Non-members stop by the bistro for morning coffee or a pre-lunch aperitif, unaware of the planned, informal gathering of the Joyeux Mâchonneurs. But they might as well be a part of the group as Hervé slices off chunks of headcheese to offer them a taste. Headcheese and coffee? Maybe. Headcheese and wine? Sure.

Tristan Olphe-Galliard arrives with a bottle of wine that he sets on the counter as his contribution to the morning gathering of the Joyeux Mâchonneurs. Before sharing the wine, though, he shares the story of why he’s arrived later than planned: The mechanism to open the door to his building was stuck, so to get out he had to crawl like a thief from the window of a neighbor’s apartment. And he definitely can’t stay with us past lunch, he says, since he has to… Right.

He’s brought a red Mentou-Salon, a cousin to Sancerre, from the eastern winegrowing area of the Loire Valley. A brief explanation is enough—this is a social gathering, not an informational assembly. It’s easy-drinking wine, a pinot noir of the cherry-tinged kind. Tristan is an ambassador for the network of Bistrots Beaujolais, bistros which are themselves ambassadors for Beaujolais wines or at least have some on their wine list. He’s also a freelance photographer, as well as a member of the Francs-Mâchons, a non-profit association with a natural affinity to the Joyeux Mâchonneurs but more organized and with a distinct appetite for Beaujolais wines. But Triston is only partially on duty this morning; not duty enough that he feels obliged to bring a Beaujolais to this gathering but dutiful enough to invite me to meet him here to discuss my plan to visit some of his Bistrots Beaujolais over the next two months. Research.

But first things first. The barman opens the bottle.

You don’t need to be a member of the Joyeux Mâchonneurs to attend the Tuesday morning gathering. You don’t have to eat pig. You don’t even have to arrive joyeux, though hopefully you’ll leave that way. All you have to do is bring something sharable to eat or drink (keep it simple) or else buy a(n inexpensive) bottle of wine at the bar. And, no, the point is not to go on a pre-noon bender. It’s enough to toast with a sip or two—a bistro glass is small anyway. It’s the spirit that’s generous, not the pour. You can put your hand over your glass in refusal at any time (though it will likely be filled as soon as you look away). Seriously, order coffee if you like.

Bistro life

The word bistrot (with a final t in French) encompasses a range of restaurants and eatery-drinkeries that emphasize traditional French food and wine. In English-speaking countries, bistro may carry an air of pretention, which doesn’t belong in France. At its heart, the French bistro (let’s leave out the t here) is an unpretentious neighborhood gathering place for traditional, homemade food and inexpensive drink. “Traditional, home-made food” itself can vary within limits and budgets. And in the relatively wealthy city of Paris, “unpretentious” is itself a term that’s up for grabs, while “inexpensive” will depend on the neighborhood. In any case, a bistro should feel down-home rather than upscale, even those that attract an upmarket crowd.

In terms of opening hours, there are two types of bistros: a bistro that’s open only for lunch and dinner, i.e. a bistro as restaurant alone, and an eatery-drinkery bistro, such as Le Vaudésir, where food is served at specific hours yet one can enter throughout the day for liquid nourishment (and, if you’re a regular or ask kindly, maybe someone can make you a sandwich or give you some headcheese or a hard-boiled egg). I’ve met with Tristan this morning in soliciting his help constituting a list of the latter kind of bistro, the historic but not necessarily bygone bistrot de quartier, the neighborhood eatery-drinkery bistro. The archetype of a neighborhood bistro such as Le Vaudésir serves a social function as a gathering place, an outlet for extroverts, a refuge for the lonely, escape from your spouse or kids, comic relief for the observer, a place where a regular is recognized, etc.

In the densely populated and much-visited city of Paris, “neighborhood” doesn’t mean that the patrons all live within three blocks of the bistro. At lunchtime, neighborhood bistros are frequented by those who work in the area but live elsewhere. And the dinner crowd may be a mix of neighborhood residents, Parisians with a city-wide vision of dining out casually, and travelers staying in nearby hotels.

The neighborhood bistro of the eatery-drinkery kind may not have Bistrot written in its name or on its awning. Even a café or a brasserie or a meat-and-potatoes/sausage-and-lentils dive can be considered the local bistro if it serves an unpretentious social function (gathering place, refuge, escape, etc.) and presents the other elements associated with the bistrot de quartier: traditional cuisine and cheap or modestly-priced drink, conviviality, a changeable atmosphere morning to night, and a smattering or more of Joyeux Mâchoneurs or their like. Just as Joyeux Mâchoneurs by any other name would be just as joyeux, a bistro by any other name would be just as … bistro.

