simon says french food blog

DEAR CATASTROPHE WAITER

By Joe Ray
LYON 

Dear catastrophe waiter
Dear catastrophe waiter
I’m sorry that you seem have the weight of the world over you
I cherish your smile
– Lyrics (with a tiny gender substitution) by Belle and Sebastian

I’m not sure what phase of the meltdown I arrive in, but the sweet-as-honey waitress hadn’t started crying yet.

Walking into at Café Gadagne, a beautiful spot with a terraced patio designed to be a compliment to the newly-refurbished Musée whose name it bears, I’m glared at by the waiter, a walking black cloud whose pants hang a bit too far down the southern half of his rear end for a place this nice. 

Turns out he glares at everyone, clanking plates, occasionally pretending everything’s ok, but his whirlpool of bad juju sucks the place down around him. A smart teacher would put this kid in the ‘time out’ corner. Instead, he bosses the hard-working waitress around in front of everybody until she implodes. 

Too bad. The food would be good if you could get past his distraction. I would have enjoyed my pumpkin ‘cappuccino’ soup with roasted chestnuts – there was a nice hot/cold thing going on, but it’s lost in the chaos. Ditto for my steak tartare.

Appropriately chaotic jazz warbles out of the kitchen and at one point, the chef comes out, smiling and oblivious. This is where I realize the bigger failure: nobody’s in charge.

Who knows? I was there a few weeks ago and maybe he’s gone by now. We can all hope, but I’m not going back to find out.

Count on about 20 euros.

Café Gadagne – MAP
1 Place du Petit Collège
Lyon
+33 4 78 62 62 34 60

Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the 2009 Lowell Thomas Travel Journalist of the Year and author of the blog Eating The Motherland. Follow him on Facebook and on Twitter: @joe_diner. 

 

NO MAP, NO PHOTO. NO WAY.

By Joe Ray
PARIS 

This is a public service writeup for the “run away” column.

I’ve spent the last few weeks on the road, working on a Frommer’s guide update in Burgundy and the Rhône. Meeting an out-of-town colleague and his wife for brunch right after my return to Paris, I was happy to have someone else choose the location.

Les Editeurs sits across the street from Yves Camdeborde’s wonderful Le Comptoir and a stone’s throw from the Odeon metro. Walls of books and red-leather chairs make Les Editeurs look like a nice place to while away an afternoon, perhaps that’s best done with a beer or something else that they didn’t create on site.

Yesterday morning, 25 euros bought Sunday brunch at Les Editeurs. Brunch is a Parisian trend I’ve never understood in ten years here - a bad translation from the beautiful, bountiful American original. The French version is often overpriced and boring. Les Editeurs version included watery OJ, bad coffee, a basket of croissants and soggy toast and a plate with small ramekins of unremarkable scrambled eggs, a fruit cup, yogurt and something else that my mind has blocked out.

My colleague’s wife ordered a fifteen-euro club sandwich which she asked for without bacon. She was informed the sandwich was pre-made, but she could remove the bacon.

Really? Why do you need to pre-make a club sandwich in a restaurant? There are other time-saving/corner-cutting measures to take in a kitchen that don’t make bread soggy.

She did her best to push the sandwich around on her plate, but couldn’t bring herself to eat it. The waitress asked her about it and she couldn’t lie. To their credit, they comped it.

I’ve just come off of three days of incredible food in Lyon - fantastic three-course meals for under 20 euros. Yes, you can argue you pay for a prime location, but today’s brunch made me want to walk to the train station and have a few more meals in the Rhône before returning to Paris and pretend like I just got back.

Les Editeurs
4 Carrefour de l'Odéon
75006 Paris

Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the 2009 Lowell Thomas Travel Journalist of the Year and author of the blog Eating The Motherland. Follow him on Facebook and on Twitter: @joe_diner. 

 

BRUSSELS BEER & FRIES WEEK! PART CINQ: SUDDEN DEATH IS PREFERRED

By Joe Ray
Brussels

My word, what a mess.

The "If You Go" recommendation from my Globe lambic story that said "Skip the food, have a drink and move on" was more accurate than I thought.

A La Mort Subite - French for “sudden death” - is a Brussels landmark bar and restaurant, replete with scores of beer and a beautiful hall for quaffing.

Disasters on this scale are tricky to explain, so let's stick to the facts.

