erratic and the menu is hard to read, whilst the wine list is a little predictable and not what you’d call value for money. As Patricia Wells wrote:

“There are institutions, like Brasserie Lipp, that people love to hate. And then there are those … that one loves to love. But sometimes, love gets in the way. “ (International Herald Tribune - August 22, 1997).

She has a point. But having said that, I think that those who choose to go to Brasserie Lipp don’t go for inventive cuisine or an interesting carte de vin: it’s more a question of what the French would call “feeling”.

Opened in 1880 by Leonard Lipp, the brasserie quickly became a Parisian cultural institution that was as renowned for its eclectic collection of diners, plucked from the political and literary crème de la crème, as it was for its service and décor. A sense of history continues to pervade the space, as the echoes of France’s recent history still linger in the traditions and attitudes of the new guard.

Procuring a table can be as difficult as it was back in the day of the late proprietor Monsieur Cazes, as the tradition remains that bookings are not taken, and when you inquire about a table in person and are told to wait more than 20 minutes, that is a discreet sign to leave.

On the day that my girlfriend and I decided to lunch there, we were treated to a little of the infamous service that characterises the place. Luckily, we managed to find a table without any problems, saving ourselves from being mildly publicly disgraced. However, there were two things that came to our attention that appeared as worthy to note: 1) the Sexual Revolution never hit Lipp, and 2) this isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Appropriately dressed in lipstick and heels (as opposed to the usual ruffian outfit of motorcycle boots and decrepit jeans), we were escorted with much fanfare through the dining hall to the staircase that led upstairs. During this impromptu procession, the sea of grey-clad businessmen were not shy about gazing at the newest additions to the floorshow: every woman who cut through the throngs of suits turned an array of plump and shallow cheeks alike. ‘Making an entrance’ is what I believe it is called. Thankfully we were dressed for the occasion, as there is no ‘slipping in’ unnoticed here.

To our amusement, we were seated in the far more discreet and more feminine (yet less charmingly boisterous) upstairs dining room. All gilt and mirrors, the feeling was far more genteel than the rowdy hall downstairs. This was a shame, as when dining out I prefer to be ‘in on the action’, as it were. But having said that, considering Sarkozy’s law forbidding images of the French to be reproduced without their consent, and considering that I am a little snap-happy when it comes to pretty spaces, this was probably a blessing in disguise as I would not have been able to take a single shot.
No matter, we were there for an afternoon of comfort food, good service and elegant atmosphere (albeit one laced with a nice Beaujolais), and that is precisely what we got.

Ordering from the somewhat schizophrenic menu, we chose an array of classics, all of which to be shared. Though it must be noted that in all honesty, I don’t think either one of us was really there for the food.

We chose a simple St Amour Beaujolais, light and fresh, to wet our palettes. First on the menu was a slice of foie gras de canard with cubed, mildly flavoured gelée on toast. The toast was presented wrapped in a cloth serviette to keep it warm (both practical and aesthetic), whilst the liver was served at room temperature (as it should be), and deposited just the right amount of slick in the back of the palette to carry its richness and quality. Though at 18 euro, the relatively small slice at a not insignificant price also left a lump in the back of my throat.

Next on the agenda, the finely shaved slices of smoked salmon made for a lovely salty/creamy mouthful, and were accompanied by a few decorative pieces of juicy smoked tuna for good measure, and a green salad. The salad left a lot to be desired and as such, remained largely untouched, however the salmon was excellent, if predictable (though I’d prefer this any day to an unpleasant surprise).

Then the main event arrived: a fine choucroute alsacienne known as the Choucroute Lipp (ham, bacon, a fat saucisson, boiled potatoes and piles of mildy astringent spiced cabbage) arrived in heaping, steaming mounds. One of Lipp’s signature dishes, it was simple, satisfying, not too salty and thoughtfully presented; something that can be difficult considering the sum of the parts. The minimalist nature of the plate’s contents may have been plain to the point of being austere, though the copious quantities mostly make up for that.

However, being a grey day that required a little more than just protein and a few shredded (once) green bits, I gave into my desire for a plate of fat and carbohydrates in the form of mashed potatoes (my number one comfort food), that proved to be the highlight of the meal. Immediately our charming waiter acquiesced to my unusual request (“yes, I’d like a bowl of mashed potatoes, by themselves. I need nothing else with this, other than perhaps a spoon”, “Oui Madame, naturellement”). What arrived was a plate of undulating creamy goodness, molded into gentle wave-like crescents that were the perfect melange of comfort, starch and butter, and were soothing enough to calm anyone’s inner turbulence. Just gorgeous.

The service was faultless, as the charismatic waiters were either discreet or talkative, depending on your preference (we chose to encourage the banter and did not regret for a minute in doing so), whist the superb original 1926 art deco interior, with Léon Fargue’s joyful yellow tiles and floral Belle Epoque ceramics added the finishing touches.

So it’s true; Hemingway’s Paris is alive and well. I suggest that you go and sample it yourself, just don’t expect it to be a steal.

Brasserie Lipp: a cultural monument in the form of a brasserie.

151, Bd. Saint Germain / 75006 Paris / Tel: (+33) 01.45.48.53.91 / Hours: 9am to 1am daily / http://www.groupe-bertrand.com/gb/lipp.php / Métro: Saint-Germain-des-Prés

As I know I’ve said before, good coffee in Paris is a rare thing. There is something about the way that the French make coffee that manages to significantly undermine the extraordinary efforts they make in other areas of the kitchen (you can have the most airy soufflé in the world, but if the coffee that accompanies it is watery and otherwise tasteless, the effect will be ruined).

This is a strange and sad fact, considering how close France is to Italy, at least in terms of its nationwide gastronomic fixation (to say nothing of its geographical proximity).

I think this problem goes beyond nationalistic rivalry when it comes to refusing to make coffee in the true Italian style. I fear that perhaps it’s something more thoroughly ingrained: for example, generally speaking, the French simply do not understand what they are doing.

Ok, so maybe I’m being a little harsh. Let’s try and be constructive about this and instead ask the question, where can you find acceptable coffee?

So far, the best Joe I’ve had in Paris was at Gocce di Caffè in the Passage des Panoramas. Run by the amiable Antonio from Milan who imports all of his Italian produce from Rome, the little café is open for your morning fix, a light lunch of typical Italian fare (eat there or take away) or your afternoon pick-me-up. The coffee brand, Guiducci, is not generally known outside of Italy, which is a pity as it is proffers a mild and generous flavour without being in the least bit bitter. If you are hungry, the authentic ciabatte and panini are freshly stuffed to the brim; the tiramisu is homemade whilst the 8.80 lunch menu of panini, a dessert and a drink is great value. Sadly this lovely little scenic spot tucked down Paris’s oldest (and one of its loveliest) covered walkways is only open during business hours, but it is well worth the trouble if what you are craving is a really good brew.

But what happens if you can’t make it to this side of town on a whim, let alone regularly? Well, as someone who has an obsession with the inky stuff (living with a food-obsessed Italian will do this to you), here are a few tips to aid you to in identifying other establishments that serve their coffee good, hot, strong and black:

- Check that the brand of coffee that the establishment is using is indeed Italian. Most coffee companies have agreements with café’s and restaurants that their product name is adequately visible throughout the business – such is the competition of the major brands. Lavazza, Illy café, Segafreddo etc are all reliable, reputable and well-known to most pundits, but there are smaller Italian houses who also make an excellent brew. This isn’t a guarantee of quality, but as long as it’s not French it’s already a good start (sorry guys, I revere your food but your coffee is dismal):

- Make sure the beans are being freshly ground on the premises. It sounds like a small point, but ask anyone who has worked in a decent café: the smell of freshly ground beans is almost transcendental, whereas stuff that has been sitting around for a while looses most of its aroma and thus much of its appeal.