I’ve neglected to mention the other essential element to the type of bistro that I’ve come looking for: an on-site owner. Not just any on-site owner, but an on-site owner as conductor, MC, security guard, arbitrator, sphinx, ultimate judge, merchant and boss. He may stand stoically on the raised platform of the bar as he surveils the room. He may join in the banter of his regulars. He may raise a glass with others. He knows his regulars. He knows when to be wary and when to be welcoming. At Le Vaudésir, he’s Christophe Hantz.

By the bar counter there’s a list of names and dates of owners at this site since 1896, beginning with a certain Forestier, who sold wine. For much of the first half of the 20th century, coal and wood were also sold here. (The second room, behind the bar, is where they were stored.) In 1993, the owner at the time renamed the bistro Le Vaudésir, after one of the seven “climats” of Chablis Grand Cru. Vaudésir Chablis was still a relatively inexpensive at the time, but it’s now too pricey to belong on the selection here. Christophe has been at the helm of Le Vaudésir since 2001.

Michelle Steiner, the chef he hired that year, joins us for a drink before returning to the kitchen to make final preparations for lunch service. “Christophe and I are like an old couple that’s never copulated,” she says. Christophe isn’t yet around to give his take on their relationship.

La Fête du Livre Bistrot at Le Vaudésir

There is no off-the-beaten track in Paris; there are just streets we haven’t yet ventured down and doors we haven’t yet opened or times of day or night that we haven’t yet been there. So it isn’t to go off the beaten track that I’ve returned late the same day by taking the train to Denfert-Rochereau, walking 10 minutes south, and turning left onto rue Dareau. The street leads film-noir-like to a door beneath the railroad tracks. The first room is so crowded that I can’t even push open the door. I enter through the second door a few yards further down. No, I haven’t gone off the beaten track to make my way back to Le Vaudésir this evening; I’ve come to attend the Fête du Livre Bistrot, a celebration of books about bistros, their authors, and, above all, bistros themselves.

Not all Parisians go in for such places, as the diminishing numbers of restaurant-bar-café bistros show. They’re too old-fashioned for some; the cooking isn’t contemporary enough for others; they prefer to mingle elsewhere, differently or with a younger crowd; if there’s a squat-toilet that may not be to everyone’s liking. “Local” itself may have lost its significance for those who prefer screen time. The foreign visitor may be intimidated to stand at the counter with piliers de bar (literally bar pillars, i.e. barflies) or sitting elbow-to-elbow at a table beside animated strangers in unintelligible conversation. No, the atmosphere of the eatery-drinky neighborhood bistro isn’t for everyone.

But it is for everyone here this evening, chatting with each other and with the authors, purchasing books, examining the works of two photographers, drinking the Saint Pourçain wines brought by the producer who’s serving them at the bar, reaching for the plate of headcheese and pâté on the bar counter. Tristan is here, Hervé is here, and so are other members of the Joyeux Mânchonneurs.

I speak with the winegrower of the Saint Pourçain as he serves me a glass. The wine is free this evening. Christophe is also behind the bar. I say hello. He raises his glass and offers his infectious smile, though he may or may not recognize me.

I chat with Alain Fontaine, owner of Le Mesturet, in the 2nd arrondissement. Le Mesturet’s awning reads Bar à Vins and Restaurant but it’s bistro enough for me. Alain spearheads a non-profit association whose mission is to promote and defend the idea that the art de vivre of bistros and traditional cafés of France deserve recognition as “intangible cultural heritage.” He says that foreign visitors, Americans in particular, are more prominent supporters for bistro life than the French themselves. (Perhaps, I think, because we like a good cliché or because we don’t have these at home.) Earlier this year he hosted at Le Mesturet a launch part for Café Society: Time Suspended, the Cafés & Bistros of Paris, a collection of photographs by Joanie Osburn, a frequent visitor to Paris from San Francisco. I tell him that I’ll be stopping by Le Mesturet to speak with him soon in the context of my own research. Whenever you want, he replies.

I run into free-spirited food writer and guide Guillaume Le Roux, whom I knew from restaurant press events a dozen years ago and haven’t seen since. We recognize each other immediately, briefly catch up, and promise to get together soon.