I joined a group of fifty for dinner - we had the upstairs hall to ourselves, a bit too exclusively. Though one guy ran the occasional tray or two of beer up the stairs, here was one waitress assigned to us. One.

She was heroic in her efforts, but at the end of the day, she was all alone. For most of us, it took two hours for our food - salads and omelets - to arrive.

As a restaurateur who has likely known for weeks that a group of 50 is coming for dinner, how do you screw up that badly? If feeding 50 people à la carte (as we did) is beyond your capacity, why not say so and propose another option? Why not make sure you have the staff to keep the beer flowing and the food moving? Why not have the chef chop up a few tomatoes ahead of time?

At the one hour 45 minute mark, I looked over at a friend who had an expression on his face that said, ‘shoot me.’

“You’d better write about this,” he sighed.

A la Mort Subite

Rue Montagne-aux-Herbes Potagères 7
Brussels

+32 (0)2 513 13 18
www.alamortsubite.com

Follow me on Twitter: @joe_diner and on Facebook.

The Wepler: I may well go back anyway!

 By François Simon

PARIS

A leisurely visit to the north of Paris, and suddenly, an urge for a seafood platter overwhelms me. I like the Wepler for the atmosphere, but when it comes to seafood, just between you and me, I prefer Garnier, particularly for its oyster bar. When the weather's cold, with a glass of ice-cold Muscadet, it's simply delightful...

At the Wepler, tonight, the seafood platter seemed to take forever to reach our table. A good half hour! As we waited, we emptied the breadbasket, played with the bread and fiddled with the wine bottle. It was a relief when a platter appeared at the end of the aisle. Alas, it was for the table next to ours. When our platter finally did arrive, we were ready to suck on the ice! Having regained our composure, we found the platter was negligent in the discharge of its duties, not brilliantly fresh, a bit apathetic. The langoustines were a bit dry, though they seemed to be dance with their claws spiked to their tushies. The oysters, at least, were spirited and proud to carry the day, while the spiral-shelled whelks were a bit old looking and the shrimp simply unfit for play.

Luckily, the crab was there to liven us up, get us gnawing and fuel our impatience. As for desert, things were much the same: the meringue glacée was icy-cold, but the meringue was practically reduced to powder. As for service, I'd call it a foul. Everything came late. But what really took the cake was the last glass of wine I ordered towards the end of the seafood platter, which arrived… after the bill - where it appeared, of course.

With three kids and a single dessert, it's expensive, quite expensive: 184,30 euros! Want to know the worst part? I may well go back anyway! Sigh…

Wepler, 14, place de Clichy, 75018 Paris (+33) 1.45.22.53.24. Map 

Opportun: reality check

By François Simon

PARIS

When the biting cold starts nipping at Parisian ankles, nothing beats a meal that's fit enough for a barbarian and hearty enough for a Hun to invigorate you. I crave comforting addresses, places where the table is dense, shameless and saucy. Our capital is riddled with these grottos, solidly secured to the rock. But watch out – they mean business. To catch the boss's eye, you have to weigh 200 lbs. and really be able to put it away. That suits me fine...

 The waiter insisted we taste the ravioli salad. My theory is that this was a guileless suggestion, due only to some opportunity at the morning market. We went ahead with the splendidly failed and shriveled ravioli dragging their greasy resentment through an acceptable salad enlivened with pine nuts that almost saved the dish.

The steak tartare is thriving and abundant, appropriately seasoned, catches your attention and proves very tasty. It sticks to its intentions, pirouettes… Extremely pleasant with choice beef from a first class butcher, Hugo Desnoyer. The French fries were hopeless. A disaster. They'd been handled most carelessly and that's no way to treat the fundamentals… A crying shame. It's kind of sad to see a place that collects quality labels and press clippings treat such an easy dish offhandedly, wouldn't you say? Not to mention that it's quite unexpected. The apple tart also has a hard time mustering a semblance of taste. It, too, seemed struck by a sort of loss of consciousness. For 111,50 euros, that's barely passable.

L’Opportun, 62, boulevard Edgar-Quinet, 75014 Paris

+(33)1.43.20.26.89 Map

SOUP, SOAP AND THE PIG’S FOOT

By Joe Ray
PARIS

The “Run Away!” category was designed for meals like this.

A rainy, hungry cold and dark afternoon in Paris called for something warm and reassuring. We almost went for pho in Belleville but my visiting friend suggested soupe à l’oignon (French onion soup) it seemed perfect.