- Really good coffee should be ‘short’, in that only a small amount of water is passed through the beans, thus providing a richer flavour. If there is anything more than about a tablespoon in your cup, with a couple of millimetres of lighter-coloured ‘crema’ crowning the espresso, you know it’s not worth your time. The Italians call the really short coffees un ristretto (as in ‘restricted’) – the French call the same a café serré (‘tight’ coffee): either way, just make sure it’s short and dark, as a full cup does not equal value for money – it simply equals a bad coffee.

- In Italy coffee with milk (caffè latte) is only served in the morning and is mostly drunk by children. So do as the Italians do and drink it short and straight (though sugar isn’t a sacrilege, so don’t be afraid to ask if you need it). If you are worried that the establishment’s coffee isn’t so good but you’re simply tearing your hair out with need for caffeine, order a noisette, the French version of a macchiato. This is (in theory at least) an espresso with a slug of hot milk. It may not be ideal, but the milk somewhat masks any acridity that may be lurking in your cup, and let’s face it – there is nothing worse than a bitter mouthful of gritty mud when what you want is a respectable coffee.

The art and the science of making a great coffee is a process that is much more complex than simply the type of coffee used or the person who makes the coffee (I won’t even go into the water, the type of the machine, how hard the coffee is pressed down into the filter etc etc etc… I’m sure you’re bored already), but if you have the above basics in place, it’s surely going to only narrow your chances of being served something undrinkable.

Good luck hunting down some of Paris’s better brews, and do let me know whether you find any places worth writing about – happiness shared is happiness quadrupled. And in the meantime drop by Gocce di Caffè and see how it’s really done. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a truly excellent Italian coffee, and to find a good place in Paris that serves one is one of the most perfect expressions of multiculturalism that I can think of.

Gocce di Caffè: coffee that tastes of mamma Italia.

25 Passage des Panoramas / 75002 Paris / (no contact number) / Hours: 8am - 4pm Monday to Friday / Métro: Bourse or Grand Boulevards

It is a rare thing to feel you know a bar or bistro intimately, as though you have been going there for years, even though you just walked through the door for the first time thirty minutes ago. Happily, L’Estaminet is one of those places.

The first time I went there for dinner, midnight one drunken summer’s night two and a half years ago (an unforgettable meal that would change the course of my own personal history from that point onwards… but not just because of the food), I had an immediate affection for the place.

There is something about L’Estaminet that invokes a pleasant sensation of ‘organised chaos’. They don’t take bookings so the front section functions as bar, waiting area and number one destination for ‘drinking games’ (be it 3pm or 2 am, there is always a motley crowd ready with a glass and a smile).  The convivial informality continues as the cute, casual and colloquial staff and make you feel as though you’re just as welcome as the guy who has been propping up the bar every day for the last 5 years.

When you wander in off the street and ask for a table, you’ll find the atmosphere and warmth a refreshing change from most Parisian bistros, even if it’s 12:30am and you tell the staff that you’d like to eat a full meal. If you do have to wait for a table (a frequent occurrence, considering how popular this place is, but not a negative one), do so with a glass of something-or-other in your hand and you’ll most-likely strike up a conversation with whoever is loitering around with you. The atmosphere here is always ebullient and can lift even the most morose of spirits, so kick off those metaphorical shoes and settle in for some gentle conviviality.

Upon being seated, either in the boisterous ground-level area or in the cosy cave (wine cellar) downstairs, the first thing to do is to order yourself something to drink. When you have the chance to peruse the wine list, you’ll note that it is a very happy mix of both cheap and cheerful wines and includes a selection of which many of us can only aspire. Something soothing to keep in mind should you not be a mad fan of the vine is that the beer is cold and the cocktails are well mixed. However, having said this, I can’t help but question: if you are not wine lover, what on earth are you doing in Paris (I know that this is a digression, but this is a very serious question in some Parisian circles, the answers to which may be displeasing all round. So, on second thoughts, let’s just forget I asked and get on to the business of the food, shall we)?

Dinner at L’Estaminet is a great thing.  The quality of the food is irreproachable, the serves are generous and though the regularly-changing menu is largely classical French fare from the South-West, the attitude of the kitchen is modern and approachable and there is always a couple of unusual things thrown in for good measure.

Last week I had a group of friends from Melbourne in town, so naturally I took them to L’Estaminet so they might experience something of the ‘old Paris’ sans the attitude of the ‘new’. We ordered a heap of things and put them in the middle of the table and so everyone could taste a little of each. So rather than breaking down a couple of dishes ingredient by ingredient as I might usually, I’ll instead recommend some of my favourite items on the menu in the hope that you too will have the good fortune to note my recommendations and take the kitchen for a spin some day (as a group of five we had a good chance to sample quite a bit of it, and to be honest, I’ve never had a disappointing meal here).

When it comes to entrée the oeufs cocotte au foie gras avec mouillettes pain d’épices (7.80 euro) are fantastic and I always have a hard time resisting them (it’s something of a menu staple). The gently baked eggs are rich and velvety without being heavy, while the narrow slices of lightly spiced bread provide the perfect faintly sweet counterpoint to the foie gras overtones. Additionally the charcuterie de L’Aveyron (15 euro) is a pleasing dish. The charitably proportioned mix of saucisson, cured ham and terrine is sufficient to serve a small group of people for nibbles with drinks or two as entrée. Freshly cut and served with a light salad, lots of bread and really good butter, it makes for a satisfying beginning to any meal or even a nice snack if you’re looking for something to accompany a glass or four of wine.

For something more substantial, I cannot recommend the margret de canard with balsamic sauce and pomme de terre dauphinois (16.50 euro) highly enough. The duck is served pinkish and succulent (as it should be), is beautifully seasoned and still possesses its nicely crisped skin. Gleaming a little from the balsamic reduction that is seductively pooled on and around the bird, the sauce enjoys a mild sweetness betraying the fact that it was finished with fresh strawberries, serving to lift the palate a little without proving cloying. Fortifying stuff.

The L’estaminetburger (the house hamburger, 14.00) is a gentle giant that satisfies the craving for something old school, traditional and yet contemporary in the same mouthful. The burger is cooked as you like and arrives in a large bun, as a good burger should. It has all the usual trimmings, including fresh green salad and thick-cut fries on the side, yet the point of difference is the inclusion of the onions confit hidden within. Sweet, tangy, savoury and a very good idea, it elevates the burger to a category way above that of ‘fast-food’. The classic tartare de boeuf had also been modernised with a nod in the direction of fusion food, as the zip and tang of fresh coriander and ginger peppered the beef, adding a little pep to the mix (14.50 euro), whilst the confit du canard served with stewed cèpes, more commonly known to English speakers as porcini mushrooms (14.50 euro), was so good one that of my guests returned the following night so that he may enjoy it again.

In the realm of sweet things I would suggest choosing something that you’ve never heard of before, just to see what arrives. I did this some time ago and ended up with a fabulous connection known as a zephir au framboises (6.50 euro). What arrived was a molten, bubbling, gorgeous mess of raspberries, crème fraîche and brown sugar that had been set under the grill and emerged a short time later as an entirely different creature. Sweet, tart, fresh, smooth and creamy all in the same mouthful, it was one of the best discoveries I had made in the sweets department and is now my must-have dessert whenever I’m there.

