Category: clarence

Clarence in Berlin: Currywurst

So I’m still partially deaf, I guess. Also still partially wallowing in self-pity about said deafness, I guess. No, not really. I am probably annoying the shit out of everyone I know by talking even louder than I normally do, which most people will attest is already pretty loud. Sometimes I worry that I’m that terrifying American girl who is obliviously shouting in public and everyone around finds me so grating that they are ready to unzip their skins and run for cover. Anyway, my friend’s ENT brother (just say YES to capitalizing on other people’s well-educated siblings) seems to think that this thing will slowly resolve itself. In the meantime, I am trying to keep reminding myself that not everyone else in the room feels like there is a pillow over their head.

I’ll tell you what, though, keeping up with this blarg thing is kind of hard when it’s oh-so-nice outside and there is other work to be done and friends to visit with and tulip-filled parks to stroll in and rillettes to eat and chilled rosé to drink. I don’t want to bore you with tales of how lovely my life has been lately. I know that it’s funnier when I’m puking on homeless people and being a sub-par English teacher to the youth of France. I will say (rather obliquely) that some really genuinely happy and positive things have been happening to me. In my typically neurotic fashion, I can’t help but wonder if I was being self-sabotaging in keeping some of these happy things at bay for a long time. But anyway, now that I’ve embraced the light, so to speak, I’m feeling pretty swell. Unfortunately feeling swell doesn’t leave me self-deprecatingly funny. Them’s the breaks, I guess.

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Let’s talk about currywurst, shall we?

Currywurst is this totally weird thing that I believe is somewhat idiosyncratic to Berlin, though I could be wrong. I guess it is sold in sociological lore as some kind of an East-West fusion dish, though if I was from the “East” I’d be pretty sore about the idea that my “culture” was adequately represented by a sprinkling of bland curry powder. If you read any information about currywurst online, you might be deluded into thinking that this is a more complicated dish than it actually is. In reality, it’s a deep-fried sausage chopped into bite-sized pieces, drowned in ketchup, sprinkled with curry powder, and hopefully served with fries (mit Pommes, pronounced the way you said it before your high school French class hammered all those final syllables out of you). I guess you can get currywurst with a roll or two (Brötchen), though I don’t think anybody really does. Currywurst are sold by Schnellimbisse (snack stands) all over Berlin. I’ve been told that West Berlin currywurst was traditionally fried and served with the skin on (Darm, and it should be pig intestine, people), while East Berlin currywurst was boiled without the casing. The website from the Currywurst Museum (awesome) informs me that skinless currywurst evolved from a pork intestine shortage in socialist East Germany. Cue sad socialist funeral dirge. “When I was your age, we didn’t even have pork intestines for our currywurst!” Well, like the Cold War, I think that the West has kinda won on this particular epicurean battle. Nowadays, Berlin currywursts are sizzling in hot grease all over Berlin, so much for the better. You might be asked if you would like your currywurst with (mit Darm) or without (ohne Darm) skin, but Clarence thinks that this one is kind of a no brainer.

While the sausage itself is quite a draw—juicy and plump on the inside with a slightly fried crunchy skin—the real draw of the currywurst is that it is a condiment-lovers wet dream. If you aren’t a ketchup lover, then there is no point in going down this particular road. The “curry” component of a currywurst isn’t particularly pronounced, especially if you are coming into this situation with an American palate. This is a fried sausage swimming in ketchup and nothing else. If you want to up the fat kid ante—and if you are reading this blog, of course you do—you will want to order your currywurst and pommes Rot/Weiss (red/white), that is, with a hearty dollop of both ketchup and mayonnaise. Is there any more sublime fat kid concoction than the beautifully pink mixture of ketchup and mayo? Plus, remember, you’re in Europe, so the mayonnaise is going to be made of actual eggs, not that terrifying whipped soybean oil that passes for mayo in the United States. Long live the Continent.

I really like the currywurst at the famous Konnopke’s Imbiss (Schönhauser Allee 44a, U-Bahn Eberswalderstrasse). In addition to the fact that this is the sine qua non of currywursts stand in Berlin (with a healthy dash of Stasi lore thrown in for good measure), Konnopke’s is well-positioned if you are hanging out in the Kastanienallee/Kollwitzstrasse/Prenzlauer Allee cute-cute-cute area of town (you’re planning to already, right?). The downside to Konnopke’s is that it gets insanely crowded, as it has been written up in every guidebook and is on every tour of Berlin. If I recall correctly, Anthony Bourdain went to Konnopke’s on his Berlin show and pretended like it was some big secret.  No reservations, my ass.  Nobody gets to the front of the line that quickly without television cameras.

I won’t say that Konnopke’s rests on its abundant laurels, because it doesn’t, but there are definitely better (and greener!) currywursts to be had in town. One of my favorites is at the all-Bio Witty’s (on Wittenburgplatz across from KaDeWe in Schöneberg, U-Bahn Wittenbergplatz). Berlin has perhaps embraced green living more than any other European city, and Witty’s is one of the more delicious outcomes of this trend. All of the wurst at Witty’s is from Neuland organic meat (just say yum) and they serve one of my favorite organic beers, Asgaard (I especially like the Premium Pils). Perhaps best of all is the selection of dipping sauces that they serve with your fries. I’ve heard good things about the satay, but the idea of mixing peanuts and ketchup kinda grosses me out. No, my heart belongs to Witty’s garlic mayonnaise (Knoblauchmayonnaise), an aïoli-esque concoction brought down from high to make all of us happier and more peaceful citizens of this new, eco-friendly world. It’s killer.

