Once in a while I did look up from my dinner plate and photograph some other scenes of Paris. Here, “experimental cocktails” at the Curio Parlor. On my first real trip to this city (passing through with a backpack at age 20 didn’t count), I found a lovely and welcoming place that I hope to visit again soon (of course, my Québec-born hair stylist will tell me it’s because all the real Parisians were on holiday vacation!).
Passage 53 was our last major reservation of the trip. We had been buttered, basted, and foie gras’d the past week and thought we had seen all the tricks. But we were about to be blown away. As mentioned, it was all hands on deck with my family making sure we found the best eateries in Paris. We sifted through magazine top 10 guides and newspaper write-ups, consulted friends, compared notes, and honed the list (you may have realized food is a blood sport in my family by now). This one came highly recommended by my brother’s colleague working in Paris: “A Japanese chef who has worked in France for many years; in one of Paris’s most charming covered galleries; one of the city’s best-kept secrets.”
Just as Taillevent lost its third Michelin star in 2007, so did Le Cinq, the 10-year-old crown jewel at the Four Seasons George V hotel. A few Paris insiders told me they thought the food had declined recently. In fact, in the months leading up to this trip I’d heard about a movement by young French chefs who were trading Michelin Guide ratings and hard-wired traditions for (arguably) equally great food served in a more relaxed environment; perhaps it was having its effect. Plus, given the economy, how many people are putting places like Taillevent and Le Cinq in their restaurant rotation? But enough chitchat; let’s eat!
If you think I’m foodcentric, you should meet my family. Discussions about where we should eat in Paris and who would make the reservation went on for months beforehand. Some woke up at ungodly hours to catch a hostess who would (maybe) answer the line before service started. Some wrote countless emails to hotel concierges. But, finally, here we were on Christmas Eve (just barely, after flight cancellations due to snow) and we would enjoy our first proper French dinner.
Nomiya, an art-meets-food installation on top of Paris’s Palais de Tokyo, is one hot ticket. My sister-in-law, Yuko, had Jeopardy-button-pushing dexterity in order to secure this lunch reservation from—of all places—eBay. Availability was gone in less than a minute. Meant to be a temporary exhibit by French artist Laurent Grasso (hence the “limited-time fever”), it has been extended indefinitely: 12 strangers dining at one intimate table dangling above the Seine. It is most certainly more stunning at night, when Paris is illuminated beneath, but lunch had its artistic intrigue as well.
As mentioned, I am but one of the food-obsessed people in my family. My older brother, Matt, and his wife, Yuko, regularly explore great restaurants in Tokyo, where they live, and have come to befriend a 2-star Michelin chef there. On his recommendation, we lunched at the lovely Frederic Simonin. The easy-to-miss eatery on a side street in northwestern Paris debuted less than a year ago, but word has it that Chef Simonin—who worked at Taillevent, Le Cinq, and opened a Joël Robuchon restaurant in London—may be receiving some stars of his own soon.
If there were a high-end French chain restaurant, Joël Robuchon’s empire would be it. From Taipei to Las Vegas, Robuchon’s outlets have perfected what many foreigners have come to regard as contemporary French cuisine (though ironically he draws on Japanese simplicity as inspiration). A mentor to chefs like Eric Ripert and Gordon Ramsay, Robuchon aimed to pare down the excess of French cuisine, and offers modern menu items like dorade carpaccio and king crab and avocado salad. The décor is a blatant rejection of tradition as well: Etoile (and L’Atelier Saint-Germain, across town) are a sleek shade of black with bright accent colors.
While I waited patiently on the phone for a Per Se reservation two months in advance of the date, my lunch at the French Laundry came up rather unexpectedly. Knowing I would be in Napa in two weeks, I put myself on the waiting list in case there was a lunch cancellation. Having assumed that most people make the French Laundry a vacation destination in itself, I didn’t expect a call. Yet, after returning from a hike in Point Reyes National Seashore park, there it was: A missed call from the French Laundry (joy)… but 45 minutes ago! (misery) Arg, surely they had found someone to take the open reservation the next day. But (insert minor hyper-
ventilation here) they hadn’t, and of course we were in. You gotta do it once, right?