The other option, of course, is to order an old favorite such as the moelleux au chocolat (6.80 euro). Served warm, the small cake is surrounded by a large puddle of crème anglaise that has been threaded with an attractive (and tasty) chocolate sauce. The delicately sugar-dusted cake has a perfectly smooth crust on the outside, however puncturing the sweet shell liberates the warm, lush, gently flowing chocolate heart. Not too saccharine yet sweet enough to knock those inevitable sugar cravings on the head, there is a reason why this little gastronomic peccadillo is a regular on L’Estaminet’s menu – it’s damnably good.

So where does this leave us at the end of our meal? Why, at the bar of course, sharing a shot (or 5) of house-flavoured vodka (ginger, raspberry, pear and more… take your pick) and waxing lyrical about whatever you feel like with a gaggle of your new best friends – the staff. L’Estaminet really is the kind of place where anything goes: as long as you’re having a good time.

L’Estaminet: this is Paris as it should be.

116 rue Oberkampf / 75011 Paris / Tel: (+33) 01.43.57.34. 29 / Hours: kitchen open from 12pm to 12:30am, non-stop, 7 days / Métro: Parmentier or Ménilmontant

So here we find ourselves, down the Passage de Panoramas in the 2^nd arrondissement, Paris’s oldest and one of its most prettily atmospheric covered arcades. We’re here to sniff around one of capital’s most talked about wine dives, Racines.

Something of a natural wine junkie (more about this later) our heavily tattooed and very charismatic host Pierre Jancou barely waits for us to be seated before he starts feeding streams of information about what he’s going to present us to drink this evening. A wine bar with food, Racines doesn’t bother with such oddities as wine lists (too methodical) and certainly doesn’t feel the need to provide an elaborate menu of 30 different food options to choose from (too democratic), when a perfectly executed handful of entrée’s, mains and desserts are clearly quite sufficient. Though not everyone appreciates Pierre’s style, those who are interested in good, simple food and in taking the vineyard less travelled certainly do.

Okay, I have to say this upfront. I know a little about French wine, in that I live in France, drink it often (often in large quantities) and I try to memorise what I can from the back of bottles and internet search engines alike. Generally speaking, I know what I like and what I am less inclined to like – a fairly common state to be in, I’m sure. And seeing as I am no Eric Asimov (the New York Times wine critic) I do not spend my days breathing, sleeping and drinking the stuff (as much as I may like and indeed attempt to do). Moreover, I know very little about vin naturel, the raison d’être of tonight’s venue. That said, I suspect that the kind of person who would truly appreciate a lunch or dinner at Racines would most-likely fall into one of two camps: the enthusiastic dilettante who enjoys all manners of wine (like me) or the absolute bottle-snob who obsesses about wine, including the rare natural wines (like Mr Asimov). Those who have no particular interest in wine need not apply.

What does this have to do with Racines? Well, everything.

Pierre Jancou multitasks as owner, chef and wine fanatic. His particular brand of fervour is directed explicitly towards vin naturel, that is, wine made entirely without chemical intervention. It is he who more or less rules the metaphorical roost of the surprisingly large natural wine movement in Paris. Racines is the second of his ventures (the first was La Crèmerie in the 6^th) that exists to expound the best of what French ‘natural wine’ has to offer.

According to Pierre’s website morethanorganic.com the term ‘natural wine’ is useful for three reasons:

· The term ‘organic wine’ is considered inadequate.

· It’s a direct translation of a French term already in use (vin naturel).

· It serves to draw attention to the method of winemaking.

As it stands, the current EU laws do not define exactly what organic wine is. The phrase only refers to wine that is made from organically grown grapes that are not exposed to pesticides or chemical fertilizers and have only been seen controlled levels of copper sulphate to prevent mildew.

So more often than not, when organic wine is spoken about what is usually meant is wine made from organically grown grapes. This does not allow for the fact that wines can be made from organically grown grapes in a number of ways, and most ‘organic’ wine has been chemically or technologically manipulated at the winery.

Pierre Jancou and his band of merry wine-makers are thus trying to educate the public about this mass-produced product that is often (incorrectly) thought to be free from additives, and as such the term ‘natural wine’ has evolved as a way to avoid such confusion. Thus not only is natural wine made from organically grown grapes, but it is also made in the least unadulterated way possible. Racines serves as something of a forum for all those concerned with talking about, thinking about and most importantly drinking vin naturel.

To add to his deep and zealous knowledge of wine, Pierre’s culinary influences stem from both French and Italian roots: he is equally passionate about both the wine and the food that he chooses to serve. His fruit and vegetables come from Alain Passard (the best commercial garden in France), his meat is sourced from Hugo Desnoyer (purported to be the best butcher in Paris) whilst his Italian charcuterie comes directly from the most renowned suppliers. When in conversation his emphatic tones swiftly switch languages depending on the subject: about wine he speaks in French, about food in Italian and his unhurried conviviality surfaces in English. At least, that was the case on the night that The Italian and I were dining at Racines.

So let’s get down to what we ate and drank. As we perused the short but intriguing menu, Pierre suggested we commence with a tipple from Claude Courtois, his 2007 ‘Quartz’, Les Cailloux du Paradis. Claude Courtois is something of a high priest of vin naturel in France, and is one of Pierre’s preferred vignerons. Based in the Loire valley, he produces a range of unusual red and white varieties that are infrequently seen outside the confines of his own block, and each of these wines are entirely sulphur free.

This particular sauvignon-based wine had a lively nose of citrus notes and fresh-cut hay with perhaps a hint of walnut. Very dry, it was quite unlike any other sauvignon we’d tried. The extremely dry palate showed lots of minerals and some serious grip. We agreed that this is not the kind of wine that you’d choose to drink vast quantities of alone (at least to our palates), as it required food to balance out its rigour.

So to the food: for entrée we decided to share a plate of jambon de la Garfagnana (10 euro) and a salad de jardin d’Alain (14 euros). The ham leg was from Garfagnana, a mountainous region of Tuscany. Presented on a wooden board, it was thinly sliced and tasted slightly sweetish (in a good way), with enough of a savoury hit to wash down the wine without being in the least bit over-salted. The moist, rosy tangles of ham were the perfect counterpart to the brightly coloured salade. This turned out to be an array of thickly cut, olive oil doused heirloom tomatoes from the Sarthe market garden of Passard. An exercise in simplicity, the combination of colours and flavours were gorgeous: the pure, fresh tomato flesh ranged from crisp to creamy in texture, whilst the flavours ran the gamut from sweet to mildly acidic. Doused in fruity/peppery Italian extra-virgin olive oil, this hint of warmth was accentuated with a ‘green’ aftertaste as delivered by a scattering of fragrant newly picked oregano. I’ve had a similar dish in one of my other favourite wine bar/bistros, Les Fines Gueules, and when executed as proficiently as both of these were, it’s very difficult to think of a simpler yet more enjoyable entrée.

Half way through the ham and tomatoes arrived the second glass of wine, a 2005 vin de voile from Jean-Marc Brignot in the Jura, another renowned natural wine maker in the rather isolated region east of Burgundy (close to the Swiss border). The texture of the wine was almost creamy, whilst the taste was heavily oxidated and as a result had toasted nuts on the palate and a nice tang on the finish.

