I don’t thumb text easy enough to answer at length on my phone, so I’ll respond here.

I liked the food. I liked the presentation on the plate. I appreciated the mix of savors. There’s some serious cheffing going on in that kitchen.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. So back to the beginning.

I walked into the restaurant at 7:45pm, several minutes before my dinner date would arrive, and was given a choice of two tables. I selected the one by the window. Before I sat down I asked the servers, a man and a woman, if the restaurant had a cat. The man said, No. Since he didn’t ask why the question, I told him: Because it smells like a cat lives here. No cat, he said. His negation was no reassurance. I smelled something, something that reminded me of a home with a cat or something furry or litterboxy—not in a long-left-untended sense, but in a musky sense. Since I was one of the first clients in the restaurant it wasn’t someone’s perfume. I would hope not.

I wondered if it was more like hay, thinking that hay has a pleasant smell. Maybe they used hay as a bed for some creative dish, I thought, since I knew in reserving that creativity was on the menu. But no, something was off. Damp hay? I don’t know. My senses kept wanting to call it cat.

I like cats. I used to have one. For a time I was lucky enough to call one my significant other. I took my niece and her friend to the cat café when they visited last year. Cats are fine by me. But I thought it odd that a restaurant with a high ceiling and large panes of window giving out to the square and one wall full of wine bottles should smell like a cat, as it did in this corner.

My friend, a French lawyer, arrived a minute later. I’d texted her the previous day to say that in the time of the coronavirus we should support restaurants and, besides, we hadn’t seen each other for six weeks. She agreed, though in the time of the coronavirus she wouldn’t kiss me when she arrived.

I asked if she smelled a cat. She said, No, maybe, well there’s something, maybe it’s the plant—for our table was near a plant. That might be it, I said, something in the soil, so we moved one table away along the window. (Empty tables abound in the time of coronavirus.)

Moving two yards away didn’t completely eliminate the odor, but my friend and I hadn’t seen each other for some time so we quickly fell into lively catch-up talk, and I forget the cat smell, as I did back in the day when I shared an apartment with the world’s most beautiful, intelligent cat.

I thought of the cat again when the waitress placed some pâté before us, but her gratuitous act was much appreciated and we were hungry. We thanked her. We were in for a modern meal and it began with a welcome slab of tradition.

Twice the waitress returned to ask if we were ready to order the meal or something to drink, and the third time she came over we were. We selected from the 3-course fixed-price menu (49€) and a bottle of Gigondas (48€).

We chatted away, as friends of 30 years do, and the wine arrived. I reached for my glasses in my coat pocket to examine the label, as one pretends one does, and by the time I put them on the waitress had already removed the foil from the top of the bottle and was about to poke the cork with a screw. Now that I could see it, I remarked that the label read 2015 whereas the wine list indicated 2013. I don’t think so, she said, this is all there is. Can you check? I asked. She checked. The menu did indeed indicate 2013, and 2015 was indeed all she had. She claimed not to have noticed before. She asked if I still wanted the bottle.

Now what do I know from 2013 or 2015? What do I know from Gigondas or Domaine du Terme other than that I was planning on visiting wine villages in the southern Rhone Valley next month? But I do know that the staff of a restaurant with a substantial wine list should have something more informative to say than Do you still want the bottle?

I said, If it’s discounted.

She abruptly went to consult with the other server who was behind the bar. He was apparently her higher-up. Together they examined the menu. As they did, my friend asked if I knew the different between 2013 and 2015 in Gigondas. I said that for all I know 2015 was a better year, but given the way the bottle had (not) been presented to us and the way I was asked Do you still want it?, it was the principle of the thing. A restaurant that notes “cuisine & vins gourmands” on its awning and presents a wall full of bottles should have someone who knows how to talk about wine, someone who will show you the label and will be willing to engage, if only to say, I don’t know much about wine but let me ask my colleague if he can help. I don’t use one of those wine label apps, so it was indeed a matter of principle. My friend agreed. She said, Sometimes principle is all we have to go on. That’s a rare thing for a lawyer to acknowledge.

