Bistro Bummer
Always on the lookout for classic French bistros, a friend and I recently stopped at Au Petit Riche. Iโd eaten there before and found the food decent, but I remember the company a little better than the food. I was dazzled by the stunning interior and the conversation, which should have been a tip off since I rarely forget anything I eat thatโs good.
Many Americans have become more astute about dining and want to know where the ingredients are from, how they are handled, what part of the animal theyโre getting. Itโs part of the farmerโs market movement, as well as a number of folks striving to eat locally or at least show some concern for where and how their foodstuffs are raised.
And thereโs also the do-it-yourself movement, where everything from upstart ice cream shops are opening, and of course the bean-to-bar movement, where every step of the process is carefully tended to. In general, the French donโt ask those questions because France has always been a deeply agricultural country, with close ties to their terroir. When dining with friends from the states in Paris, I know theyโd be disappointed to find frozen green beans with their steak, or boiled white rice heaped on a salade Niรงoise. So I am always careful to steer them away from some of the classic bistros on their lists, ones they may have eaten at a decade ago, or that a friend recommended.
I was recently asked about the difference between American and French ideas of service and I said that the standards are different and generally that in France, the idea of good or bad service is quite different from what we use to gauge service in the states. I chuckle when I read reviews that note things like โOur water glasses werenโt refilled promptlyโ or โThe table next to ours got their food a minute before we did, even though we ordered first.โ
In France, the waiter is there to serve you, not be your best friend or coddle to your every need. Itโs a cultural difference and Clotilde Dusoulier hit it on the head when she says in her book, Clotildeโs Edible Adventures in Paris, โโฆthe French like to be of service to their customers, but not at their service.โ
People, invariably the ones who donโt live here, laugh when you mention bad restaurant service, and say, โOh, thatโs just so French!โ But it isnโt. Real French restaurant service is professional. Even in a humble cafรฉ that serves croque monsieur, where one waiter covers the whole dining room, thereโs a difference between rude and harried. I donโt expect, nor want, the waiter to come racing over the refill my water glassโif I want something, Iโm capable of asking, and donโt need them โchecking in to see how Iโm doing with thatโ with me between each and every mouthful.
I love the interior of Au Petit Riche, which is slavishly classical down to the metal bar you step up to when you enter and the generous dusting of baguette crumbs which cover the waiterโs station.
When we sat down for lunch, the waitress handed us the menus and the wine list, and immediately asked us what we wanted to order. My backside had barely landed in the seat, literally, and faced with a three-page menu, I said that weโd like a few minutes to peruse it.
After she took our order, she then asked, โAnd what would you like to drink?โ As my lips just began to move to form the words with our wine selection, she turned and walked away before I could respond.
When she came back a few minutes later, I asked โWhy did you ask me a question, then not wait for the response?โ She said, โI thought you might want a few minutes to make up your mind.โ
At that point, I should have thanked her for her time and left. (Like other customers did when I was eating at Le Repaire de Cartouche.) But having eaten at Au Petit Riche once before, and being familiar with the quirks of French serviceโand how you sometimes need to wait it out win them over, we stayed.
Our first courses were really good; my friend ordered the foie gras, which was generous and the two slabs were served with nice, warm toast. The shriveled up poire tapรฉe alongside was a poached fig, or so insisted my friend, since it was somewhat unrecognizable. My ลufs cocotte was served with a bright-green emulsion of fresh herbs and tiny points of asparagus which was so good, I scraped the warm little bowl of dreamy poached eggs clean.
Anticipating our main courses, when they brought them over, it was as if the first kitchen crew had taken a break and another one stepped in to send out the main courses. My companionโs filet of bar (bass) was fine, but the รฉtuveรฉ of fennel, piled up next to it, was a drab gray-green mound of vegetation that was so uninviting that she ate one tiny piece, made a face, and pushed the rest away.
With fresh fennel abundant and in season at every market in Paris, why not serve a simple tangle of it quickly tossed with a bit of olive oil and lemon juice, and perhaps some chopped anchovy? Any competent restaurant cook could put that together in less than thirty seconds. I find the lack of concern and care disrespectful to French cuisine.
(And speaking of fresh, seasonal food, weโre in the middle of fresh peach season here and Romain was served a canned peach for dessert the other day.)
My Suprรชme de poulet farci aux trompettes was a rolled up chicken breast that was pitch white and without flavor; perhaps it had been previously frozen.* The trompettes flecked in the stuffing were black trumpet mushrooms, which I was convinced were there for appearance and they had even less flavor than the chicken. A handful of herbs, or something else with flavor, wouldโve been preferable for a kitchen on a budget. The chicken was served cut on the bias and upended, the sauce underneath was simply unseasoned liquid tomato sauce; a pre-prepared puddle slathered onto the plate.
On a plus note, the wine, a brisk Vouvray was served in a lovely round carafe packed in a seau of ice. It was a nice touch and an example of what the French do best in terms of proper service, which you can find even in a humblest establishments. (It was served not by our waitress, but by another server.)
One of the great things about Paris are the gorgeous old bistros and brasseries that serve hearty traditional French fare. Places like Chartier, Chez Dumonet, and A la Petite Chaise manage to serve respectable French fare and do it well, each at various price points.
People say that French food is dying, or is already dead, and point to Spain and Italy as beacons of inventiveness and freshness. With McDonaldโs and Subway taking over France (folks often blame American imperialism for the spread of these places, and itโs easy to implicate the companies for planting their feet in France, but they wouldnโt be as wildly successful as they are if there werenโt lines of locals streaming out the door), I sadly wonder how if any real, honest bistros will be left in Paris in the next few years.
As Alec Lobrano says in his book Hungry for Paris: โโฆthe mediocrity of the brasseriesโ food has become unfrequentable. The problem was that behind the scenes, it was accountants, not cooks, who edited the menus andโฆenthusiastically embraced almost every industrial shortcut devised by Franceโs booming food service industry, notable mass-produced sauces, soups, salads, frites, and desserts.โ
Even Patricia Wells, an indefatigable defender of French cuisine has given up, said in a recent interview: โI have given up on brasseries where the food is always disappointingโฆโ
For the best French fare, I hit the wine bars, preferring to enjoy the wonderful charcuterie and cheeses of France, still made with care by the various producers in France whose depth of flavor make it clear and obvious that theyโre proud of what they do. And itโs interesting sipping glasses of natural wines, which are exciting not always because of their flavor, but because theyโre examples of the younger French generation attempting to use less processed foods and experiment with various other ways making wine. True, some of them arenโt great, but theyโre honest and each glass I try is a little bit of a challenge to what I think wine should be like.
Le Verre Volรฉ, Le Baron Rouge, La Garde Robe, and Tombe de Ciel are some that I frequent often. The service is always friendly, the food is simple, and wine orders are always taken, happily.
Related Links
Time is running out for Franceโs faltering bistros (The Guardian)
Traditional French cafรฉs innovate to survive (Expatica)
The French Big Mac Attack (Psychology Today)
Au Revoir to All That: Food, Wine, and the End of France (Amazon)
Is it possible to have bad food in France? (Just Hungry)
Incorrect: Le Fooding (Barbra Austin)
How McDonaldโs Conquered France (Salon)
French food fights back (Wall Street Journal)
Le Fooding: The French challenge to haute cuisine (The New Yorker)
*In Italy, when restaurants serve frozen foods, they note which ones at the bottom of the menus. Several readers noted that that is the law in Italy, and although I have anything against certain frozen foods, whenever I saw that, I though it was nice of them to notify guests so they could decide for themselves before ordering.