This wine is composed from a little-known (outside of France, at least) grape variety called savagnin. In this case, throughout the maturation process the wine is left uncovered so that it may evaporate, an unusual method as the norm requires the wine to be topped up in the barrels to prevent evaporation and oxygenation. Thus, similar to a sherry, a layer of yeast forms on the surface of the wine to form a ‘veil’; hence wines made in this fashion are referred to as having being made ‘sous-voile’. This is an extremely usual wine and possibly the most enjoyable of our evening.

Next up, for main course we chose a dish designed to be shared (well, at least on our budget), lobster à la plancha (42 euro). What we were presented with was an incredibly fresh sea-creature from Breton, split down the middle and cooked on a metal grill in the traditional Spanish style (à la plancha means “grilled on a metal plate” in Spanish). The luscious lobster was simultaneously creamy and juicy and required no additional flavourings, yet benefited from the large amount of delicious row that was intact. The crustacean was complemented with a separate bowl of thick-cut ratatouille, a delicious take on the traditional recipe that substituted potatoes for aubergines and had been spiked with preserved lemon rind and pine nuts. Slick and shiny with olive oil, the ridiculously fresh vegetables provided the perfect foil to the sweet succulence of the lobster.

The third wine we sampled was a glass of Julien Courtois’s ‘2020’ menu pineau, another old Loire variety that was sulphur-free and had a distinctive taste all of its own. Julien is the son of Clause Courtois, and in step with his father’s vinergnon practices, the wine was unusual to the point of being odd. A sneeze in the direction of the classical chenin style, the palate was very bright, with an austere apple tang and herby nose that reminded us both of cider. This gave way to an incredibly long finish, acidic and heavy with minerals and flint. For my untrained palate it felt as though it was an educational beverage (i.e. one that required some homework), rather than something to sit down to without any introduction and have for the sake of enjoyment. However, I’m sure Asimov would beg to differ.

By the end of these three glasses my broad Australian palate and I were hankering for something with a little more punch, as none of the whites we had had previously were very heavy. The overall effect of the three whites was very refreshing, almost as though we’d been sipping a variety of well-strained fruit juices over the last couple of hours. This is not a bad thing, but I’m a sucker for a big fat red to finish on. So I asked for a glass of red as an accompaniment to the cheese (a wedge of creamy St Nectaire, fruity Parmigiano Reggiano, nutty Comté and a little fresh goat – all good) and we were presented with the only red wine that Pierre was satisfied to serve to us by the glass: Racines 2005 24 mois d’élevage by Claude Courtois. An assemblage of a variety of wines, this is la grande cuvée rouge of Courtois.

Left in barrels to mature for 24 months, the 2005 vintage is a very dark plum colour, yet it had an incredibly unexpected taste. Tart and dry with a red-fruit base (mostly berries) and some floral notes on the nose, the palate had unusual sharpness as there were no discernable tannins whatsoever. I felt that the mouth feel was closer to a stern rosé, whilst the finish was ultra dry. This is not what I usually look for in a red and as such it didn’t quite nail that craving I had for something full and round on which to finish, though I understand how aficionados may find the wine invigorating and strangely approachable should one be faced with great quantities of food. Pierre teased my New World palate and critiqued Australian wine as being confiture, but that’s ok. As I said earlier, I know what I like and take no particular pleasure in being able to demonstrate that I can force down copious amounts of often-unapproachable wine without wincing. I’m not Asimov.

So, what’s the final rap on Racines?

If not having a wine list and being at the mercy of the owner and his kitchen is not your idea of a good night out, then maybe you should try somewhere a little less avant-garde (such as Les Fines Gueules – see my earlier post on this superb place). But if you like your food simple and your wine unusual, and you’re not afraid of stretching your palate a little to encompass the kind of wines that you would not ordinarily choose, then you’ll love Racines.

If you really love the wine you have just drunk, you can buy it by the bottle over the counter: do this and I’m sure Pierre will see this gesture as a call to arms and you might have just fashioned yourself as his latest comrade. Look out - the revolution is coming.

Racines: wine and food that is sophisticated in its simplicity.

How do you like your art? Traditional? Chic? Classical? Or avant-garde? Well, the people behind Tokyo Eat at the Palais de Tokyo are assuming that you enjoy your art in much the same way that you enjoy your food: lots of it, maybe slightly erratically presented, a hint of multiculturalism and largely contemporary in style, whilst remaining at the end of the day largely palatable without anything too difficult to digest. Am I talking about the current exhibition in the cavernous halls of the museum space at the Palais de Tokyo, or am I talking about the dishes served in its yawning restaurant, Tokyo Eat? It’s difficult to be sure: either way, you’ll come away with a distinct sense of atmosphere, even if not everything is as distinguished at that of the genre’s current masters.

In what has become one of the trendiest places in Paris to chow down on contemporary food and culture, it is entirely possible that you may become overwhelmed by the constant sensory overload that is Tokyo Eat. Greeted by bucket seats and geometric tables (designed and decorated by notable artists) and acidulous lights that are half retro and half ‘deep space’ in their theme, Tokyo Eat is equal parts bar, restaurant and ‘place to be seen’, though not necessarily in that order.

Thus when my very dear old friend from Melbourne, Brett, who is staying in Paris for a month or so suggested we dine out last Thursday, I knew exactly where to take him. As part of my mission to ferry him around to all the places in Paris that have the most “feeling”, as the French like to call it, Tokyo Eat couldn’t be missed. Such venues do not necessary have the most renowned kitchens, nor the best wine cellars, but they do have a certain “je ne sais quoi”, and in this category I would count Tokyo Eat.

So after attending the vernissage for the current show (D’une revolution à l’autre – well worth seeing, but dedicate a good few hours to do so) we made our way over (a whole 50 metres) to the restaurant. After being shown to our table by one of the red-tee shirted, swift-moving besneakered staff members, we settled in for an evening of posing, posturing and making chit-chat with other diners. This is a Contemporary Art Place, after all – not just dinner at some Paris bistro. You have to make like you want to be seen, as god knows, you will be.

To kick the evening off we chose a bottle of the rich, ruby-coloured Marques de Caceres 2004 Rioja Crianza (26 euro). A lively blend of handpicked Tempranillo, Garnacha and Graciano grapes grown in Rioja Alta in Spain, the wine is aged in French and American oaks, and it shows. The nose is a lively bouquet of red fruit (cherries and strawberries?), is spicy and possesses a faint sweetness of vanilla, as derived from the oak. It was a good chewy mouthful that was both fresh and full and easy to drink, with appealing smooth tannins, good complexity and a nice kick that was much appreciated by us both (damned Australians that we are). Yum.

As for the food, the menu is a la carte and despite frequent Asian accents covers fairly safe terrain, though it tended to fall on the lighter side meaning lots of salads, fish and some vegetarian dishes.

For entrée Brett chose the salad trés composée (11 euro): a square stack of grilled aubergines and piquillos, cucumber, red onions and mixed salad leaves. On the side featured a couple of chunks of roasted aubergine that had been lightly doused in garlic and olive oil and roasted through to form a deliciously mushy centre. Topped with a couple of slices of aged manchengo and a criss-cross of sardines, the salad was clean, fresh, extremely generous and would probably be sufficient as a main meal for those who prefer to keep their dinners on the lighter side.

My entrée was a tartare of fresh salmon served with a lambs leaf salad (13 euro). The finely cubed raw salmon pieces had been laced with black sesame seeds, ginger, garlic and chives. Topped with a good dollop of mango chutney, the fish flesh was sweet and creamy in texture and married well with the Japanese overtones of the spices. The accompanying salad was very crisp, the sweet salad leaves dressed in mildly gingery vinaigrette that formed a pleasant textural counterpart to the unctuous salmon. Served with a chunk of sourdough toast, this was a most satisfying way to kick off.