The waitress returned. Apparently Pirouette has principles, too. She said, No, same price, do you want it? (I’m translating; these exchanges were in French but no more extensive than that.)

Maybe I would have a liked a warmer tone; maybe I would have liked to hear that I was being offered a 5€ discount; maybe I would have liked to have the server explain that 2015 was even better than 2013 or how they were different; maybe I expect a restaurant with a substantial wine list to…. I said, No, I’ll take another look at the wine list.

This time I selected a Vacqueyras, a 20-minute bike-ride north of Gigondas, 2016, also Domaine du Terme. At 33€ it happened to be the list’s least expensive red wine from the southern Rhone Valley. I shouldn’t say “happened to be” since I wasn’t now going to select anything priced higher than the 2013/2015 bottle. I may have been shooting myself in the gut with my principle, but there you have it.

This time the male server brought over the bottle. It’s Vacqueyras, he said, but it’s 2017, not 2016. I thought there might be a punchline but none was forthcoming. In the silence that followed he missed his chance to remark, before my dinner date did, that they needed to update their wine list. We’re in the process of changing it, he responded, humorlessly. Is 2017 alright? It’s 80% syrah. And he followed that by looking at the bottle and saying something about body or structure.

I accepted the 2017. What do I know from Vacqueyras? What do I know from 2016/2017? The waiter poured us a sip. It was relatively direct (80% syrah) and relatively adequate. I nodded. He poured more. This wasn’t the coolness of French service as I’ve come to accept and even appreciate it; this was the coldness of appearing to not give a damn. Sheesh! If this had all been done a bit more engagement on the part of the staff, I wouldn’t have suddenly remembered what health officials keep telling us about the coronavirus: “Maintain a social distance.” The staff at Pirouette must think that referred to something other than distance in space.

The waiter then parted, stirring the air, and I was reminded of the cat smell that wasn’t coming from a cat.

Then the food arrived, beginning with “cruncheese” rice balls topped with marinated sea bream and an orange vinaigrette, for one of us, and green asparagus dressed with herb breadcrumbs and accompanied by citrus butter, for the other. Quite good. We liked it from the start. Then came our main courses of crispy pork, butternut puree with aniseed and a coffee mousse, for one of us, and cod covered with buckwheat accompanied by a crepe-size carrot and ginger ravioli, for the other. A pleasure. Chef François-Xavier Ferrol’s studied mix of savors may not be subtle (perhaps subtlety isn’t the aim) but they form an appealing kind of comfort bistronomy, handsomely presented on the plate. Filling portions. Not stellar, but 49€ fine. The wine was so-so, but who cares? We were two friends enjoying each other’s company over dinner in the time of the coronavirus.

My friend and I had agreed that we could dig into each other’s dish with the clean set of silverware that arrived with each course. Yet dessert has a way of making people forget their coronavirus principles. Having licked the last of her pleasing rice pudding with salted butter caramel from her spoon, she forgot that she’d asked for a second spoon (see photo of third course) and promptly stuck the same one into my chocolate ganache, peanut streusel and cocoa sorbet. I pointed out what she’d just done by saying, And to think you wouldn’t kiss me when you came in, to which she blushed as though she’d just impulsively stuck her tongue into my mouth. Take it all, I said—not because I distrusted her germs but because it was my least favorite dish.

My friend went to the rest room while I paid the bill. Then I went to the rest room while she looked at her phone. The rest room was clean enough. The sink is awkwardly placed. I washed my hands thoroughly.

I’d been away from the table for several minutes and as I returned I again picked up the scent of something cat-like or otherwise furry or litterboxy. It was like when I lived with a cat and would go down to get the mail then return to the apartment. Hmm, I’d think, a cat lives here. Whatever the odor was by the window at Pirouette, and however subjectively I’ve interpreted the smell, there it was. We then left the restaurant.

So on a scale of 1 to 10 would I recommend Pirouette?