I speak at length with historian Laurent Bihl, author of Une histoire populaire des bistrots and gladly weigh myself down by purchasing his 800-page book.

I greet Gérard Letailleur, author of “Histoire insolite des cafés parisiens” and “Si Montmartre et La Bonne Franquette nous étaient contés,” whom I’d previously met at Aux Sportifs Réunis-Chez Walczak, a historic bistro in the 15th arrondissement.

I nod to Pierrick Bourgault who’s in intense discussion with someone interested in his work as a photographer and writer. Patrick explores his love and appreciation for bistros in both non-fiction and fiction. Among other publications, he’s the author of Au bonheur des bistrots,  which pays homage through photographs to the men and women who run countryside cafés, and the novel Journal d’un café de campagne. We’d previously met at the unmissable La Bonne Franquette at the top of Montmartre.

I meet Benjamin Berline, who’s part of the team working with well-known French food writer Gilles Pudlowski. He gives me a copy of the 2023 edition of the Petit Pudlo des Bistrots, a booklet that brings together 107 recommendable Parisian bistros (with an introduction by Alain Fontaine).

I find Tristan outside and thank him for setting me on my way for my bistro research. I tell him I’ll see him soon. (Though Tristan and I don’t run in the same circles we do manage to cross paths often.) I tell him I’m leaving. He says that he’ll be leaving soon too. Right.

Le Vaudésir, 41 rue Dareau, 14th arrondissement. Metro Saint-Jacques or Metro/RER Denfert-Rochereau. Closed Monday evening, Saturday lunch, Sunday. Cash only.

© 2023 by Gary Lee Kraut

The post An Introduction to Paris Bistro Life: Le Vaudésir appeared first on France Revisited - Life in Paris, Travel in France.

* * *

The gilt bronze equestrian statue of Joan of Arc on Place des Pyramides, across the street from the Louvre and the Tuileries Garden, is one of the most well-known and copied statues of the martyred heroine of the Hundred Years War with the English. Though glimpsed daily by thousands of tourists, few stop to contemplate the work or even to photograph it—and with good reason: they are intent are on preserving their own lives as they cross the street. Greater notice is likely given to copies of the statue in Philadelphia, New Orleans, Portland and Melbourne. Nevertheless, holding her standard high, Joan rides on here in (temporary) victory over the “invader” as a symbol of, well, whatever one group or party wants or needs her to be.

In the wake of France’s defeat in the Franco-Prussian War (1870-71), France’s young Third Republic needed her to represent a proud and unified nation marching in progress. Emmanuel Frémiet was commissioned to create the statue. No sooner was it installed on Place des Pyramides in 1874 than another invasion gathered strength: the invasion, welcome this time, of wealthy British tourists for whom the 1st arrondissement was becoming their Paris headquarters. In the decades that followed the statue’s inauguration, major new hotels opened or expanded on and around Rue de Rivoli and Rue Saint-Honoré—the Normandy, the Continental (now the Westin), the Meurice, the Ritz and others—as did shops and tea rooms and restaurants (“We speak English”).

As the prosperity and innovation of the Belle Epoque raced toward the turn of the century, a new hotel, the Hotel Regina, prepared to open on Joan’s Place des Pyramides. The Regina was under construction at the same as the Alexandre III Bridge, the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais, all to be ready in time for the World’s Fair of 1900.

The Regina was founded by Léonard Tauber, working with an associate named Constant Bavarez. Eventually Bavarez would take the reins, and the hotel is still majority owned by the Bavarez family, as are two other hotels developed by Tauber, the Raphael and the Majestic, both 5-stars near the Arc de Triomphe in the 16th arrondissement.)

Enter the Regina’s original art nouveau revolving door today you’ll find yourself in the lobby of old-fashion luxury with a choice of three directions: to the left to check in at the reception desk to one of 100 rooms and suites, straight ahead into the oak-paneled English bar for a cocktail or whiskey or to the right to the new wine bar.

The Hotel Regina was refurbished in 2015 without losing any of its character circa 1900, gaining a fifth star in the process. Its room style is clear and direct in its sense of well-being, with grey, beige and off-white walls and fabrics offset with the occasional touch of red. Excellent sound-proofing allows rooms facing the street to shut out the traffic on Rue de Rivoli.