Next course saw Brett order a tartare de boeuf with ‘satay’ spices and sesame seeds (21 euro). The beef was nicely cut, not too fine, and had all the appeal of a traditional steak tartare except that instead of the usual mix of western and French sauces, the dish had been made a little more ‘fusion’ with the warmth of the ‘satay’ spices (a mix of the various ingredients that flavour the standard satay sauce, though minus the peanuts), whilst the sesame seeds lent a discreet nuttiness and crunch to the meat. Served with a scattering of rocket leaves and excellent pommes sauteés, this was a modern twist on a French classic and was one of the more successful dishes of the evening.

For main I chose a filet de dorade with peanut sauce and aubergine (20 euro). What arrived was a flank of sea bream, skin on and baked (maybe a little too much?), sitting in a pool of what was described as peanut sauce. The sauce was sightly odd, to be honest: a little too pinkish for my liking (was it tomatoes, cream or the lighting that produced this effect?) and perhaps a little too sweet. It didn’t have the nutty satay hit I had been hoping for. The ‘confit’ of aubergines was more successful, in that they had been cooked to the point of being glutinous, and these provided yet other gingery, garlicky element to the meal. Whilst I can’t complain to have been hungry afterwards, on the whole I can’t say that I was completely convinced by this fish dish.

Dessert was fun: a faultless mi cuit au chocolat noir arrived on the plate with a lacework of dark chocolate sauce and was crowned with a good scoop of well made vanilla ice-cream (9 euro). Gooey, not too sweet and just warm enough to gently melt the ice-cream, it was a prime example of its species. The second dessert was something that I had not encountered on a restaurant’s menu before: fontainebleau vanille aux framboises et meringue (10 euro). In a round tumbler arrived a gorgeous pink and white concoction of delicately sweetened fresh raspberry pulp layered with cream and capped with a perfect round meringue. My first foray into the dish was a disaster, as when I drove my spoon into the glass in an attempt to break the meringue it squirted raspberry mix all over my dress. Oh well – serves me right for being greedy. When I surmounted this little problem the combination of the slightly tart berries, the fresh cream and the meringue proved to be a sensational one and something that could be –and often is - easily replicated at home (now I guess my next dinner party guests know what they will be receiving – oh well). Just make sure you’re not wearing white when you try to eat one of these little creations; it’s a dangerous proposition for all involved, if a delicious one.

So what are my final thoughts of the meal we shared at Tokyo Eat? Well, the service was good, the atmosphere was fun and vibrant (I really enjoy it when you end up talking to the people next to you, which is exactly what happened to us) and overall, the food was pleasant. Despite there being an overwhelming theme of aubergines on the menu, which is not necessarily a bad thing (I guess they are in season), I do have a few criticisms of a more solid nature. For example, whilst the food was pleasing overall (certainly generous in quantity) we sometimes felt that the kitchen sacrificed the overall success of a dish in the name of “fusion” food, and to be honest, I felt that the prices were a little high for the kind of food that was being served. I understand that the restaurant purchases their produce from very reputable sources (such as Joel Thiébault for the vegetables), however I do feel that for the same prices an overall better standard of cuisine may be found elsewhere in Paris.

The other thing that I have to point out is the atmosphere, which has both positives and negatives: as much as I love the retro-cum-astro lighting and seating, and the vastly proportioned space, I do feel that intimacy is lost as the design of the tables and chairs do not permit easy, intimate conversation and the (pink) lighting makes it difficult to see exactly what you are eating (or at least its natural colour). Thus the feel of the space is really that of a bar or even nightclub rather than a restaurant. This may suit a younger clientele, but I did notice some of the older patrons looking a little ‘niched out’, as it were.

So if these things don’t deter you, it is well worth taking a trip to see the art collection and the antics of the open kitchen at Tokyo Eat: just make sure you’ve brought your glasses and your attitude, as you’ll need them both to make the most of the evening.

Tokyo Eat: where you can digest both art and food in the same mouthful.

13, ave du Président-Wilson / 75016 Paris / Tel: (+33) 01.47.20.00.29. /
Hours: open Tuesay - Sunday 12pm - 11:30pm. / Métro: Iéna or Alma Marceau / http://www.palaisdetokyo.com/#/fo3/high/pause/restaurant.htm

I’m on something of a touristy bent for this post, as well as the last one. I know that. But I’m trusting that you’ll forgive me as I promise to be covering some less familiar ground in the coming posts. It’s just that with the Parisian weather having turned foul the last couple of days (what happened to autumn? In fact, what on earth happened to summer??) I find myself being driven indoors to places where one can cuddle up with something sweet and comforting, with pretty things to look at (both surroundings, edibles and people) and nicely turned out staff to attend to my every need. Well, my every culinary need, at the very least. And for a much neater price (read: compact) than I might find in an equivalently chichi restaurant, afternoon tea salons serve much the same purpose but permit me to simply skip to dessert, and to order more than one dessert, should it be my whim (this is something of a gastronomic disorder that I have – but I digress). So where to go?

Cue: Angelina on rue de Rivoli in the 1st arrondissement.

Perhaps you’ve heard of Angelina but have been wondering what the great appeal is? Well, as half of Paris (and hoards of American tourists) will tell you, it’s the chocolat chaud L’Africain that keeps the legions returning. For 6.40 euro you can sit down to the most wickedly divine pot of hot melted chocolate that you are likely to ever experience. The substance that lies within the innocent looking white vessel in which it is presented is, in consistency, less of a drink and more of a meal: yes, this is a good thing.

Delivered in a small porcelain jug (two cups per serve) and with a small bowl of whipped cream on the side, the chocolaty matter within is possibly the only substance on earth that is made lighter by the addition of cream. Notes of pepper, chilli, cinnamon and allspice give the chocolate its distinctive ‘spicy’ flavour. Perhaps not the best choice on a 35 degree day (trust me here, I’ve been known to inflict this upon some long-suffering guests), but when it’s 13 degrees outside, pouring with rain and blowing up a gale, this is where I want to drag people for a truly showy chocolat chaud.

Opened in 1903 in the height of Paris’ Belle Époque, the richly bedecked rooms are an exercise in gilt, grandeur and full-length mirrors. High ceilings give one the impression of spaciousness, despite the seating always being at capacity and somewhat packed in (to avoid this try to get a seat upstairs if possible - or get in really really early to avoid the queues), whilst the ballet of black and white clad waiters perform their show on the crimson carpets; a ritual as old as the maison itself. Apart from the addition of a clutch of Art Deco chandeliers, Angelina hasn’t changed much since it first opened its doors some century ago.

At turns a tourist haven and a destination for vrai Parisians, the other great drawcard to this venerable intuition are the pastries – the primary raison d’être as conceived by Monsieur Rumpelmayer, the Austrian founder of Angelina, whom named it after his wife. The house speciality is the Mont Blanc, a ridiculously rich Northern Italian concoction of sweetened chestnut purée, whipped cream and meringue, though all of the pastries are equally good. There is also the possibility of meals (mostly breakfast and lunch) but for real bang for your buck, stick to the sweet stuff.

John Galliano and Karl Lagerfeld (along with Coco Chanel in her day) are considered regulars, whilst being located directly opposite the Fashion Week tents in the Tuilerie gardens (on now), you’ll find that this week the place is literally crawling with fashionistas of all persuasions. Though oddly, we spied no models on the day that my friend Brett and I were there. Strange, non?