Le Pied de Cochon is a Paris classic dating back to when Les Halles was the mammoth food market I’d give my pinky to have seen, not the current resident: a subterranean shopping mall that both houses and smells like a swimming pool. Restaurant names from the market period were designed with its oft-illiterate workers in mind. If you were looking for the boss who was cutting a deal for broccoli or tossing a couple back, he would be at the Chicken in The Pot, the Bell, The Drum or…the Pig’s Foot.

I was reassured that though the tourists were making up a majority of the customers - particularly as it was only four in the afternoon - there was was also an older, distinguished looking gentleman eating by himself and reading Le Monde dated the following day.

Waiters and waitresses buzzed around, giving the restaurant a wonderful, busy feeling and when the soup arrived, and we breathed in its wonderful smell - a bit reminiscent of Mom’s chicken pot pie - we felt like happy and lucky little kids.

We should have stopped there. The soup tasted like soap.

At least the broth did. I nibbled my way dutifully through the cheese on top, hit the broth, winced, tried again, tried my friend’s broth and then just stopped eating.

I never stop eating.

What’s worse is that this is the traditional food for served in Les Halles, arguably the birthplace of soupe à l’oignon. I tried distracting myself by thinking of the word Francois might use when confronted with something like this, but in the end it was all mine: atrocious.

We split duck confît that arrived cold and limp and when we sent it back for a warm-up, it came back lukewarm and limp.

That was enough. We left.

Count on around 15-30 euros better spent elsewhere.

Au Pied De Cochon - MAP
6 rue Coquillière

75001 Paris

+33 1 40 13 77 00


www.pieddecochon.com

Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the author of the blog Eating The Motherland and contributes to The Boston Globe's travel blog, Globe-trotting.

HOT PAN. HOT OIL.

BARCELONA

When I die, I’m sending friends to scatter my ashes in a couple of my favorite places around the world. Barcelona’s La Boqueria food market will be one of those spots.

I’ve said it before: I’d trade a meal at the market’s Pinotxo food ‘kiosk’ for many a three-star meal in a heartbeat. The world hums at a happier frequency whenever I’m there.

That said, I’ll make sure they keep my ashes on Pinotxo’s side of the market when the time comes.

We checked out Kiosko Universal a while back and though it felt a bit like I was dining with the enemy, a friend had sung its praises and I wanted to see for myself.

One of the wonderful things about the kiosks is how it’s all there for you to see. You sit at the bar and watch the cooks cook up the best the market has to offer.  Look left - there’s someone selling fish! Look right - there’s someone cooking fish! There’s flash and bang and life everywhere and there you are in the middle of it all with a glass of Cava to celebrate. If you can’t draw inspiration from a space like this, check your pulse.

You also see when it all goes wrong.

At Kiosko Universal, we ordered Cava and immediately watched somebody’s fresh-cooked lunch get cold on the counter for five minutes before being delivered once a cook finally remembered it. Then we watched a cook work on our mushrooms by sautéing a big batch in a wok. It’s a great idea: blast something fresh with heat and serve it up quick, but there simple rules to sautéing that should be observed, most notably, as a chef once barked at me, “Hot pan. Hot oil.” Heat the pan, then heat the oil and then (and only then) add whatever you’re cooking. Flub up and need more oil? Send a trickle down the side of the pan so it heats up before it hits your food.

Cold oil on cold product leads to mush.

Here, however, we watch the cook pour an extra dose of cooking oil right on the mushrooms.

The cook looks bad, the chef looks worse and we lose our appetite…

…almost. We repent with coffee and dessert at Pinotxo.

Kiosko Universal - MAP

La Boqueria

La Rambla 91
08002 Barcelona
93 317 82 86

Count on about 10-20 euros.

Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the author of the blog Eating The Motherland and contributes to The Boston Globe's travel blog, Globe-trotting.

 

 

BLOWING OFF THE ZEPHYR

By Joe Ray

PARIS

I recently moved to a neighborhood where I don’t know where to eat… disconcerting for a food writer.

At the end of a rainy Monday in the center of town, both places I wanted to go for steak frites were closed. I retreated to my neighborhood, dragging my friend behind me and getting to the point where we couldn’t make a decision.

We circled two places, exhausted and not really caring anymore, finally settling on a place that seemed pretty but expensive (Belleville’s Le Zephyr, for the curious).

We sat and picked out our steaks and I did the math; it was going to cost 80 euros for a meal we really didn’t care about.