Some furnishings, notably desks, from the opening years of the hotel are still present. Several rooms might even fulfill a guest’s fantasy of living luxuriously in Paris circa 1900, both for the décor and, in the case of exceptional corner rooms, the view to the Tuileries Garden and beyond it Eiffel’s Tower, a remnant of the World’s Fair of 1889.

Having refurbished its rooms and repolished its reputation, Regina opened a new wine bar this year. The bar is a sleek, boldly lit little white box with gold trim, high saucer stools and a corner view toward the garden and the tower.

It’s a sign of the times that the old English bar is called le Bar Anglais and the new French wine bar is named Wine & Friends.

Wine & Friends is the domain of sommelier and barman Antoine Henon, who counsels and pours with the cool and gracious demeanor of a man who is trying to please but not entertain or impress. Henon supplies the wine; you supply the friends.

With friends I turned right at the revolving door to have a drink—actually four, but I’m not one to try to impress with beverage consumption. They were small glasses, several tastes to get acquainted with the pleasantly balanced Dourthe wines while getting a feel for the place.

Dourthe is a company that owns ten Bordeaux vineyards (among them Saint-Estèphe, Haut Médoc, Saint-Emilion, Pessac-Léognan, Graves) including several grand crus. Producing grower and merchant wines, it is part of the Thiénot Group,  whose home soil is in the Champagne region. Other regions are also selectively represented at Wine & Friends.

I’m not a fan of the presence of branding stamped into the décor of luxury bars as found here, but many now have them—an indiscretion that is also a sign of the times. Nevertheless, Wine & Friends (& Dourthe) offers a nice variety of wine styles.

Considering the location between the Louvre and Rue Saint-Honoré, the sense of privilege of leaving hurried Rue de Rivoli and the elegant presence of Antoine Henon, a decent bottle of wine is rather moderately priced at 29-55€, a glass at 9-15€, with several more prestigious wines available by the glass or bottle.

A glass or a shared bottle can be accompanied by a fine plate of cheese and charcuterie, as one would expect in a Paris wine bar. Foie gras and sourdough toast (tartines) topped with smoked salmon or Bayonne ham or chicken are also available.

The atmosphere depends on the aforementioned friends as well as the light, which together lend themselves to cheery aperitif, showy chicness, rising romance in fading light or post-dinner dialogue. Wine & Friends is open daily from 5pm to midnight.

The cocktail-drinker among a group of wine friends needn’t go his or her separate way since one can also get a cocktail served here from the hotel’s Bar Anglais. That bar, with its oak paneling and red velvet armchairs and sofas, is the domain of Marc Desange, who has been shaking and stirring cocktails and pouring whiskey here since last year.

Previously he worked at the Regina’s sister hotel the Raphael, another worthy stop on the Paris hotel bar trail.

Hotel Regina
2 place des Pyramides
75001 Paris
Tel. 01 42 60 35 58
Metro: Tuileries
© 2016 Gary Lee Kraut

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In her article In Paris, a New Breed of Wine Bar (Oct. 1, 2013), Ann Mah, assisted by a lazy editor, would have readers believe that three years ago there was “a cultural shift” that brought forth a “new breed” of wine bar in Paris that dances to a trio of beloved travel adjectives, “casual,” “modestly priced,” “convivial,” a breed that can now save us “an embarrassing collision with a heavy, leather-bound menu and the haughty gaze of the sommelier.”

The premise of the article is all wrong, as anyone capable of understanding “Bar à vins” (or “Bar à vin”) on an awning knows. The old breed of wine bar, still very much aive, is anything but a pretentious place. It has no titled sommelier, and it’s even more casual, modestly priced and convivial than those bars cited in the article. Mah doesn’t get it all wrong though, at least she wouldn’t have gotten it wrong had she written her article in a decade ago, for there was indeed a trend in wine bars of the type she describes… around the year 2000.

Ann Mah, who has just published the book “Mastering the Art of French Eating: Lessons in Food and Love from a Year in Paris,” has apparently confused the traditional Paris wine bar with the cocaine-fueled wine scene in New York in the 1980s. One wishes that in mastering the art of eating she had also learned to love research more during that year in Paris.