So next time you are on that side of town and are in need of some sustenance, head over to Angelina – it’s a supper worth singing for (or at least, queuing for).

Angelina: death by hot chocolate.

226 rue de Rivoli / 75001 Paris / Tel: (+33) 01.42.60.82.00 / Hours: 9am - 7pm Monday - open daily for breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea / Metro: Tuileries

I’ve never been a great fan of frequenting the touristy places to which the camera-bearing hoards flock. I understand that most of these locations do indeed possess charm: discreet, bourgeois or otherwise. However I can’t help but feel as though I’m selling out or giving in if I (shock horror) pay a visit to one of these places or (gasp!) admit to enjoying it. But here it is, I have to confess my quaint little touristy sin – one that I happily indulge in and have very few regrets in doing so.

If it’s a rainy afternoon (as Paris afternoons are want to be), if it’s a little cold outside, or hell, for any other excuse that I can concoct, you’ll find me happily snuggling up to some kind of cream puff pastry on a banquette in the Ladurée tearoom in rue Bonaparte in the 6th.

Designed to induce the hedonistic Orientalist milieu of Paris in the 1890s, the tucked-away salon de thé is an exercise in over-the-top adornment and sensual delights. Black and white clad waiters, panoramic wall paintings of exotic settings, silver cutlery, fine china and a level of ornamentation to rival Versailles; this lovely (if pleasingly kitsch) space has everything. All this and I haven’t even made mention of the sweet edibles, of which there are enough to make even Marie Antoinette jealous. The world-renown macaroons may take centre stage, but if I can put in my little two cents worth, get some gift wrapped to take away and instead enjoy something infinitely more delicate (and less portable) in situ.

So here’s Gabrielle’s prescription for blue moods (you can do this on your own, but personally, I find it better to share the experience – that way you can reveal your guilty little secret with at least one other person without fear of retribution). It goes like this:

-Order two glasses of the Ladurée rosé Champagne (14 euro a glass, but very, very good – and it’s not like you are taking the whole bottle… well, not unless you are feeling really, really extravagantly down). But most importantly: do NOT drink it immediately – you must wait for your full order to arrive so as to appreciate both the anticipation and the ultimate delivery of satisfaction.

-Next, order a Saint-Honoré Rose-Framboise (7.30 euro), a featherweight concoction of flaky pastry, choux pastry, light rose petal confectioner’s custard, raspberry compote, Chantilly cream flavoured with rose water, rose syrup fondant and fresh raspberries. Again, do not eat until the full order has arrived.

-At the same time as making the above order, also ask for a Ispahan (8.10 euro), an over-grown macaroon-like confection that offers more than your usual morsel, as it may have the usual smooth (in this case rose-flavoured) macaroon biscuit, but additionally, it also encases rose petal cream, fresh raspberries and lychees.

-Now, champagne flute in one hand, fork in the other, make a toast to your own health and gorge yourself on the aforementioned goodies.

-Smile a very thick, rich, self-satisfied smile and keep eating.

Now if this doesn’t throw you into paroxysms of delight, frankly, I don’t know what will. And yes, if you or your company want savoury stuff or a more substantial meal, there’s that too: just be prepared to pay handsomely for it.

But that’s not really the point, is it? You’re there to indulge a sweet-tooth of the most profound kind and god knows you deserve it (for whatever reason you previously dreamt up) - tourists be damned.

So next time you’re feeling low, head to one of the Ladurée stores or tearooms around town (check their website for locations) and treat yourself to a little sweetness and light. Go, divide and conquer those cakes: you’ll be glad you did.

Ladurée: more fun with pastry and cream than is strictly necessary.

Ladurée Bonaparte / 21 rue Bonaparte / 75006 Paris / Tél: (+33) 01.44.07.64.87 / Hours: open every day from 8:30am - 7:30pm except Saturdays, when it’s open 8:30am - 8:30pm / The Chocolate factory is open daily from 10am - 7pm / Métro: Saint-Germain-des-Prés

For the other locations please visit the Laudrée website:

http://www.laduree.fr/

If you’re searching for a nook in which to bury yourself to see out the changing of the seasons, I may just have found your new lair.

Nestled in amongst the grand looming buildings of the Bourse area on rue des Petits-Champs lies the cosy Bistrot Vivienne. Its namesake taken from the undercover walkway or ‘Galerie’ Vivienne, located directly to the right of the bistro, this is a fine little spot that has been keeping regulars happy since 2002. The décor appears at first glance to be an exercise in standard Parisian bistro style, circa 1930. In the front room you will find lots of heavy dark wood, mirrors, banquettes and chandeliers. However push past this ‘gentlemanly’ aesthetic (yes, Bourse – the French Stock Exchange - is just around the corner and yes, the suits do like to lunch here) and you will find loads of warmth, individuality and genuine appeal in what may otherwise simply have been a standard Parisian bistro experience.

On the day that my friend and I visited for lunch we found the place very much alive and buzzing (despite it being the dwindling days of summer vacation when most of Paris is still away), and we were glad to have made reservations. Not in the mood for the terrace (even though it would be lovely on warmer days), nor for being in thick of the busy main dining room, nor even for sitting in the undercover seating in the beautiful Galerie Vivienne, my friend and I decided to try the intimate dining room at the end of the hall.

This small but most agreeable space is a cross between a ladies tearoom and a smoking-room of yore. There is a snug banquette, lots of individual, unusually shaped mirrors, one wall covered in chintzy wallpaper and another in bordello-red paint, a rather over-the-top chandelier and enough privacy so that if you decided you wanted to hole up here until next summer it’s possible that no-one would even notice. Naturally, I liked this little space immediately.

Still, despite our out-of-the-way alcove that afforded us great views of Galerie Vivienne and various sections of the bistro and surrounding businesses, the responsive staff did not once fail to attend to our needs. We were given plenty of time to peruse the daily specials board and the menu, and despite the lunch-hour rush, our inability to decide on anything in particular was not met with anything other than smiles. We each eventually settled for an entrée and plat and a demi of the house red Côtes de Blaye (a nice red appellation from Bordeaux – a rich ruby-coloured wine with surprising complexity; slightly tannic with a nice long fruity finish - 12 euro for a half bottle).

The only disappointment we found at this stage was the lack of a lunchtime formule; something so common in places like this that I didn’t even think to check when I made the reservation. This meant that we ended up spending more on main course than we usually would at lunch (unless there were a formule involved) and as such we thought that perhaps sweets were unnecessary. Dessert is something that I would normally dive at but having felt a little miffed by the lack of set menu we decided to skip it. No matter, there was so much food I doubt we would have been able to finish it anyway (huh - regular readers know that this not a problem that I usually have, but for the sake of niceties I’ll write that anyway).

So, what of the food? The first cab off the rank was a verrine d’avocat et crevettes (9.50 euro). Presented in a charming glass pot with a flip-top lid (the kind you would preserve lemons in), it appeared as a cold melange of shrimp pieces, avocado and grapefruit segments, crowned in a downy haze of alfalfa seeds and garnished with a grissini stick. As much as we liked the concept, we felt that something was missing: the grapefruit was not zesty in the way you would expect fresh-cut citrus to be, making us think that it had been sitting there for a while. The shrimp pieces themselves were surprisingly flavourless, whilst the dish required additional salt to give it character. Whilst there was a hint of curry in the sauce, lending a sense of warmth to the overall flavour, there was nothing resembling sesame or coriander in the melange despite the promise of these on the menu. The foot-long grissini stick protruding from the pot was a dramatic gesture that looked impressive but was mostly just a pitch in the direction of aesthetics. The highlight was definitely the texture, rather than the flavour of the dish: the juiciness of the citrus, the creamy smoothness of the avocado, the light crunch of the alfalfa and the tender meat of the seafood provided a nice consistency, so it’s a pity that the flavour was somewhat underwhelming.