Well, everyone deserves a break. Especially these days. There’s too much distrust, too much aggression, too many insistent points of view, too much judging going on—even too many principles. Shouldn’t the main principle be to help keep ourselves and each other healthy and to simply enjoy each other’s company while we’re together because you never know whom you’ll be stuck with in quarantine? So why not recommend François-Xavier Ferrol’s cuisine and forget about the staff’s “social distance,” their cold-shoulder wine oops, and that odor? Why not an 8 then, or a 7?

Because at this price I’d like a more graceful Pirouette, and because mutual support is a two-way street, and because there are (correction: will be) many other worthwhile options in Paris, and because you asked: 5.

Pirouette
5 rue Mondétour, 1st arr. Metro Les Halles. 01 40 26 47 81.
Open Monday-Saturday, noon-2pm and 7:30-10pm.

© 2020, Gary Lee Kraut

The post Pirouette in the Time of the Coronavirus appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

To eat late is easy in Paris, and to eat well is, too. But too eat late and well is rare. And to do so in the presence of one of Paris’s most esteemed purveyors of traditional bistro fare is a privilege.

I’m sitting with Paul Racat, owner of La Poule au Pot since 1974. Our soupe gratinée may seem simple enough but I know of no better setting in which enjoy in a single bowl all of the basic French food groups: onions, cheese, bread, chicken bouillon and white wine. Furthermore, when served at La Poule au Pot one can actually taste the history: the history of of the old central food market, dubbed “the belly of Paris” by Emile Zola; the history of this bistro whose décor has scarcely change since 1935, and, while classic French songs of the 1950s play softly in the background, the history of Paul Racat’s restaurant as a staple of late-night sustenance for greater and lesser names of fashion, film and pop music since the 1970s. I add to that my own personal history since I have been coming to La Poule au Pot for a late-night fix of onion soup for over 25 years.

As the waiter clears away our empty bowls, Racat brings out guest books containing the signatures, comments and drawings of some of the hundreds of familiar names and faces that have dined here: musicians, actors, comedians, designer, models, architects, chefs, models, and others that Racat collectively refers to them as “les artistes.”

La Poule au Pot has been known to have a party atmosphere in the middle of the night—as when some of the Rolling Stones first came after a recording session in Montmartre in the mid-80s or when Michel Petrucciani, a well-known French jazz pianist who passed away in 1999, stood on a banquette and tell raunchy jokes—but this was never a place to see and be seen, rather a place to enjoy the classics of hearty fresh bistro fare amiably served at any time of night. One is far more likely to see couples or friends in discreet conversation, as tonight, whether they’re artistes or not. And it isn’t unusual to see someone dining alone after midnight. Racat recalls Bruce Springsteen sitting quietly in a corner in the early ’80s, writing, perhaps lyrics to a song.

Guardian of fresh traditional bistro fare

“When I started out I imagined developing four or five restaurants, but I ended up staying with one for my entire career,” says Racat.

Not only has he remained devoted to his first and only restaurant, but to the menu of traditional bistro fare that he opened it with: escargots, soupe gratinée, os à moelle, fried camembert, chicken and rice with a cream sauce, steak tartare, poule au pot Henri IV (the restaurant’s namesake dish of long-simmered chicken and vegetables in broth), veal kidneys, salmon, lamb, tarte tatin, crème brulée, profiteroles, etc..

His dedication to preparing quality versions of such traditional dishes has made Racat one of the capital’s guardians of such cuisine. He is the Paris representative of the fraternal gastronomic order La Marmite d’Or, which honors the preservation of traditional cuisine and products. He is also a member of the Prosper Montagné Gastronomic Club, named for the renowned chef and author (notably of Larousse Gastronomique, an encyclopedia of French gastronomy) of the first half of the 20th century. Racat often repeats Montagné’s motto “On ne fait du bon qu’avec du très bon”—You can only make something good from something very good).

Paul Bocuse, Joel Robuchon, Guy Savoy, and other chefs known for their high gastronomy have signed Racat’s guest book. And he has been honored by the French State with Knighthood in the Order of Agricultural Merit and in the National Order of Merit. Can the Legion of Honor be far behind?