Upscale wine bars do exist (e.g. the delightfully smooth, somewhat stiff but ever-so-pleasant Legrand Filles et Fils, Galérie Vivienne, 2nd) but the traditional, basic wine bars in Paris, the ones on which the so-called “new breed” riff, are the furthest thing from haughty. They typically come in two kinds. There is the kind developed near market squares (the market has since disappeared in some cases) since markets and wine merchants/bars are part and parcel of the same economy. Le Baron Rouge, 1 rue Théophile-Roussel, 12th, and Le Rubis, 10 rue du Marché St-Honoré, 1st, Aux tonneaux des Halles, 28 rue Montorgeuil, 1st,  are well-known classics in the genre, very much “in their juice,” as the French would say of something that has authentically survived from another era.

The other kind of traditional wine bars are the non-descript café-bars, which might also serve cooked food during restaurant hours.  These are  places without airs, and you needn’t feel that you’re going slumming to go enjoy them since they exist throughout the city, including in the well-trodden districts of Paris, e.g. Les Pipos, 2 rue de l’Ecole Polytechnique, 5th arr., or Au Père Louis, 38 rue Monsieur le Prince, 6th. No “leather-bound [wine] menu” here, No need to know the difference between a château, a domaine and a clos or between the weather conditions in 2007 and 2008, but rather a choice between Burgundy, Bordeaux, Cote du Rhone, and maybe a Gaillac and a Sancerre. And if that’s too complicated then all you really need to know to get a drink is that rouge is red, blanc is white, and rosé is plonk.

Whether you care to frequent them or not, these wine bars are numerous and are the most unpretentious, basic wine joints around. The only “haughty gaze” in the old-fashion wine bar is that of American tourists peering in at the unisex Turkish toilet.

The breed of wine establishment that the author applauds actually raises rather than lowers the bar, so to speak, by being slightly more expensive and offering slightly better munchies. They are indeed enjoyable places—casual, modestly priced, convivial, as Mah says. Some have an edge of snobbery precisely because articles such as hers describe them as the latest greatest, but all are worthwhile if you find an open seat. Unfortunately, Mah’s use of them as exemplary of a “new breed” is simply untrue.

Even before the article appeared, Americans represented a large percentage of the clientele in some of the businesses recommended in the article. No problem with that; they’re my people too. That doesn’t mean that these bars are to be avoided as tourist traps; they are not. Trend or no trend, they are a natural choice for The New York Times Travel Section, written for an upper-middle-class sensibility that seeks safety in numbers. The editorial point of view of the typical Times travel piece about Paris (numerous as they are) seems to be based on the assumption that the last time the reader visited Paris was when she was staying with their parents at the Ritz. If true, that would explain the author’s traumatic experience with “the haughty gaze of the sommelier.”

The article quotes an American wine shop owner to voice the allegedly recent “cultural shift in France,” it plugs a wine bar and restaurant owned by another American, and it cites several bars largely frequented by Americans, leading me to wonder if what Mah has truly discovered is that a food or drink trend in Paris can’t exist without us. That would explain why the sudden appearance of several hole-in-the-wall oyster bars two or three years ago never reached trend status: there just isn’t a critical enough mass of Americans who like raw oysters.

I’m not knocking the pleasures of a glass or three and some tapas in any of the businesses mentioned in the article. Of the six, I occasionally stop at Ambassade de Bourgogne when in the Saint-Germain/Odéon Quarter when in the area for a tête-à-tête with a friend fond of Burgundy wines. (That bar is actually the odd man out in Mah’s list because less of a foodie scene and less convivial than the others.)

Still, Mah’s gratuitous mention of Le Verre Volé is where she shoots herself in the foot. Le Verre Volé opened in 2000, a full decade before the alleged 2010 start of Mah’s “new breed.” Le Verre Volé was once on the forefront of something (that something being a certain kind of organic wine snobbery, though its attitude has softened as that wine movement widened). A search on The New York Times’s website shows that Mah’s is the fifth Times article since 2009 to glowingly mention Le Verre Volé. I imagine that thousands of other journalists, bloggers and foodies have listed it as well. In fact, I’m one of them. I mentioned Le Verre Volé in the Canal Saint-Martin chapter of “Paris Revisited: The Guide for the Return Traveler,” my guidebook published in 2003. That doesn’t place me ahead of the pack so much as it shows Mah’s selection of “the city’s newest tables” to be both old news and the result of sloppy research. The bandwagon isn’t the only place to eat and drink well.

Mah is nevertheless correct, give or take a decade, that there’s been a movement in Paris toward easy-going bars and restaurants serving casual, talkative clients organic/natural wines, less industrial food, and products with a clearly stated provenance.

