He'll always have Paris

Perhaps it’s the smoking, a crude misnomer in an otherwise elegant society. Cigarettes are everywhere in Paris, and a gentle blue haze settles across most evenings out.

Or maybe it’s a magical combination of rich food and free flowing Bordeaux, one indulgent vice cancelling out the other in an unlikely pas des deux of healthy living. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t apply to the outside world, for if Paris is an irresistible feast in every sense it’s impossible to leave the city without a fuller figure.

A morning begun with pain au chocolat is perhaps not the foundation upon which to build the healthiest of days; five such days in a row are an open admission that you’re planning to eat well, and to hell with thoughts of a New Year diet. And you’d be mad not to throw culinary caution to the Parisian wind, for this is a city where eating is a joy experienced nowhere else. And so to five days of fare most splendid…

At first glance, Le Houdon Jazz Bar doesn’t look like much, a café feel that’s more Adderley Street than ‘Allo ‘Allo. But it’s a feel that belies an ideal introduction to eating in Paris. Laid back, unhurried, yet with crisp service and quite magnificent food: a beef bourguignon full of simmering red wine, thick, juicy mouthfuls of beef, and a richness that suggested Donald Trump and Bill Gates had opened a joint account. The rest of the meal was elegantly simple: a bottle of Bordeaux, a couple of steaks with Béarnaise sauce (which I now fear I may never be able to enjoy anywhere else again), and the confirmation that gourmet extravagance lay ahead.

"Try-it-and-we’ll-throw-you-out"

There are many ways to pick a restaurant in Paris; wandering the streets during the day affords the opportunity to peruse menus, inspect interiors, find somewhere that catches the eye for no particular reason. And so to Le Petit Canard, a splendid French temple to quacking poultry. The name is no passing quirk (it translates as ‘The Little Duck’): the list of main courses is exclusively canard, with a terse try-it-and-we’ll-throw-you-out postscript of ‘a meat dish’ and ‘a fish dish’, under the legend ‘if you really, really don’t like duck’. So we had duck…

And did we ever. Forget Daffy, Donald, the three nephews — truly great duck resides at Le Petit Canard. Duck soaked in red wine (what better way to depart this earth), eliciting the same richness as the previous night’s bourguignon. Duck in honey; soft and sweet (but not overly so), the honey masking a slightest hint of musky darkness. And the classic: duck a l’orange, a perfect symmetry of citrus and poultry. I vaguely recall a goat’s cheese starter that was probably quite reasonable, but in comparison was quite unremarkable; and I think there were several desserts, and rather a lot of wine. But Le Petit Canard inspires visions of duck, cooked majestically in a thousand different ways. Had they not thrown us out (very politely), I might well still be there.

And thank goodness they did turf me out, or I’d have never discovered A La Cloche D’Or on Rue Mansart in the ninth. An elegantly intimate two-tiered affair, it gave me my finest meal in Paris, which in turn may well be the finest meal I have ever had, with apologies to my mother. Set aside a level of service innumerable Cape Town restaurants could learn endless lessons from: the food was extraordinarily good, and marvellously inventive to boot.

When last did you have smoked herring, set on baked apples and red onion as a starter? The combination touches on the bizarre at first glance, but the result electrifies the palate, a simple blaze of contrasting flavours getting on famously. The soft, warm citrus, the oily saltiness, the faintest edge of the onion… c’est magnifique. And then to small, genteel pork filet mignons, set in lightly curried cream, and propped up against a simple hub of rice. Nothing extravagant, nothing overly ornate, just astonishingly good. Salmon pasta, poached salmon and steak Béarnaise hijacked from across the table ranged from good to excellent, and a black and white chocolate extravagance nearly killed me (the pure chocolate mousse most certainly would have); but that mackerel, and that pork…

Not hurting a sublime restaurant experience (aside from the service) was the wine, a Lacombe Noaillac 2001, with a surprisingly velvet piquancy, and a Chateau Biston 2002, more robust and eminently drinkable. But neither were quite up there with the vin rouge I scribbled the name of down upon a piece of paper that will turn up in six months time. Whatever it was, you can find it at Auberge du Clou, another small, thoughts-of-a-café affair that sealed eating my way through France’s capital.

Warm up that credit card

St. Denis on pasta with a sprinkling of bacon was unremarkable, perhaps, but a quite excellent steak, an even better boeuf pave, and a selection of perfectly delivered lamb noisettes wrapped up the restaurant assault on Paris. The memory of Auberge du Clou, though, is of the waiter, upon hearing the brunette across the table address me as “mon petit chou” (“my little cabbage — sounds considerably better in French), addressed me for the rest of the evening, face completely straight, as “Monsieur Petit Chou…”.

So, eating in Paris. Not inexpensive — three courses for four people, with a couple of bottles of wine, ranged between €150 and €200.

And not everywhere was outstanding — La Rose de France, just down from Notre Dame and Saint Chapelle, is overpriced, poor quality, and eminently missable, while cafés and restaurants along the Champs Elysees probably wouldn’t be your first choice (although a baguette atop the Eiffel Tower was surprisingly agreeable).

But explore a little, page through Pariscope (the city’s listing magazine, although you’ll need some French), and get a feel for places, and you will not eat better anywhere else on earth. Which raises the question once more: why are there no fat people in Paris?

For more info...
• Visit Maison de la France, the official website of the French Government Tourism Office.