I looked across the table and said: “Chinese takeout and cheap beer?”

We got up immediately.

Best decision of the week.

Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the author of the blog Eating The Motherland and contributes to The Boston Globe's travel blog, Globe-trotting.

BAD BEER

Paris

By Joe Ray

There are times that I can just wince at a high price others where I just balk.
The other day, I balked.

I met a friend to catch up over a beer in the center of Paris at the bar, Le Montorgueil on the street of the same name. The bar has a great location on a trendy street but a is a dive, complete with a circular Plexiglas aquarium-like thing with swirling glitter on the bar.

We caught up, decided to move on and I went to the bar to pay for a pint and a demi (25 cl draft) of the cheap stuff. “Thirteen twenty,” said the barman, the euro equivalent of more than seventeen bucks. I stared blankly. My eyes started to do that top-left, top-right, while-I do-the-math thing, but with nothing adding up, they went blank again.

 "Thirteen twenty," repeated the barman. Saying nothing, I went over to verify on the little board with the drink prices. Sure enough. My friend had come over by this point to see what was taking so long.
 

"Thirteen twenty," I told him. He turned directly to the barman and without hesitating said, “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s absurd.” I agree. I get the part about paying for the trendy location.
I realize the prices are posted for everyone to see, but give me a break. I’d later bump into a Parisian friend who had the same experience, noting their drinks cost what I’d roughly translate as "the skin off of our rear ends".

" Thirteen euros" is over 17 bucks and there are places where I’ll just wince at a price like that – the big, beautiful and similarly priced Café Beaubourg, right down the street, for example.
Here, however, it’s absurd.

Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the author of the blog Eating The Motherland and contributes to The Boston Globe's travel blog, Globe-trotting

Ozu, nothing makes sense anymore

Paris

By François Simon

I had been told that Thierry Marx, the famous chef of Cordeillan Bages, was no longer affiliated with Ozu (2, avenue des Nations Unies; 01.40.69.23.90).  But I called his secretary, verified with his employees – he’s still there.  In fact, you’ll even find his name on the sign in the hall with the aquarium.  
 
The space is poorly lit, the lunch clientele seemed a bit uncertain of what they were doing there.  As for the welcome, it was nice enough, cheerful and efficient.  But the food!  Nothing.  Uninventive and uninspired.  I was stupefied.  The salad was unseasoned, the sushi so-so, the miso soup pitiful, the desserts insipid.

Indignation would certainly be in order, but one can only be heartsick in the face of such carelessness….

Ozu : Avenue des Nations Unies, Paris‎ - 01 40 69 23 90‎   Map

Photo F Simon  Restaurant Paris 16

DUCK QUACKERY

Paris,

By Joe Ray 

Thanks to a dinner at a friend’s house in Barcelona and another at one of my new Paris faves, l’Escargot, I’ve recently been lured back into loving confît de canard.

Crunchy on the outside, melting and moist on the inside, these two dinners reminded me why the dish is a classic.

This afternoon, however, at Le Petit Fer à Cheval – a Marais classic in its own right and a place that prides itself on the dish – I remembered why it’s been so long.

Allow me to work through my plate in reverse…

Yes, it’s winter and the selections at the vegetable stands are pretty grim at this time of year, but this was particularly depressing. There was a vague wave in the direction of seasonality with some cabbage, and there was even a bit of variety, but everything either squeaked on my teeth or was mushy.

 C’mon guys…live a little and drizzle some olive oil on the steamed broccoli, try finishing the green beans with some butter and shallots or just punt and swap the veggies out for a salad. I love being in the Clean Plate Club, but not today.
The potatoes next to the veggies were hand cut and crunchy on the outside - Hooray! - but more than a few were crunchy on the inside, too. Ick.

Finally, the duck itself reminded me why I hadn’t had this dish in so long – it was crunchy on the outside (though I almost wonder if, considering the laziness of the preparation for the rest of the dish, they just crisped it up by throwing it into the Frialator with my spuds), but inside it was lifeless.
What’s frustrating is that I like this place – the well-dressed waiters, the U-shaped bar that gives the restaurant its name, the big wall clock that goes backward, the good Parisian feeling that you get here – but I think it’ll be a while before I come back.