We then thought that perhaps the lack of flavour could be the very simple fact that they forgot to dress the salad. Strange, I know, but I guess it’s entirely possible. All things considered I thought the price of this entrée was somewhat inflated considering its rather mediocre success – i.e. great concept but poor delivery. I’d be curious to try it again another day and to compare the results.

Next up was the cake de maman (8.50 euro). We didn’t quite know what to expect upon ordering this but the outcome was satisfying if a little insipid. The ‘cake’ itself was something akin to a muffin in terms of the texture. Decidedly savoury, the base had been spiked with a combination of Parmesan, loads of butter, a good amount of salt, mortadella and fresh rocket. The outer crust was nicely crunchy whilst the body of the cake remained moist. The light capsicum and tomato coulis that the cake was resting on provided further moisture; this was only slightly acidic but my friend and I agreed that it could have been more so to offset the subtle flavours of the rest of the ingredients. Crowning the lot were two cherry tomatoes that had been gently roasted to bring out their natural sweetness.

Without meaning to totally disregard the appeal of the dish we found the overall taste to be perhaps a little generic, as the various ingredients lacked distinction and instead formed an overall sensation rather than particular flavour-notes. Individually rocket, parmesan and mortadella have quite strong after-tastes but somehow here they had lost their own personalities. However I’m sure for diners who are not found of overly strong aromas and would prefer to stick to food that falls into the category of ‘comfort’ food, this entrée would fit the bill.

My companion’s choice of main course was a magret de canard (17 euro), a most successful dish. The duck meat possessed a very rich flavour and had clearly been well rested as it had released a good amount of juice. Perfectly cooked (I had asked for rose), it arrived to the table without being dry or cold – something that many chefs seems to fail at, despite the general omnipresence of the dish. The thick, glossy sauce that slicked the bird meat and the bottom of the plate was a reduction of xérès sherry and honey. Slightly sweet, tangy and deeply flavoured, it complimented the duck slices perfectly.

The accompanying mashed potato was ridiculously delicious. It had more than a mere daub of butter and was truly loaded with gorgeous flecks of black truffles that had completely infused the mash. If I thought I could order a bowl of the stuff just to eat on my own with a spoon, I would: it was that good. These two fine specimens of the earth’s bounty were served with slightly overcooked steamed broccoli (as I have said before, the French consider many vegetables optimally cooked when I would consider the same overdone – but I suppose, ah, there is no accounting for taste…?) and a small handful of the same lovely roasted tomatoes that garnished the cake de maman. An infinitely more successful dish than the previous two, I wouldn’t hesitate recommending this as a benchmark magret de canard to someone who had never tried it.

The steak tartare (15 euro), one of my personal benchmark dishes when comparing kitchens, was very well executed if a little over-the-top in terms of presentation. The meat was finely cut without being at the point of becoming a paste (note to chefs everywhere: if I want raw paté I’ll be sure to ask for it). The high-quality meat was peppered with a mix of chopped capers, onions, fresh basil and a nice blend of the usual liquids and spices (Tabasco sauce, Worcestershire sauce, fresh egg etc). The meat had been neatly shaped, something that I immediately ruined with a guilty smile by mashing in more Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce (it really wasn’t necessary to do this, flavour-wise; it’s simply a kind of compulsion I have) and I couldn’t work out if maybe there was a hint of oyster sauce in the mix, too.

However there was certainly something resembling oyster sauce along with a drizzle of pesto that garnished the plate, whilst another grissini stick and a sprig of fresh parsley completed the ensemble. Accompanying this was a separate decent-sized bowl of thicker-than-usual fries that had a good flavour despite requiring a substantial dash of salt. Once again, the tartare was a pleasing example of a classic dish that I wouldn’t be ashamed to feed to first-timers.

As mentioned earlier we decided to skip dessert, but we couldn’t bypass coffee. The espressos that arrived turned out to be better than average: not in the least bit burnt, they delivered a good caffeine hit and were quite strong compared to the array of coffees found in most French establishments. We walked away taking note of this, happy to know that it is possible to get a decent coffee without having to go all the way to Italy.

So, what is the taste that Bistrot Vivienne left in our mouths? In a nutshell Chef Yvan Bessonnier does French bistro classics wonderfully, whilst the kitchen still struggles somewhat with more unusual dishes. The service is lovely and welcoming (in particular Alexandre Chapon and his management team) and with the wide array of dishes on the menu and daily specials, I’m sure there is something for everyone to enjoy. The prices reflect the location (i.e. it is a little higher than less central arrondissements – and I’m sure the proximity to the Stock Exchange also pushes prices up) however, considering the warm atmosphere and the array of seating options (from the main dining areas to the little corner rooms) I can’t think of a cosier place to linger over a glass of wine or a meal and watch the clouds turn grey. So if you end up at Bistrot Vivienne and try dessert, let me know what it’s like: I’m looking for an excuse to return and cuddle up into that nice little hideout down the back.

Bistrot Vivienne: an old-school bistro alive with new-world attitude.

4, rue des Petits-Champs / 75002 Paris / Tel: (+33) 01.49.27.00.50 / Hours: Monday - Friday lunch 12 noon - 2:30pm, dinner 8 - 11pm / Saturday lunch 12:30 - 3pm, dinner 8pm - 11pm (beverages available between services) / Métro: Bourse or Pryamides

Picture this: It’s lunchtime on a balmy weekday afternoon. As you enter the dining room of your chosen destination you spy what may just be the most elaborately stocked bar you’ve ever seen, whilst to your left and beyond art deco canvas’s and murals line the walls. Claret-coloured banquettes nurse the sprawling afternoon drinkers, whilst the rest of the furniture - a collection of heavy dark wood and solid chocolate-coloured leather - contains a gaggle of elegantly giddy diners. Large mirrors scatter the afternoon sun around the walls and across the well-worn floorboards, whilst the deep yellow shades and the occasional palm tree serve to heighten the gently infectious languor of the room.

Walking to your table to the rhythmic tap of another woman’s heels crossing the floor, you notice a young man wearing a Trilby and a banker’s stripe suit making eyes at the woman across from him, a flame-haired minx in head to toe black velvet with lace netting strung across her face. You feel hot just looking at her, but she doesn’t loose a bead of sweat and instead coolly sips at a glass of pink champagne. To your right another man sits with his dining companion, a small lapdog cosseted in a leather bag resting on a chair, the dog occasionally lapping at a bowl of water that has been brought over just for his pleasure. Dotted around this unusual collection of diners in the mellow light are clusters of gracefully lunching people, now and again whispering and surveying the scene, and now also surveying you, the stage’s newest player. The overhead ceiling fans diffuse the array of conversations in the temperate air. The dark molasses voice of Frank Sinatra softly echoes across the room as the black and white clad waiters dart from table to table. All this and it is only 1pm.

With all of its high society attitude and old school aesthetics, this could be a scene from a gentleman’s club somewhere in the British colonies in the 1940s. But happily, no, this is early September in Paris at Le Fumoir – “The Smoking Room” – just off rue de Rivoli, around the corner from the Louvre in the 1st arrondissement. And this is just lunchtime.

