I was pleased at their sight. Standing beneath my umbrella I counted eight, no, ten, no, twelve, or more rabbits scattered along the lawn and I felt contemplative as I watched them, though contemplative of what I cannot say. After a minute I heard voices behind me and looked back as two military officers walked by, and they looked at me, a man beneath an umbrella on the edge of the lawn as the museum was closing, and while one offered slightly more than a half-smile to say, “Yes, there are rabbits here,” the other offered slightly less than a half-smile to say, “Don’t you dare step onto that lawn.” I admit that I wanted to despite the little don’t-walk-on-the-grass sign at my foot, but not given to such transgression I stood there on the edge of the lawn, contemplating I don’t know what, as several rabbits looked over to me as though to say “Are you coming or not, because if you are we’re going to run away and if you aren’t we have to keep an eye on you, so make up your mind,” though my mind wasn’t indecisive at that moment, merely pleased, at peace, contemplative and somewhat lonesome for the touch of fur, unless that latter was my heart.

Yes, I did want to touch the rabbits, but I was nevertheless deeply satisfied just standing there, where I felt privy to a communion with nature in Paris on a grey, drizzly day, and perhaps it was that that I was contemplating on the edge of the rabbits’ lawn, that nature, that communion, that satisfaction, that peace, though contemplating may not be the right word for it since I felt, above all, a deep, still satisfaction. I was there, and so were the rabbits. And as though to compare my connection with the wild rabbits with my connection with the history of the military complex they inhabited, I went inside the courtyard of the Invalides, of the Army Museum, and took in the view of its vast orderly space, where Napoleon stood in the shadow on the balcony at the far end and where the gilt dome of Saint Louis beneath which he lay rose beyond, and while I still had in mind the lush green lawn and the hearty grey-brown rabbits, I also now had in mind the expansive and restrained emotion of the courtyard of the Invalides, its pride, its ambitions, its history and ceremonies (Dreyfus, Afghanistan, Saint Barbe), its grandeur.

Between the rabbits and the courtyard, I’d been in the Invalides complex for less than 10 minutes and might have gone home then but I first wanted to use its rest room since I will sometimes decide that I’m going home then not arrive for several hours, either because that’s the way I am or because that’s the way great cities are. There were rest rooms, I knew, near the gift shop, but the museum had closed and I wasn’t sure to get in, but when, after crossing the courtyard, I asked the guard by the entrance to that portion of the building if the rest rooms were still open, he said “Go ahead, downstairs” with a surprising lack of obstruction and I realized that he thought I was on the premises for an event rather than as a straggling museum-goer. Indeed, when I came up the stairs from the rest room the guard pointed to my right, so I followed the direction of his finger and came upon a small crowd of well-dressed men and women entering a hallway outside of which a sign indicated an exhibition entitled Eisenhower – de Gaulle Alliance and Friendship in War and Peace.

A woman with a guest list stood by a desk by the entrance and asked my name, which I gave, and as I did I noticed someone waving in my direction from a few yards down the hallway, and even though he wasn’t waving to me, I waved back, leading the woman to not look at the guest list but rather to say “Oh, OK, I see, welcome” to which I replied “Thanks,” and entered the hallway gathering. I now felt obliged to walk up to the fellow who waved. He was a slight man with kind droopy eyes wearing a uniform the color of wet sand whom I recognized as General Alexandre d’Andoque de Sériège, director of the Army Museum. I introduced myself while shaking his small, warm hand and he said “Thanks for coming.” “My pleasure,” I said, leaving him to greet the person he had actually waved to, and as I turned I nearly bumped into General Christian Baptiste, former director of the Army Museum, wearing plain clothes, nice plain clothes, a suit actually. “Good evening, my general,” I said, and we shook a firm shake.

I looked around at the gathering crowd then down at my blue polo shirt and black pants and brown pleather jacket, clothes I hadn’t given much thought to when leaving home to visit the rabbits, and realized that I was conspicuously the only person present without a uniform, a suit, a skirt or a dress, yet I’d just shaken hands with two generals I’d recognized, so perhaps I did belong. In any case I played it cool and scholarly and began to read the panels of the Eisenhower-de Gaulle exhibition in the long corridor leading to the Museum of the Order of the Liberation. Though I knew a few things about Dwight Eisenhower and Charles de Gaulle and about their relationship concerning plans for D-Day and the Battle of Normandy and the Liberation of Paris, I hadn’t previously thought much about the parallels in their lives: they were born six weeks apart to religious and patriotic families; both were frustrated by their distance from the front during the First World War; both wrote texts promoting the importance and development of tank divisions at a time when both chomped at the bit of their hierarchy; both became generals; each approached the other warily while developing mutual respect after their first encounter in Algiers when de Gaulle began to form the French Committee of National Liberation (Comité Français de Libération Nationale) and sought American recognition.