Attracting show biz folk

Racat grew up in the Borbonnais area of Allier (Auvergne) and studied at the Beaux-Arts school in Moulins. After the premature death of his father there was no longer sufficient family funds for him to stay in a school leading to an uncertain future, he says, so he switched to a hotel-restaurant school with the idea of working as a chef. Cooking had been a passion since childhood. At 18 he was hired for his first kitchen job in Paris at the gastronomic restaurant Prunier. Brief stints followed at a series of stellar restaurants—Tour d’Argent and Plaza Athenée in Paris, Trianon Palace in Versailles—along with a gig in England preparing a hunting meal for the royal family.

In addition to gaining culinary experience during those six years, Racat says that he also learned “how poorly waiters and kitchen staff were treated by chefs and bosses at the time.” Together those valuable lessons led him at age 24 to want to strike out on his own.

“A partner and I were looking for a business and we came upon this one. A business at Les Halles may have been worth more than one on the Champs-Elysées during the time of the market, but with the market gone [Paris’s central food market moved to Rungis is 1969] it wasn’t worth much at all.”

Racat and his business partner bought La Poule au Pot in 1974. Racat created the menu and ran the kitchen. His partner oversaw the dining room. Several years later their teamwork turned wobbly, so Racat bought him out. Racat then hired a chef and began working as the front man. He would eventually acquire the property as well.

The décor of 1935

Racat and his partner were only the second owners of La Poule au Pot. They purchased the business from its original owners, the Penigueys, a couple who created the restaurant in 1935 and had scarcely changed the décor over the next 40 years. After her husband passed away, Suzanne Peniguey placed the restaurant under management, but, says Racat, the business turned sour, so at age 82 she was forced to take it back. Too old to operate it herself she decided to sell.

“She asked me not to change the décor until she died,” says Racat, “and I promised that I wouldn’t.”

His promise has held long beyond that. Peniguey passed away at the age of 98, yet the original décor still remains largely intact. Over the years Racat has changed some of the wallpaper, updated the overhead lighting and added some photographs and paintings, including a naïve painting of the front of the restaurant painted that he painted himself. Nevertheless, with its mirrored walls, copper bar counter, deep red banquettes, mosaic floor tiles, gold glass tiles around columns and various decorative elements passed on from the Penigueys, the bistro spirit of pre-war Les Halles remains in the décor as it does in the cuisine. The Penigueys’ cash register is still there, too, though no longer used.

La Poule au Pot might best be considered a luxury bistro. But the luxury here is in no way association with pretention or snobbery. What is luxurious is instead Racat’s insistence on simplicity, tradition, quality, kindness and the possibility to linger through the night. A 3-course meal runs 50-60€ without wine. Yet one might simply come for an after-midnight bowl of onion soup and a glass of white wine, before being tempted by a blueberry tart or a tarte tatin.

Hundreds of plaques of the names of celebrities

Racat and his partner didn’t set out to create a venue for celebrities, but thanks to friends of the partner and their decision to keep the restaurant open through the night, La Poule au Pot attracted people from show biz early on.

Typically it’s the record or production company that calls to say that the artist is coming. They come after their show accompanied by musicians, producers, friends or others. Sometimes a limousine pulls up, as when a little fellow arrived with a tall and beautiful blond on his arm and two hefty bodyguards close behind. “Love God. Prince,” the fellow signed in the guest book.

Musicians and actors still come, but gone are the days when there would be a haze of illicit smoke in the street. “The 1970s and 1980s were what they were,” Racat says, “but I never tolerated drugs inside the restaurant.”

Among Racat’s additions to the décor are the hundreds of little plaques that border the banquettes and side panels indicating the names of artists that have signed the guest books. It’s now the artists who ask for a plaque with their name to be placed here, he says.

La Poule au Pot has three categories of guest book: one for artists, one for politicians, one for everyone else. But only the artists have the right to a plaque. “Artists remain,” he says, “politicians just pass through.” One of the plaques toward the back bears his own name.

