A well known tip for eating very well in Paris, at the cool raved-about places, is to check out those places at the lunch hour. This does not mean that you do not have to reserve. You do. It just means (1) you have a really good chance of actually getting in; and (2) it will be less expensive than the evening menu.
And so it was that I opted for le 6 Paul Bert with foodie/wine guru lawyer friend Brendan. We had the optimal reservation time of 13h00. Noon or even noon-thirty is too early for the French appetite. I arrived just in time after a 20-minute walk from my dodgier part of the 11eme to this lovely little corner of the 11eme where two "Paul Bert" restaurants are located on the rue Paul Bert. One, the Bistrot Paul Bert I thought would be just too too much for lunch. I picked the 6 Paul Bert, which all my favorite respected Paris food bloggers were really gaga over.
I walk by the Bistrot Paul Bert. It is indeed charming. I keep walking a little further along rue Paul Bert to get to the number 6 address, which is where the little restaurant called le 6 Paul Bert is located.
After dallying in the small foyer to the restaurant, surrounded by little wood shelves and cubbies of food stuffs like a very well-stocked high-end epicerie, I was led to my table. As I was led there, I swooned and gasped silently to myself. It is so lovely in a cool way. Soft gray-washed vertical wood panels, like an old shabby chic beach house. Contrasted against modern bright red tables. It is cute yet sleek in a warm, well-done, modern way.
I get a table next to the sort of open kitchen. It is sort of open in that all the diners can see, if they even glance over there, is the very thoughtful plating being done on the counter.
1:10 comes and goes. 1:15 comes and goes. I'm still sitting there alone, waiting for Brendan. I get an email from him asking me to remind him of the address - he got hung up on a conference call (he's a lawyer remember). 1:20 comes. I order a glass of wine. I am also given to go alongside the glass of wine a saucer of thinly sliced charcuterie.
1:30 comes and goes. The restaurant is packed now. I'm still hanging out alone, checking the email on Brendan's status. He is in taxi, he emails me. Traffic is terrible. I should have another glass of wine, he says. Lunch is on him he says; he feels terrible as I should be eating by now. Glass No. 2 of wine arrives. With more charcuterie. He says 10-15 minutes.
1:45 arrives. Now the server is really looking at me funny. I tell her: "Really, he really is coming. He's a lawyer. He's late." She looks at the clock. She tells me: "Ok, 10 minutes is ok. The kitchen closes at 2pm. But 10 minutes is ok."
As 1:50 comes around, still no Brendan, I start to panic. I cannot miss this meal.
I ask the server, out of desperation, knowing what I am about to ask will seem weird: "Well, I am really hungry. May I go ahead and order the gazpacho as the starter, and then we can put orders in now for the plats, even though he is not here yet, but he should be there by the time those come out?"
This requires a conference with the kitchen on this unconventional interference with the proper timing and plating and serving of this fine food.
They agree I can at least get the gazpacho order in.
Just then, Brendan rushes in. Sweaty and breathless. I tell the server: "I know you were thinking I just had an imaginary friend. But here is. He really exists. Let's order!"
We both get gazpacho and the brandade de morue (a brandade of cod, which says absolutely nothing to reflect how exquisite and tasty this mix of perfectly flavored textures of grilled bread and spring array of vegetables was alongside the brandade).
Brendan does not like the wine I am having and selects something else for himself. Things starts to calm down (i.e., me). The gazpacho arrives. It is a gazpacho of cucumber and coriander, and it is beautiful.
Next is the brandade de morue. In cleaning my plate, I leave not a single morsel on the plate.
Another server/helper comes by, again, and this time scoffs with frustration and mutters something under her breath. Well, not so under the breath. She was visibly, and audibly, annoyed. With me.
She was selectively enforcing a rule that is not always enforced in my experience. I had not done the special signal with the cutlery to indicate I was done. It is not just a Paris thing, but an international sign of good manners to indicate you are done with the course. In my heathen laidback food world, this rule is not enforced all that much. I am duly chastened. Now I know. And so do you, in case you did not.
Put the knife and fork at 4:00.
Technically, the knife should be with blade turned inward. My bad. Again. And, to reiterate, it is not just a Paris thing. It is an etiquette thing more studied research shows.
None of the table manners reprimand prevented me from enjoying dessert. Grapefruit, creamy milk sorbet, and chocolate crunchy cookies covered in a chocolate ganache.
We ended up being there so late and so long that there was not a single other person left by the time we finished.
We were there so late the pork delivery came in for artisanal butchering for the evening service.
Brendan did pay for lunch.
I would go back in a heartbeat. Casual yet fantastic fresh, pretty, inventive food, in spirit and taste. And I will bring my best table manners when I go back as well. And maybe get an earlier uncool reservation time. Like 12h30.
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