I read some of the panels in English and others in French, depending on whether I could stand unobstructed closer to the left or the right, and, while the texts appeared to be equal in content, when I read in English I saw de Gaulle as a pompous Frenchman trying to represent in exile a defeated nation and who wanted to be considered its savior whereas Eisenhower was clearly the man of the moment, whereas when I read in French I appreciated de Gaulle’s ambition, his desire to exert Free French control so as to quickly return France to the role of a nation among nations, making him, too, a man of the moment.

I stopped reading when General Alexandre d’Andoque de Sériège, as the museum’s director, walked up to the small podium set up toward the end of the hallway in front of the flags of France, Europe and the United States and began welcoming distinguished guests—a government official, French generals, American military attachés, foundation presidents—who in protocolar order went up to the podium to speak about French-American bonds, the Eisenhower-de Gaulle bond, D-Day and its 75th anniversary. When last the government official spoke she told of a man named Jacques Lewis, a military liaison who was the rare Frenchman to land on Utah Beach, and of his various deeds in favor of French-American military relations and the cause of victory. She said that he was now 100 years old and lived at the Invalides, and I realized that he was present though I couldn’t see him because I was five yards back and we were all standing while he must have been seated. A certificate given to him by the United States Army Europe was read in English and translated in French, and after the applause died down and General d’Andoque de Sériège invited the assembly to a reception, I made my way to the side of the podium until I stood before a handsome, well-dress, decorated man in a wheelchair, Jacques Lewis, who wore the Legion of Honor and other medals and had on his lap a large framed “certificate of appreciation.”

While Mr. Lewis looked to someone to his left I leaned forward to read to myself the certificate whose text I only half heard when it was twice read aloud about the United States Army Europe recognizing Major Jacques Lewis for his contributions on Utah Beach on 6 June 1945 as a liaison officer with the 2d Armored Division, at the start of a long march through France, and, surprised to read 1945 instead of 1944, I bent closer to be sure that I’d read it right, and when I looked up I again I was nose to nose with Mr. Lewis who offered a smile that said “I’m honored, moved, but overwhelmed, so many people fawning over me, I’m tired” and I replied with a smile that said “I came looking for rabbits and don’t really belong here be here but I’ve been to Utah Beach dozens of times and given dozens of lectures about touring Normandy and you’re 100 years old and landed on Utah Beach(even though your certificate mentions 1945) and are now a resident of the Invalides, meaning that you’re at once a living monument to Allied victory and heir to nearly 350 years of pensionnaires at the Invalides, so you represent the entire military history of a place that is now also home to wild rabbits, and since I know all this then I do belong here and would like to shake your hand,” and I did, a large, gentle, human hand that I then covered with my other hand as though to keep it warm.

When finally I let go and straightened up a woman reached her arm out to hand me her phone and asked if I’d take her picture with Mr. Lewis, and I saw from her gracious height and steady coif and the way in which she put her hand gently on the veteran’s shoulder and looked for him to look to her (or to me, the cameraman) that she must be somebody, and as I was backing up to take the picture she was briefly distracted by someone who called out “Mrs. Eisenhower, when you have a moment…” and she responded “Just a moment” and I realized that I was taking the picture of Ike’s granddaughter, Susan Eisenhower, so after taking a few shots and after I handed back her phone and she said “Thank you” I asked if she would be kind enough to allow me to take her and Mr. Lewis with my own camera, and she obliged. “Thank you, Mrs. Eisenhower,” I said. “You must have had a busy week with all these ceremonies,” to which she responded, “Exhausting,” and we then talked briefly about the series of ceremonies and events (75th anniversary of D-Day, 50th anniversary of her grandfather’s death, etc.) that she’d been to and that I hadn’t, other than this, which anyway covered the essential. I seemed to remember reading someplace that she now lived in Europe and asked her as much, to which she replied “No, I live in Washington, D.C.,” to which I said, “I must be confusing you with someone else’s granddaughter,” and without skipping a beat she says, “Helen Patton,” to which I said, “Sorry about that,” and we both laughed as though it were an inside joke, though many people know that the two are as unalike as, well, Eisenhower and Patton. A woman then called out “Susan” and Mrs. Eisenhower said to me, “Excuse me” and I shook her hand, which was sincere and long and warm if not as fuzzy as a rabbit’s head.