You may be disappointed coming to La Poule au Pot solely for the purpose of celebrity spotting, particularly if arriving early in the evening. Nevertheless, the banquette you slide into may have once been occupied by members of The Rolling Stones, The Police, Santana, Motorhead, Simply Red, INXS, Status Quo and other groups; Cliff Richard, Donovan, Marianne Faithfull, Alice Cooper, Mark Knopfler, Dave Davies, Joan Baez, Chrissie Hynde, Christopher Cross, Bruce Springsteen, Prince, Patti Smith; Frank Sinatra, Sigourney Weaver, Bill Murray, Dustin Hoffman, Robin Williams, Jeanne Moreau, Miou-Miou; Jean-Paul Gaultier, Christian Lacroix, Pierre Cardin, Jean Nouvel, Paul Bocuse, Joel Robuchon, Guy Savoy and many more French and international celebrities, architects, chefs and fashion folk. Photocopies of choice pages of the guest books are available for patrons to examine upon request.

La Poule au Pot, 3am

The stars aren’t out much tonight, or at least not the recognizable ones. A waiter whispers to us that the man at the window table has introduced himself as an Israeli musician. Racat points out writer across the room.

The pace of a meals slows as the night unfolds. Diners lingers in the knowledge that waiters won’t be piling chairs up around them. The wait staff has a gracious deadpan approach. They have a tendency to feign surprise that one would ever want the pay the bill and call it a night with so much of the night ahead.

At 3am Racat suggests that we have frog legs. They arrive, sautéed in a light flour batter with garlic and parsley. Though several decades removed from operating the ovens at La Poule au Pot, Racat still tastes and, when necessary, “corrects” dishes. He nods in approval of the frog legs.

A woman now enters and comes over to our table to greet Racat. She has high fashion written all over her, from couture hat to elegant shoe. A former model, he tells me. She lives in the area and occasionally orders something to go… at 3:30am.

I mention seeing that Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell once signed his guest book after dining here together. What could they have possibly eaten here in this home of hearty traditions?

“Normal,” he says, “They ate normally.”

Looking at the decades of guest books, it appears that the heyday of international headliners has slowed since the turn of the century, though without disappearing altogether.

“It’s now the children of artists that come,” says Racat.

Some time ago, Thomas Bangalter, one half of the helmet-wearing duo Daft Punk, arrived with a friend one evening. Though unrecognizable to his fans, Racat immediately knew who he was since Bangalter had been coming here since he was a child, when he came with his father, a music producer. It was Bangalter’s dining companion that evening that Racat had never met until Bangalter introduced him to his friend Kanye West. “To La Poule au Pot where I’ve come with so much pleasure since childhood!,” Bangalter wrote in the guest book. “Thank you for all these meals and for all the evenings I’ve spent here!”

Thumbing the nose at passing time

In 2012 Racat was awarded the Vermeil Medal of the City of Paris for his contribution to gastronomy in the capital. In accepting the medal he said, “La Poule au Pot thumbs its nose at passing time.”

Yet time has passed, and at 65 years old Racat, though he looks young enough to have many years ahead of him at the restaurant’s helm, says that he’ll willingly retire when the right buyer came along. “Operating a restaurant takes its toll and operating an all-night restaurant even more so,” he says.

His wife, Pascale, worked with him in the 1980s, but working nights together was untenable once they had children. They have two sons, born in 1985 and 1989. “Both are gastronomes, but neither is interested in taking over the restaurant,” he says.

Perhaps some famous chef or other entrepreneur or a well-financed group will purchase the place, but it’s unlikely that the next owner will maintain the quartet of qualities that make La Poule au Pot the institution that it is today: the 1935 décor, the fresh traditional bistro fare, the night-only hours and, perhaps most important of all, the all-seeing owner on the premises. At least one or two of that quartet will disappear in the name of profitability. The time to spend a few hours at La Poule au Pot is therefore now, while Racat is still on duty.

La Poule au Pot’s historical counterpart in the Halles quarter is Le Pied de Cochon, the brasserie on the opposite site of the park, by Saint Eustache Church. Opened in 1947, it, too, is an all-night institution. But whereas La Poule au Pot’s authenticity comes from the dedication, presence and character of its owner, Le Pied de Cochon, like the vast majority of the historical brasseries of Paris, was long ago gobbled up by a large group. (It currently belongs to the Bertrand Group.)