I lied unconvincingly when my waiter asked me how it was but the kicker, and a good part of the reason why I’m writing this, was the ridiculous price tag: 20 euros (!!!) or the equivalent of 26 bucks. At L’Escargot, where I would eat it again and again, their confît comes with a potato puree with truffle oil and a beautiful salad for 17 euros.

Expensive and good I can deal with. Expensive and bad just makes me angry.
“Really?” I blurted out to the poor bartender.
“The duck is the specialty of the house,” he said.
It has nothing to do with the guy behind the bar, but quit insulting me.

L’Escargot :  50 rue de la Villette Paris 19e Tel 33 1 42 06 03 96

Le Petit Fer à Cheval  : 28 Rue Vieille du Temple Paris 4e Tel : 33 9 62 09 23 38 

Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the author of the blog Eating The Motherland and contributes to The Boston Globe's travel blog, Globe-trotting.

 

SOMETIMES, IT’S THE LITTLE THINGS

Paris,

By Joe Ray

Today, after a hot chocolate and a decent espresso (a sad rarity in this town) at Caffè Moro, I was refused a glass of water larger than the thimble-sized one I received.

“You can come back three, four, five times if you like,” said the waitress, noting the café’s absence of table service.

“It’s a style,” chimed in a loud and grouchy woman who had been bossing the staff around for the previous half-hour while floating in and out of the back room, yet claimed not to be the boss.

I stared at them in disbelief, at a loss to think of a more annoying or petty ‘style’ to lose customers.

“If you want, you can buy an Evian,” added the waitress.

Please. If somebody’s going to plunk the better part of ten euros down in a half-empty café and ask for a glass of water that’s larger than their thumb, have the good sense to give them a carafe or fill up a bigger glass and not give them any lip.

Caffè Moro 31, rue de Charonne  75011 Paris  +33.1.43.14.06.39

Food and travel writer and photographer Joe Ray is the author of the blog Eating The Motherland and contributes to The Boston Globe's travel blog, Globe-trotting

Brasserie Balzar : A breathtaking disaster

PARIS

By François Simon

Brasserie Balzar is part of our national heritage. When you see its glassed-in terrace off in the distance, only one thought occurs to you: joining for a time this “club” open to all. It would be a terrible mistake.   

Let’s start with the veal liver: it’s carelessly prepared, disgusting.  The potatoes are revolting.  The tomato, a bit mangled, is plunked in the corner. The whole thing is simply pathetic.  I was as hungry as a wolf but I left practically everything on the plate.

On to dessert: the specialty is “le glacé Balzar” (an ice cream concoction).  The dish is a breathtaking disaster: Chantilly from a spray bottle, very little chocolate sauce, industrial ice cream and dusty meringue.  It certainly sounded good, but the execution is…. lacking.

When you look at the bill after barely eating or even drinking anything, you can only rub your eyes in disbelief: 67.90 euros for this unspeakable meal.   It’s enough to make you go outside and rip up the asphalt, exhume a few cobblestones, and make proper use of them.

French Version  Web  Map

Brasserie Balzar. 49, rue des Écoles, Ve. Tél. : 01 43 54 13 67. Ouvert tous les jours.

L'Agapé – but where is the life?

Paris, France

By François Simon

It’s not easy to make a name for oneself when opening a restaurant. The rarefied world of « gastronomy » stands in the way.  At every turn, there are about a hundred people in Paris that prevent you from taking your place at the table.  How to force one’s way through the crowd of the already-tenured blocking the gate?

Sneak in on your hands and knees? Create a diversion? Wear a disguise ?  Marry a food critic? Or why not open a restaurant on rue Jouffroy-d'Abbans. That’s what three former employees of Passard just did – L’Agapé.

They offer excellent food, the kind that deserves a Michelin star. The asparagus with Colonnata’s bacon is exquisite. The Sologne’s pigeonneau (a small pigeon) is sumptuous. The ice cream with rosemary is delightful.  Everything is impeccable, but curiously we feel almost in the way. We let the torch march past without clapping too loudly. 

This restaurant is off to a great start. It’s headed at full speed towards its destiny and at the same time has already made it, plain and simple, to the gastronomic “big show” – that world of criticism, accolades, food guides and chocolate medals. What’s missing?  Life, of course! 

From 80 to 100 euros. Menus at 39 euros for lunch.

L'Agapé - 51, rue Jouffroy D’Abbans (17^ème) - Tel. : 01.42.27.20.18. Map

Open Monday - Friday, closed Saturdays and Sundays - Subway station : Wagram.