As people walked away I finished reading the panels of the exhibition—Eisenhower and de Gaulle both became presidents; they had their differences but maintained mutual respect, they visited to each other; Mamie and Yvonne died one week apart; Charles and Ike died 18 months apart—then slowly followed this beau monde of generals and military attachés and foundation presidents and Mrs. Eisenhower into one of the Invalides’s refectory/reception rooms, where, after a glass of white wine and several canapés, I asked a woman with a star-spangled scarf who was momentarily standing alone if she could point out to me the president of The First Alliance Foundation, which was a partner in the exhibition and which I’d never heard of, and she could not only point out Carole Brookins, the foundation’s founder and chairman, but also Dorothea de la Houssaye, founder and director of The Normandy Institute, another recent organization, along with many of the French generals and American military attachés present, and when I told her that I was impressed that she knew everyone she said, “Don’t be, that’s what generals’ wives do in Washington.”

The French generals and American military attachés and foundation presidents were as numerous as rabbits on the lawn, yet more approachable I found as I shook their hands and talked their talk, and even if their palms weren’t fleecy they were genuinely warm and frank.

At the first hint of the gathering breaking up I took my jacket and umbrella from the rack and left.

The courtyard was quiet except for the sound of a gentle rain.

The lawns were empty, as the rabbits had gone into their burrows, yet I stopped there for a moment, beneath my umbrella, to silently thank them for my good fortune.

© 2019, Gary Lee Kraut

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Like any good doctor, veterinarian Dr. Jean-Francois Quinton is chronically late for dinner appointments.

He called as he was leaving his thriving group clinic in the 12th arrondissement to say that he’d been delayed by a canary, and as he walked to the metro he told me the heart-rending story of a 10-year-old boy and his mother and a bird wilting in the doctor’s hands. It had otherwise been a good day, with only one death (“a rat, but put to sleep”) and the usual parade of rabbits, ferrets, and chinchillas.

Dr. Quinton is a specialist in exotic pets, particularly small mammals and birds. I’d enlisted him to test with me the restaurant Monsieur Lapin (meaning Mister Rabbit) for the simple reason that both he and the chef are highly skilled specialists working with rabbits. The encounter of Doctor Rabbit and Monsieur Lapin.

Should any of Dr. Quinton’s patients be reading this, I note that he truly does care deeply for the health and longevity of rabbits. Furthermore, he feels a great affinity to rabbit owners since, like him, they tend to be anxious and sensitive people.

Your Dr. Quinton was in fact initially hesitant about accompanying me to test a restaurant specialized in rabbit. But his hesitation sounded as disingenuous as a gynecologist refusing to enter a singles bar. And he so he accepted.

As to Monsieur Lapin’s chef and owner Franck Enée, he has nothing personal against rabbits either. His son actually owns a pet rabbit, had it even before his father took over Monsieur Lapin in 2005. The rabbit once escaped from the apartment upstairs and ran through the restaurant during mealtime—but that’s another story.

Despite his restaurant’s name, Mr. Enée should not be pigeonholed as a rabbit chef. In fact, he halfheartedly took on the moniker Monsieur Lapin when he purchased this restaurant. It was the previous owner who had been completely immersed in rabbit dishes, whereas Mr. Enéehe’s admits to a preference for working with fish, perhaps due to his Norman origins. Yet once he decided to leave the restaurant’s name untouched he developed a fondness for preparing rabbit as well.

The menu reveals the wide scope of his polished talents and quality provisions—baked scallops, grilled tuna, monkfish, brill; roast lamb, sweetbreads and foie gras, roast pigeon. Appetizing words on a menu can be illusory, but to hear Mr. Enée’s enthusiasm (in a subsequent interview) in describing his various preparations is to hear the passion he has for his craft. And to taste them is to share that passion.

Dr. Quinton and I nevertheless feared upon entering Monsieur Lapin that we were in for a stiff, inexpressive evening. Though the seating for 40-45 diners is comfortable and well-spaced the atmosphere initially struck us as overly mannered; while being led to our table we passed polite groupings of diners sporting ageless hair styles and well-pressed clothes, whereas Dr. Quinton had the marks of a man who has recently watched a rat and a canary die and I, well, I’m a bald writer.

Yet the welcome was warm and the décor has quirkiness going for it due to the contrast between the cantankerous (temporary) exhibit of artwork and the rabbit tchotchkes niched here and there around the dining room.

We could only take as a good sign the amiable politesse of Corinne Enée (whom it would be boorish to think of as Madame Lapin but difficult to resist) and her dining room staff.

But nothing reassures more than a well-prepared appetizer. For the purposes of this review Dr. Quinton and I both selected lapin for the main course. In choosing an appetizer I’d elected to stay with the theme of small animals with strong hind legs and so ordered what turned out to be among the tastiest, freshest frog’s legs I’ve ever had, sautéed with a mix of sate spices. Dr. Quinton’s scallops marinated in lime and heightened with herring caviar gave rise to an I-can-finally-relax sigh and the comment, “Good choice!,” referring to either the scallops or the restaurant, possibly both.

