Sunday Lunch

by Andrew Brown (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find France

Ever since first visiting Paris 13 years ago, it has held a special place in my heart. Starting with the first wanders along the sun-drenched banks of the Seine to spending unquestionably the best year of my life there 6 years later. Unwittingly doing my best impression of Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris, taking in the sensory overload that the French capital offers in its inimitable style. It has undoubtedly left its mark on me. Since leaving, my girlfriend and I have made a tradition of celebrating our anniversary where we met. This conveniently gives us the opportunity to keep tabs on the city and see how it evolves, in particular its food scene. We met at the time that the ‘bistronomy’ movement was gathering momentum – usually brilliant, creative, often lighter food in pared back settings. This allowed Paris to go some way in shedding the increasing opinion that many of its restaurants were either stuck in the past with no creativity, or churning out mass produced, low quality tourist fodder. It has been a real joy to witness the cooking of the establishments giving an entirely new feel to Paris’ restaurant scene. Clown Bar, Bones and Le Servan to name but a few. Fast forward to 2019, and once again, we’re looking forward to lunch at one of the 11th arrondissement’s newest kids on the blocks. It is a bleak November morning, and we’re already regretting our decision to do something touristy. As we wait in an excruciatingly slow moving queue to visit the Musée d’Orsay with the northerly wind slicing through my hopelessly inadequate jacket, we receive a call to inform us that our reservation has been cancelled due to an emergency at the restaurant. Nightmare. Like many food loving millennials, finding oneself in a tourist hotspot with no guarantee of a good meal is a less than ideal scenario. I endeavour to find a viable alternative, sharpish. Perhaps less admirably, I neglect some of the finest impressionist works in the world on show in favour of finding lunch. Sorry, Monet et al. Two hours later, we walk through the front door and sweep aside the heavy red curtain of La Fontaine de Mars which unveils a sea of gingham tablecloths, dark oak panelling and leather banquettes comfortable enough to nap on. Opened in 1908, it is not an avant-garde neo-bistro, but a time capsule to a different time in Paris. I once again feel like the protagonist from a Woody Allen film as we devour the saucisson and champagne that is presented to us at the bar while we wait for our table. Immaculately presented waiters bustle past us carrying hefty pots of cassoulet and sizzling snails to affluent French families making the most of their Sunday lunch. The flawless service is choreographed by the magnificent Christiane Boudon, a woman whose veins bleed the art of hospitality – we are in her house now, and we will have a good time. Although we are but a few hundred metres from the Eiffel Tower, tourist fodder, this is categorically not. We spend most of the afternoon here, hypnotized by the energy and joie de vivre of this bustling old school bistro, although it may also have something to do with the artery busting lièvre à la royale – a ballotine of slow cooked hare encasing a nest of foie gras, drenched in the richest of truffle jus. It is French gluttony of the highest order and an extremely complex bit of cooking, executed to perfection. As I slump into a gratin dauphinoise and chocolate fondant induced coma, I dwell on the reasons for this restaurant’s continued success, and feel a pang of guilt that I’ve never discovered it before. On this occasion, at least, the old is better than the new. After settling the bill and expressing our gratitude for an exceptional afternoon, I step back into the pouring rain and the bitter wind, perfectly content - I’ve already booked for the following weekend.