Au Petit Cafe
I am the type of traveller that refuses to spend my good money on bad food. When I use the term ‘bad food’, I don’t just mean food that is poorly cooked, I am also referring to food that is not worth the price tag: where the cost of being seen at an establishment is considered to be enough in order to warrant sub-par cuisine. The latter encompasses many of Paris’ fine bistros.
Now don’t get me wrong, the food is still technically good, but you cannot tell me that your 98€ duck at the Park Hyatt is worth more than a strawberry tart made from scratch ( including the beautiful, buttery shortcrust pastry) by an 85-year-old French grandmother, served to you by her enigmatic son who smiles more with his eyes than his mouth, all while his father is busy enjoying a simple lunch of cheese, pear and wine in the seat he has eaten lunch in for over half of his life.
In amongst the midst of the bougie hustle and bustle of Vendôme lies a small establishment that has remained untouched over a fifty-year period. It is, quite possibly, one of the best meals you will ever have in your life, and there isn’t a tourist, Michelin star, or restaurant critic in sight.
I stumbled upon such an establishment by complete chance in 2017. My hostel roommate and I were in search for a place for lunch that wouldn’t break the bank between Montmartre and The Louvre. As we passed a Chanel store decked out with security (turns out one of the Hadid’s were inside), I surrendered that perhaps such a place didn’t exist within a block from Jardin du Tuileries in the 1st.
In a back street around the corner from The Westin, an obnoxiously orange awning caught my eye. The words Au Petit Bar printed plainly in sans serif and Yves Klein Blue across the front. A water-stained menu blu-tacked to the window announcing plait du jour for a cheap 11.5€. I didn’t even care what it was. It was cheap and I was a backpacker spending most of my money on a dodgy room in a 5th-floor walk-up in Montmartre.
We went in and were greeted by an original Formica countertop in banana yellow accented by ketchup red leather seats. Old men arguing in French sat with their arms draped over the silver-embellished bar edges, as shiny as the day the bar opened. Hand-painted plates haphazardly stacked next to two thick brown leather address books. Only the calendar artfully hidden behind fresh red roses reminded me of the century we were in.
“Un table pour deux, si’l vous plait,” I stumbled in broken French to Michel, the waiter.
We were ushered to a table around the corner from the bar, hidden behind a privacy screen of more Formica and distorted glass. The creamy walls were bare apart from the usual french menagerie of mirrors, and a few small photographs of a green farm — I later learned that this is where the family is originally from.
We asked for a carafe grand of the house red and nodded politely as Michel explained to us the meal of the day in his patiently slow French. By this point, I was distracted well and truly by the backside of his mother, Marie, in the kitchen. She was getting busy with her pots and pans. I was ready to surrender myself to whatever she wanted to serve me.
To my fright (as I was a strict vegetarian at the time) a plate filled with red meat and hand-cut frites was placed in front of me. I didn’t have the heart to tell them of my dietary requirements prior to ordering. It was the first time I felt that they would be a true inconvenience, so I decided to sit up straight, smile and go along for the ride.
And my, how good it tasted. Perfectly seasoned. Michel placed salt and pepper on our table and I almost laughed. Anyone who felt the need to further season Marie’s perfectly cured meat would be a complete and utter idiot. With every bite, you could almost taste the love, time and care that went into the creation of such a simple dish. I did not know that steak could taste so good until Marie cooked for me.
And then, once my plate was licked clean with help from the basket of baguette, dessert came out. The most perfect, strawberry tart, lovingly dusted in sugar was placed on my table. The first bite made me weep. If there was one moment I could re-live in my life, it would be the first bite of this simple dish. It was heaven on a plate and I gobbled it up almost instantly.
To finish, a coffee. Hubert, who mans the bar, brought me an allonge (kind of halfway between a double espresso and a long black) accompanied by 2 sucre (Paris is the only place I will ever put sugar in my coffee) and a sweet handwritten bill with a previous customer’s cheque written on the back. Nothing goes to waste at this little bar.
I happily handed over my 25€ and left not remembering the street name in a blissful food coma.
Seldom are there such places as this left in the world in our great cities. As tourists drive up rent prices, staffing costs, and the pressure for restaurants to cave to modern hospitality trends, it was refreshing to come across a place that was unapologetically stuck in 1966 and still as good as the day it opened.
If you find yourself in Paris, please take yourself, a person you love, or your family, to Au Petit Bar for a long lunch. Transport yourself back to a place were time goes a little slower compared to the world that surrounds it. And of course, do not expect wifi.
7, rue du Mont-Thabor, 75001 Paris
Open from 7 am to 9.30 pm (last service at 8pm)
Closed Sunday and public holidays - also closed in August which I discovered in 2018.