Restaurant reviewers pick specific restaurants to write about for many reasons, the main one being because someone else has, but having chosen to have dinner with Dr. Quinton at Monsieur Lapin for its name alone the restaurant had the added feel of discovery, a feeling that only increased as the evening progressed.

It isn’t solely Dr. Quinton’s occupation that brought me to invite him to co-test the rabbit, for Dr. Quinton grew up in hospitality business. He is originally from Dinan, Brittany, where his parents ran a hotel and restaurant cheffed by his late father Georges Quinton, who earned and maintained a Michelin star for about twenty years beginning in the early 1960s.

The son, born in 1958, dates his interest in veterinary medicine to his childhood and tells about two watershed moments of his budding curiosity. One occurred at the age of eight when he attempted to operate a pet hamster that had been mortally wounded by a cagemate, only to put the animal to definitive rest with excessive ether.

The other occurred when even younger when he would visit his father’s kitchen and watch him open rabbits and empty chickens. He recalls asking his father what various innards were and how they functioned and his frustration at having his father answer, “It doesn’t matter how they function, I’m going to show you how the animal’s cooked!”

By the time he was in his early teens he was caring for up to 26 rabbits (without attempting another operation) and various birds.

As a veterinarian in Paris, however, Dr. Quinton largely treated cats and dogs until a renewed passion for less familiar pets led to his professional readjustment in the late 1990s.

The turning point came in 1995 when the clinic he was then working for became a top seller of a brand of cat and dog food. As a prize the brand of nibbles paid his way to a veterinary convention in Orlando, FL. Since he’d already visited Disneyworld and environs while vacationing there only six months prior, he actually went to some of the lectures at the convention, including talks on the treatment of rabbits and ferrets.

While rabbits and ferrets were then largely considered as barnyard animals in cosmopolitan areas of Europe, Dr. Quinton discovered that some American veterinarians were busy treating them as household pets and that Americans were willing to pay significant medical bills to keep them healthy and at home. Above all, Dr. Quinton rediscovered in Orlando the passion and intellectual pleasure of learning about the animals of his childhood.

Back in Paris he then continued to study up on those and other small mammals, and a year later he set off on a two-month internship in Westchester, IL, outside Chicago, to learn more about the field from Drs. Susan Brown and Richard Nye, American pioneers in creating a clinic specialized in exotic pets.

In 1997 he began teaching and consulting about birds and small mammals at the Ecole Nationale Veterinaire at Maison-Alfort, an eastern suburb of Paris. The turn of the millennium then saw a boom in such pets in France. In French these pets go by the acronym NAC, nouveaux animaux de compagnie, indicating new or modern pets.

Dr. Quinton has since published two books (a reference guide to small mammals for fellow veterinarians and a popular guide to carrying for pet rabbits) and written many articles on the subject. He is now an occasional guest on a morning television talk show.

In 2007 he joined three other veterinarians in opening a new clinic, where he is fully devoted to NACs.

As we were finishing our brief interview, two plates of lapin arrived before us. As noted earlier, one should in no way feel limited to choosing rabbit as a main course though for the purposes of this review Dr. Quinton and I both did.

In the hands of an inexperienced chef rabbit tends to be a dry meat that’s dolled up with a chasseur or mustard sauce. But Mr. Enée’s preparations bring out more succulent flavors.

While the croustillant de lapin with dried fruit and wild mushrooms, served with unctuous mashed potatoes, is a delight for the knowledgeable rabbit man (Dr. Quinton), the less experienced rabbit eater looking to taste a range of rabbit possibilities (me) is well-advised to choose the trilogie de lapin à la niçoise.

The trilogy is made up of saddle (râble) wrapped around a preparation of kidney and sage, a delicate thigh (cuisse) spiked with rosemary, and roasted rack (carré) highlighted with rabbit stock and balsamic vinegar, accompanied by mini-vegetables and those unctuous mashed potatoes.

Come dessert, the warm praline soufflé, the Caribbean chocolate with caramelized hazelnuts and mango sorbet, and other enhanced classics sustain the uninterrupted quality of the meal.

The complete menu takes the form of a 45€ three-course fixed-price meal (with several supplements possible), which is quite reasonable for the quality of the cuisine and level of service, making Monsieur Lapin well worth the venture into the lesser-known reaches of the 14th arrondissement, behind the Montparnasse Cemetery and the Montparnasse Tower.

Since you’re unlikely to be visiting Paris with your pet chinchilla or ferret, I have little reason to recommend Dr. Quinton’s services to you. So I will simply recommend a meal at Monsieur Lapin, a most honorable, cordial, and delicious foray into rabbit and much more.

Monsieur Lapin – Chez Franck Enée

11 rue Raymond Losserand
75014 Paris
Metro Pernety or Gaité
Tel. 01 43 20 21 39

Closed Mon and lunch on Sat. Also closed in August.

© 2008, Gary Lee Kraut

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