Our first night in Paris was a whirlwind. Roy was finding his way past a million cars to the 9th arrondissement where we dropped off our luggages at our hotel and ran to our dinner reservation at Bellanger. We arrived feeling flustered and was led into the brasserie which looked like an intimate bar of fashionable people drinking wine to the tunes of a Saint Laurent playlist. Our waiter was a tall, charming man who served us a delicious tray of saucisse, grilled flank steak and leeks with mustard vinaigrette. The entire time, waiters who looked like they had just finished shooting a Jacquemus ad were bringing food to the tables. When it was time for dessert, we ordered the Paris Brest. Our waiter flashed us the most charming smile and said approvingly, “Best dessert ever guys.”

Everything feels like a blur now but I can still remember this beautiful night in Paris. 

PARISIAN CLASSICS

Paris is a place of old cuisine. Places like Bistrot Paul Bert have stood the test of time, so old that even the French get preferential tables and classics like sole meuniere and steak au poivre are still served. In the 10th arrondissement, the creperie La Droguerie makes the most traditional of French crepe – ham, cheese and egg.

We were looking for a very old French dish – frog legs à la persillade – when we found Roger La Grenouille in the 11th arrondissement. Frog legs, an old world classic, have become a rarity even in the South of France. We came for the things that the French do best: roasted bone marrow, duck confit, tarte tartin and of course, frog legs. During dinner, an old American couple came in with rainwater trailing their umbrellas. They were not here for dinner, just to return a framed drawing to the restaurant. There was a commotion and then a bottle of champagne was popped. They were here during the early days of the restaurant, some thirty years ago, when everyone was still wearing frog hats. They had gotten the artwork then and wanted to return it now. “It was a wild time,” they told us as they sipped from their glasses. “Champagne for you too!” A man from the restaurant, whom we could only presume was an important person in the restaurant’s legacy, insisted. As we drank our champagne, we saw that his eyes were glistening with tears. It was a touching moment for a restaurant to be so fondly remembered for such a long time. 

THE FRENCH CHICKEN 

The French chicken is an undeniable classic. We had ours at Brasserie Martin. Roy loves the thigh while I prefer the breast. It’s an ongoing debate but I always argue that when done right, the breast will be moist and tender. To each their own. I love chicken roasted the simple way. The French way. Only salt and pepper. Maybe a little lemon or herbs but nothing more. The rest is technique. The timing, the temperature, the rotisserie. This is something I happily leave to the professionals while I sit back and wait, with a glass in hand, for the plate to arrive. At the end of it, I can truly say that the no one does a roast chicken better than the French. 

SHOPPING

We started our day with a lunch of escargots, duck confit, beef bourguignon and french toast at Le Petit Bouillon Pharamond. It was a long queue but the waiter gave us a table outside where thin well-dressed ladies with cigarettes preside. The day was supposed to be just about food. Parisian food. But Paris was also fashion. After a few shirts at Café Coton (Roy of course), we shopped for cookware at E. Dehillerin and chocolates at François Pralus. Then came the time for our pre-dinner snack – a coffee, croissant and kouign-amann at Bo & Mie. 

PAIN D’ANTOINE

I never thought I could like something more than a pain au chocolat in Paris. It was a simple pastry at Farine & O that resembles a pain au chocolat. It was a pain d’antoine – orange zest in the flaky pastry and strips of hard chocolate on the outside. Chefs of Paris do not only replicate recipes of a hundred years ago. They change. They innovate. They are France’s capital. Chocolate and orange are a match made in heaven. 

BRASSERIE BELLANGER

A few days later, we find ourselves back at Bellanger. I’m having the cabbage roll and Roy, the croque madame. He’s loyal to the madame, not the monsieur – something about the egg, he says, makes all the difference. Bellanger is part of a family of restaurants that call themselves La Nouvelle Garde. The new guard. They take old, beloved classics and dress them up just a little. Marrow gratin on oysters. French blood sausage crisped and dipped in applesauce. Caviar on potato dauphine. All served on polished porcelain or silverware. This is Paris at its best – always in style, never afraid to try something new.