Le Fumoir is considered something of an evergreen in the fashionable Paris circles, a reliably chic brasserie-style venue at which to sup, however I suppose it is largely overlooked as a serious food destination. So recently a friend and I went along to see whether the menu was indeed worth making a fuss about and happily, we both left with pleasant tastes in our mouths.

To accompany our meal we chose a bottle of the La Mascaronne 2003 Côtes de Provence, as recommended by our waiter. On the nose were very ripe red fruit aromas, with a small amount of spice, whilst the mouth feel was fleshy and fruity with fatty and aromatic tannins. It was a great choice to go with a variety of dishes and well worth the 32-euro price tag.

So, what of the food? Well, along with modern though largely standard French fare we found that peppered throughout the menu were a few surprising examples of fusion food. Derived from the use of a number of Japanese flavour bases or combinations of ingredients that evoked traditional Southeast Asian aromatics, this served to contemporise the menu substantially.

For entrée (the first course of a 22 euro lunch menu) I decided to try the harenges ‘matjes’ et concombres à la crème, whilst my friend chose the salade du jour. Herring is something that I always enjoy, no matter how simply presented it may be, however today’s sample was anything but simple. Three small filets of the xéres cured fish flesh arrived on the plate in elegant bite-sized stacks of velvety, fishy goodness. The creamy herring sat atop a muddle of julienne cucumber clinging together with crème fraîche. This mildly sweet binder had been accented with dill and sat atop a lightly crumbly mildly spiced biscuit that almost had the texture of oven-dried bread. The combination of the grated cucumber, the sweetness in the sauce and the aromatic dill were a good contrast to the sweet and sour fish, whilst the combination of the various textures provided mouth interest and an irresistible desire to eat the whole lot far faster than perhaps should have been the case.

The second entrée was a beautifully presented salad, with jewel-like slices of pink grapefruit setting off the intense ruby shades of the finely sliced slithers of smoked duck. The base of the salad was a lovely light mix of baby mesclun, whilst the sauce provided the real interest: chopped peanuts, finely sliced lengths of celery and roughly chopped hazelnuts. This lead the combined flavours to form a nice sweetness on the palate that highlighted the tart grapefruit so well, whilst the lively combination of peanut oil, chopped nuts and the celery evoked a surprisingly successful though not over-the-top Asian nuance. This was a great start to the meal.

The first main course up for order was poulet rôti. Simply baked with aromatics, the lightly crisped skin invoked the flavours of a Provencal kitchen, with rosemary and lemon fragrance rising to the fore. The juicy bird meat was sitting in on a pile of incredibly fresh chunks of courgette and wilted spinach that had been spiked with grated lemon rind, whilst the whole lot sat in a small puddle of very light tomato sauce. This was a simple dish that allowed each component of the dish – the individual vegetables, the sauce, the bird meat – to shine, whilst together the flavours were as clean and satisfying as you could hope for.

The other main, the plat du jour was a somewhat less traditional for a French kitchen. Gently baked sea bass was presented in a shallow bowl with a light broth infused with wasabi. Nestled next to the fish were large hunks of poached daikon, cooked through without loosing their firmness. Resting in the sauce were a smattering of sliced radish pieces, fronds of dill and small hits of wasabi that lent that distinctive hot-green taste - rather than actual heat - to the overall dish. I enjoyed this dish thoroughly and found the execution of the daikon particularly impressive, as frequently the vegetable can be slightly bitter, whilst this example actually had a pleasingly mild and sweet aftertaste. We found the combination to be surprisingly sophisticated and a successful if usual take on fusion food.

To finish we decided to share the dessert of the day, fromage blanc and a traditional lemon tart. The fromage blanc was not at all sweet, surprisingly, though it was speckled with highly aromatic vanilla beans that succeeded in providing the sense that it was a true dessert. This mildly flavoured cloud of white nothingness was accompanied with a strong, almost tart blueberry coulis with whole blueberries that served to freshen the palate whilst proving the perfect foil to the mildness of the lightly vanilla scented cheese.

The lemon meringue pie was a fine example of its species, though in my opinion the base was not cooked through enough. However this wasn’t enough of a problem to distract from the extremely creamy meringue topping, or the perfect balance of sweetness and tartness in the lemon cream. It was unctuous, more-ish and looked as good as it tasted with the pretty shell design the chef had somehow managed to bake into the crust of the eggwhite topping. Whilst each dessert provided completely different ways to finish the meal, both were appreciated for their complexity and light touch.

Any last words? Well, to sum up Le Fumoir, it is more than just a bar for late-night drinks. The service is flawless and friendly, the food is appealing (the 22 euro lunch menu is great value), the wine list is worth drinking your way through and yet caters for those who prefer to lunch with a well-mixed martini rather than a Côtes du Rhône. Additionally, I think you’d be hard pressed to find a place that has this much atmosphere and yet remains so relaxed. So find yourself a nook and settle in for the afternoon. There’s even a library tucked down the back, so you can be studious whilst you sip on a Manhattan. What more could you ask for?

6 rue de l’Amiral-Coligny / 75001 Paris / Tel: (+33) 01.42.92.00.24 / Hours: open daily 11am -2am. Lunch 12pm - 3pm and dinner Monday - Friday 7:30pm -11:30pm, Saturday - Sunday 7:30pm – midnight / Métro: Louvre-Rivoli / http://satellite-productions.fr/Le_Fumoir.html

As someone who is not originally from these parts, sometimes what I miss most about home is being able to walk into a bar where you are greeted by a familiar smile, your favourite drink and you don’t need to tell them just how you like your coffee. Well, it took me a while but last year I finally found my bar away from home: La Patache. And what a find it is.

Originally something of an old gin joint, a member of the Café Charbon team broke away from the mothership and decided to set up his own little place on the other side of Canal Saint Martin. That was a couple of years ago, and he hasn’t looked back since.

The bar is open and welcoming to all and sundry. On warm nights the doors are flung wide to the lively rue Lancry where an enthusiastic rabble spills on to the street. The drinks are cheap and the conversation easy, so as the evening continues glances, conversations and even phone numbers are exchanged amongst the ever-bubbling throngs. On Friday and Saturday nights from 9:30pm free live performances occur: small theatre troupes put on well-known plays, sometimes a little live music fills the space. Then of course there is always the old Jukebox: a relic from the 1970s, it plays all those songs you’d prefer not to admit to knowing the lyrics to.

If you’re peckish but don’t want to give up your prime seat there are a number of food options available, including soups, charcuterie and sardines amongst others, with the price range being from around 5 – 15 euro. These are substantial enough to make an enjoyable meal for one or a snack to share with friends amidst the quaint poster-strewn walls.

Whilst cards and board games are available upon request, the best game in which to partake is to guess where everyone is from. This is a very diverse crowd as even though the place performs the role of local watering hole, it attracts an eclectic crowd of artists and writers from around the globe, all flocking to get a little polish from this rough diamond of a bar.

The best bit: I’ve never spent an evening at La Patache where I haven’t ended up talking to the group at the next table or the person sitting next to me at the bar, and having a ball as a result. It’s just that kind of place.

La Patache: if only every bar around the corner could be this good.

60 Rue de Lancry / 75010 Paris / Tel: (+33) 01.42.08.14.35 / Hours: 7pm - 2am. Closed Sunday / Free performances Friday and Saturday nights from 9:30pm.