That movement stands on firm cultural and economic ground: cultural because Parisians are accustomed to seeking out appellation products and quality French food and drink in general (and furthermore because over the past two decades Parisians have become more comfortable drinking while standing up, though more beer than wine), economic because reducing or eliminating the kitchen is the key to a healthy bottom line in the food and drink business in a high-rent, high-labor-cost city such as this.

For all the appellation traceability promised by these wine bars, there isn’t much kitchen work involved in slicing charcuterie, cutting bread and wedges of organic cheese, and heating up some tapas. Artisanal products, though not fast food in the industrial sense, allow for significant margins when they require as much know-how and labor behind the counter as a Big Mac or a salted caramel mocha.

Thus, Paris saw the mainstreaming of sushi restaurants in the 1990s; the early 2000s saw the arrival of bars and restaurants serving organic and biodynamic wines (now broadened to include less regulated “natural” wines), which went hand in hand with an increasing emphasis on accompanying plates of artisanal cold cuts and cheeses and now other tapas (Mah’s “new breed”); the opening of the aforementioned oyster bars which coincided with the creation of appellation coffee shops, and most recently, first appearing in 2012 and coming into fruition in 2013, the creation of craft beer bars and craft beer shops. If there’s a new breed in Paris these days it has more to do with hops and malt than with grapes.

The true movement in the Paris wine bar scene over the past 12+ years has not been a downscaling towards relaxed wine bars but rather an upscaling since an increasing percentage of Parisians and tourists can easily affordable to pay for wine and tapas what used to be considered the price of a meal.

I don’t criticize this type of wine bar/restaurant. Au contraire. I go to such places with friends and I give food and may include them on my history-of-food-and-wine in Paris tours and in wine tours—typically not to bars Mah’s listed but to others (there are many) whose offerings and ownership fit in best with the evening’s themes. However, by presenting old news as new news and by failing to do simple research or, worse, by consciously scuttling any sense of history, culture or economics in order to appear trendy, the form of travel writing represented by the article treats readers as sheep-like lifestyle consumers rather than as curious travelers.

The New York Times Travel Section has long been the weakest link in a great brand (I subscribe) but it’s a weak link with significant influence. A list that appears in the Times will be clipped, printed, forwarded and used by numerous travelers for many months to come while also inspiring other journalists and bloggers to repeat the same misinformation. (Some of my own faithful readers are fond of unwittingly insulting me by forwarding me such articles along with a kindly “Do you know about these places?” or a benevolent, “You might want to share this.” Ouch!)

Last week, I had a fine dinner and an easily ordered carafe of wine with the editor of a newspaper whose territory in the New York region is occasionally covered by the New York Times. After I told of my annoyance with Ann Mah’s article, the editor remarked, “When we read an article in The New York Times about a subject we know well and realize how uninformed the journalist is it’s a wonder that we believe the rest of the paper.”

Of course, Ann Mah’s wine bar article is a fluffy travel piece, however misinformed, can lead some to happy travels. The paper’s hard news, of greater important for the national discourse, presumably receives more vetting. Still, if one of our finest news gathering organizations can be so far off about Paris, which is a 10-minute metro ride from the headquarters of the International New York Times and among the foreign destinations the mother paper most frequently covers, then maybe we should all be drinking more wine, wherever we can get it.

© 2013, Gary Lee Kraut

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Les Fines Gueules might be more appropriately considered a restaurant with a bar area up front than a wine bar, but I always approach it as a wine bar where I might eventually stay for dinner. I therefore like to stop by with friends relatively early in the Paris evening, say between 6:30 and 7:30, when there are few others around. We sit on the stools before the stylish curve of the zinc bar and, after giving some indication of our likes and dislikes, let ourselves be talked into whatever owner Arnaud Pradol or the friendly barman on duty thinks we should try among the great selection of organic wines. Accompanied with a platter, small or large, of organic cheeses and cold cuts, plans for dinner elsewhere typically get put off until eventually we order a main course. Yesterday that meant sea bass with risotto.

The photo below shows Arnaud Pradol discussing the Saint Joseph that we ordered. Notice behind him the beautiful red manual deli slicer from about 1950.

Les Fines Gueules, 43 rue Croix-des-Petits-Champs, 1st arrondissement. Near Place des Victoires, a 5 minute walk from metro Palais Royal or Bourse. Tel. 01 42 61 35 41.