La Poule au Pot, 4am

At 4am two men and a woman arrive. One of the men, apparently a regular, says that they’ve just finished a gig at a club in the 6th arrondissement and asks if it isn’t too late to eat.

“Certainly not,” says Racat, and he nods to a waiter to seat them.

A long discussion follows as to what they might like to eat. The waiter goes over the entire menu. When they finally choose it’s clear that these three aren’t looking for a late-night snack. They’ve come to dine.

I leave at 4:30am as the waiters deliver a steaming vessel of poule au pot and other dishes to their table.

“Looks like I’ll be staying a little longer,” says Racat.

La Poule au Pot
9 Rue Vauvilliers, 75001 Paris
01 42 36 32 96
Open 7pm-5pm except Monday night.

© 2017, Gary Lee Kraut

An earlier version of this article first appeared in The Connexion.

The post Paris by All-Night Bistro: La Poule au Pot appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

July 2009 – My favorite little shop in Paris, Plaques & Pots, one of the last living vestiges of the historical belly of Paris that was the Les Halles Quarter recently closed.

It had been a long time coming–rather, going. Selling enamel plaques, enamel street numbers, butcher’s paper and pottery handmade upstairs had some time been an anomaly in an quarter otherwise devoted to cafés, clubs, restaurants, and mass fashion. I stopped by to see owner and friend Josette Samuel, below, as she got ready to move on.

Her shop was one of the last authentic remnants of Les Halles, even if for some time already it had been a vision of the passing of time in the quarter as it pursued its drive to urban uniformity.

The wholesale and retail food industry left this area for modern installations in Rungis, south of Paris, in 1969, so the goods sold here long ago lost their place at Les Halles. Still, I’ve to got applaud her stubborn gumption in taking over in 2004 the shop at 12 rue de la Ferronerie formerly called Papeterie Moderne and trying to make a go of selling old-fashion practical-cum-decorative products in a space that’s probably smaller than your kitchen.

At Plaques & Pots Josette sold antique street numbers…

old street signs (left) and even old butcher’s paper (right) that she inherited from the previous owners.

Josette added her own clay pottery to the mix. Knowing that I’ve always been a fan of this shop, both in her hands and in those of the prior owners (whom I first interviewed in 1991), Josette gave me this green pot as a farewell-to-the-boutique gift. Handmade in the Les Halles Quarter.

Several other vestiges of Les Halles from its by-gone centuries as the center of the food trade in Paris continue to hold their own. Among them:
– E. Dehillerin, a family-operated store for kitchen and pastry utensils and cookware, 18-20 rue Coquillière.
– La Poule au Pot, a bistro with a décor dated 1935, serving traditional rustic fare including one of the best onion soup’s in Paris, 9 rue Vauvilliers.

– Julien Aurouze, a family-run pest exterminator that was trapping rats around Les Halles as early as 1872, 8 rue des Halles. Those are sewer rats caught in the quarter in 1925 hanging in the window on the right below.

The oldest and most lasting of the remnant of historical Les Halles is the Church of Saint Eustache, 1532-1640, which may well be the most under-visited, touristically speaking, of the major churches of Paris. It’s a Renaissance church within a Gothic body with great accoustics for its famous organ.

The enormous proportions of its interior are worth a look, but I’ve come here today to photograph one of the most endearing church sculptures in Paris, “Departure of the Fruits and Vegetables from the Heart of Paris 28 February 1969” by Raymond Mason.

“Departure” (completed in 1971) is so fitting at Saint-Eustache not only because the central food market that had existed since the Middle Ages was the raison d’être for the church but because this is a wonderful sculptural retelling of Paradise Lost, the departure from the Garden of Eden. (Also reminiscent of the departure from Anatevka at the end of Fiddler on the Roof.) Or, as the sculptor has written of that departure 40 years ago, “It’s the man of the Middle Ages that’s leaving.”

Plaques & Pots, formerly Papeterie Moderne, now joins the procession in the departure of signs and numbers from the heart of Paris July 2009.

Wishing Josette all the best in her future endeavors.

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