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So it was with Fabien Nègre at Le Cotte-Roti, a year-old “bistronomic” restaurant near Marché d’Aligre in the 12th arrondissement. With his doctorate in philophy and post-graduate degree in economy, professional experience in radio and television, and expertise in gastronomy and cigars, Fabien Nègre is the kind of person whom you can ask how he got from there to here and then sit back and enjoy the ride.

Marché d’Aligre, the nearby food market, is notable for its own pairing of character and history. The neighborhood of a food market is traditionally prime territory for homey bistros and rustic wine bars. For the latter, Le Baron Rouge is now part of the city’s folklore, so if you’ve never been there you might push past the smokers outside and cozy up to a barrel for a glass of down-home red before going for the more refined stuff at Le Cotte-Roti two blocks away.

While traditional bistro and ethnic fare is found all around this market area, we’ve come to Le Cotte-Roti to examine a more contemporary development in Paris market (and non-market) neighborhoods, something that has in the past few years come to be called bistronomy.

Bistronomy is a combination of bistro and gastronomy. The term best applies to bistros where the chef continues to emphasize seasonal produce and nearly traditional recipes while displaying his knowledge and interest in more polished or sophisticated cuisine. These are indeed bistros since the additional elements required of a truly gastronomic restaurant—elegant services, fine tableware, more expensive produce, a section-by-section kitchen staff, a decorator—may be absent.

A number of famous (read: trademarked) mid-career and older chefs who have made their name in gastronomy now have an adjacent business of bistronomy, while opening such a restaurant is now also a way for chefs in their 30s to try to strut their stuff and take full control at an early stage in their career.

The term bistronomy is naturally a fad, a bit of a marketing ploy by which its owner or chef claims to be a cut above the ordinary bistro. Yet beyond the easy way the word rolls off the tongue lies the sensible notion that traditional French cuisine evolves and that gastronomy is just another of saying a good meal. Add to that the notion that a hungry traveler can have a relaxed, well-conceived meal in an unpretentious setting at an inviting price.

Le Cotte-Roti is a classic example. It is an open 30-seat space that’s pleasant enough without having any particular charm. Service is kind if direct. The chef sometimes gives a hand in the dining room. A three-course meal is currently an honest 30€ without supplements. One comes for the food.

Thus a tasty October lunch with Fabien of hare terrine containing bits of foie gras; braised veal tournedos with stewed mushrooms; a fruity-cum-earthy bottle of Faugères, a Syrah-Mouevèdre-and-then-some blend from the Languedoc region.

Re-thus a notable November dinner with Jean-François (who not only allowed me to share in the conversation but also in his meal) of oeuf mollet frit, a fried soft-boiled egg on a pesto-lined “dipping” bread; a mi-cuit foie gras terrine; a succulent scallop and potato purée dish; a sea bream (dorade/daurade) on a bed of salsify heightened with white truffle oil; poached quince with a triangle of French toast; poached pear on a creamy rice putting laced with caramel. Wine: Saint Joseph 2006, a Syrah from the northern portion of the Rhone Valley.

All these are good examples of bistronomy’s enhanced bistro fare and of someone giving it his best effort in the kitchen. Regarding those efforts, the foie gras lacked umph (and curiously of toast), an indication that one can’t expect the chef in a two-man kitchen to do everything well.

Nicolas Michel, 33, owner-chef of Le Cotte Roti, is in many ways the classic example of the type of culinary beginnings and ambition that have led to such praisable, acceptably-priced bistronomy. His C.V., punctuated by the names of notable restaurants, also serves as a language lesson for anyone looking to learn the terms for kitchen help in French: stagiaire (trainee/intern), divers extras en cuisine (various on-call jobs, i.e. Hey, Nick, I need someone to help out Saturday night, are you free?); 1er commis de cuisine (basically the cook helper); demi chef de partie (somewhere between a commis and a section head): chef de partie (section head);chef de cuisine (head chef); second de cuisine (sous chef); chef cuisinier (big boss, accompanied here by the title propiétare-gérant/owner-manager)

Cotte-Roti is a play on words involving the name of the street (rue de Cotte) and the Nicolas Michel’s reverence to Côte Rôtie, the Rhone Valley appellation that has made a name—and a price—for itself over the past decade. Mr. Michel, having lived in the Côte Rôtie area for two years, is a big fan of these wines. Sold here at 80-90€ per bottle, they can overwhelm the price of the meal. That’s not a judgment, just an observation. Indeed, despite the moderate price of bistronomic meals such as served here, bistronomy does assume a clientele capable of spending more and of aiming high when in the mood or at the appropriate occasion. Most wines here are priced in the 30-45€ range on a list that sits broadly in Côtes du Rhone, therefore mostly Syrah, territory, while occasionally spilling north to Beaujolais, Burgundy and the Loire, and west to Languedoc as during my lunch with Fabien Nègre.

As for what Fabien was telling me during this time, there’s no need for me to repeat it here. You’ll soon be able to sit back and enjoy his affable, wide-ranging conversation yourself by reading his series of portraits of some of Paris’s most celebrated chefs to appear on France Revisited beginning with his portrait of Guy Martin of Le Grand Véfour in February 2009.

Le Cotte-Roti, 1 rue de Cotte, 12^th arrondissement. Near Marché d’Aligre. Tel. 01 43 45 06 37. Metro Ledru Rollin. Closed Sun., Mon., Dec. 25-Jan. 1, three weeks in Aug.

Le Baron Rouge, 1 rue Théophile Roussel, 12^th arrondissement. Near Marché d’Aligre. Tel. 01 43 43 14 32. Metro Ledru Rollin. Closed Mon.

© 2008, Gary Lee Kraut

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The editor or guest writers or contributors to France Revisited have personally tested, and in many cases retested, the establishments described here.

The personal nature of these choices will be clear to you as you read them. Along with the table, the dishes, the wine, the service, the atmosphere and the decor, what leads us to appreciate a place or dish or drink is the adventure and the experience of eating and drinking in various setting with various people, and sometimes alone.

Wherever we eat, it’s the people at your table who make or break the meal. Good company, even if that company is yourself, will save a bad meal, but a good meal rarely makes up for bad company—though good wine helps. That in mind, you will encounter here a smorgasbord of food-friendly co-testers in these reviews, from faithful sidekicks to notable professionals to curious travelers.

Some of these restaurant writings may even read as interviews as much as reviews—call them restaurant intereviews.

There are no “must eats” on the Paris restaurant scene or in the various regions of France, only wise, personal selections. The wise hungry traveler knows that there’s a time to spend more for quality and a time to spend less for character, a time when you want to luxuriate in the view from the high road and a time to sit down to hearty tradition, a time to go regional and a time to go foreign, a time for a brasserie and a time for a café, a time to make reservations and a time to carry bread and cheese to the park.

If you want what are generally considered the elite of French restaurants you need only head for the stars in the Michelin Red Guides, a major influence of the reputation of restaurants of haute cuisine in France. We love haute cuisine with the right company, on the right expense account. We highly recommend the experience and the luxuriance. However, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment if you choose a restaurant by its ratings or polling results, whatever guide you may be consulting.

More than any specific restaurants, it’s variety that we recommend. It isn’t where you should be eating in Paris that counts, but where you will find your personal blend of enjoyment and gratification, perhaps with a touch of adventure and discovery.

A sophisticated palate is a nice arm to have in your traveling arsenal, but eating out in France shouldn’t be approached as an intellectual exercise or some form of X-Game in which only the strongest stomachs survive. Instead, this adventure calls for exploring the rich variety of eating experiences available in France (and this is particularly true of Paris): outdoor markets, cafés, bistros, brasseries, cuisine bourgeoise (serving polished classics), regional cuisine, gastronomic restaurants, foreign restaurants, wine bistros, and wine bars. You’ll find that variety—and variety within that variety—among these reviews and intereviews.

We am a hopeful, optimistic reviewers. We hope that every restaurant we test will excite us in some way, that we can recommend it as a perfect place for romance, family, friends, celebration, negotiation, onion soup, duck, fish, apple pie, etc. So we enter each restaurant wanting to believe the promise that led us there in the first place—its situation, its menu, its décor, its name, an advertisement, my own previous meals there, suggestions of friends, acquaintances, strangers, chefs, restaurateurs or fellow restaurant writers. By the time we leave we want to feel that we’ve discovered (or rediscovered) something, even if what we’ve just (re)discovered has been known and written about for years.

Of course, that isn’t always the case, so don’t expect rave comments about every dish and drink mentioned here.

Add to these reviews and writings your companion(s) for the meals, your taste and mood at the time, and the hazards of dining out, and you come away with your own restaurant adventures in France.

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