I sadly didn’t make it to either Konnopke’s or Witty’s on my short Berlin sojourn. There are only enough days in a week, and only so many of those days can be punctuated with currywurst (bio or not, it’s always quite the gut-bomb). I reserved my one currywurst meal (you would think I planned such things!) for the Kreuzberg institution, Curry 36 (Mehringdamm 36, U-Bahn Mehringdamm). FYI, the animated currywurst-consumption GIF that opens their website is alone worth the click.  Curry 36 was pretty crowded, though not unusually so, when I showed up for a weekday lunch. After waiting in line for a half-hour or so, Clarence convinced me that I deserved the two-currywurst and fries combo with mayo and ketchup and a large Berliner Kindl (zwei Currywurst mit Pommes, mit Darm, Rot Weiss, you’re welcome). Some friendly neighborhood construction workers let me share their table and commended me on my oh-so-feminine meal of two huge sausages and beer.  I’m one classy gal.

As with everything in Berlin, I spent a good deal of time marveling over how cheap everything was (at least compared to Paris):

After finishing my feast—do you even have to ask if I ate the whole thing?—I took my Kindl on the road (classy, remember?) and walked to my favorite park in Berlin, the nearby Viktoriapark.  The beautiful, if artificial, waterfall that cascades down the hill provides a short, if healthy, hike up to the monument dedicated to King Frederick William III of Prussia and one of the nicest free views of Berlin.  It’s also a lovely way to break a sweat after a decadent lunch of sausages, fries, condiments, and beer.  A good way to spend an afternoon if you find yourself in Kreuzberg.

Up next, Clarence goes to brunch in Berlin!  Stay tuned.

Clarence in Paris: Rouammit and Huong Lan

So, I’ll admit, being contacted by luckygal90 with a cease-and-desist of sorts was a minor thrill. I’d liken it to the first time that I prank called someone and they *69ed me. I doubt that this will actually turn into anything, as I’m sure she has long since forgotten about my six readers and me. She’s probably way too amped about the fact that her video has indeed gone viral, garnering some thirty thousand hits since I originally wrote about it yesterday. I’m pretty jealous. What are you saying internets? That my posts about falafel, John Mayer, and my sex dreams about dead modernists aren’t worth 32,000 hits? Interestingly enough, yesterday was a record-topping day for me in terms of web traffic.  Unfortunately, most of those hits came from people googling “luckygal90,” which is kinda like the universe punching me in the teeth for being too smug.

Anyway, now that I’ve dipped one toe in the sludgebucket that is political blogging I’m going to quickly remove it and begin writing about food again.  I started out trying to express my genuine optimism that we will pull through this partisan nightmare and ended up bullying a 13-year-old girl.  I don’t have the stomach for it.  While I’ll hang on to a conflict like a dog worrying a dead animal, I’m not really one for actual confrontation.  I’m much more into complacently talking about people behind their backs.

Also, there’s this:

That’s right people.  It’s spring in Paris.  While other cities may indeed try to make a case for their singular awesomeness during other seasons (I remember New York in the fall to be quite lovely, and Denver winters are dreamy bar none), Paris in the springtime is pretty unfuckwithable.  I hear people have even written songs about it.  Suddenly everyone in this city is beautiful and smiling and sitting in a sunny park.  Lovers are canoodling by the Seine, children are playing, women are wearing beautiful beige trenchcoats and flowery scarves, and there are tulips and green plums in the market.  I’m not going to keep antagonizing a child living somewhere in rural America because, well, there’s such nicer things to do right now.  Shoulda come at me in January, kiddo.

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Rouammit and Huong Lan

103 avenue d’Ivry, 75013 Paris

Métro:  Tolbiac

So I’ve been meaning to write about this for a while:

Yes, that’s duck.  Perfect, tender, lacquered duck in a spicy broth with braised bok choy, red chiles, and crispy deep-fried mint leaves.  I’ve been fantasizing about it since I didn’t order it two weeks ago when the genetically over-endowed S & H introduced us to Rouammit and Huong Lan—a yummy pair of Laotian restaurants in the 13th.  My buddy from California, BC (sorry, dude, B is taken), was staying with me for a few days and we puzzled over the idea of Laotian food for quite a while.  After a Wikipedia search, we settled on the idea that it was probably like Thai.  And it is, if you associate Thai with flavors like chile, peanuts, lemongrass, fish sauce, coconut milk, and green garlic.  But where many of the Thai restaurants in Paris tend to be kinda swish, the Laotian food here is hearty, cheap, and unfussy.  Rouammit and Huong Lan are just that perfect combination.

On my first visit, I ordered the first thing on the menu – Khao Pun Nam Pa, a soup of rice noodles in a fish and coconut milk broth.  It’s served with a plate of vegetables that you dunk in the spicy, salty, creamy soup, and their crunchiness nicely offsets the tender succulent fish chunks.  It’s really good, and would be amazing if you were sick.  But unfortunately I was sitting across from S, the veteran who wisely ordered the Pet Yang Lad Prik (pictured above).  I spent most of the meal being overcome with envy.  I hate it when I don’t order the best thing. You see, if I was forced to list the top ten things that I love about France, this country’s rabid consumption of duck and rabbit might find its way to the top of the list.  Duck, which you rarely see outside of lousy Chinese restaurants and high-end menus in the United States, is ubiquitous here, and usually much better.  The duck at Rouammit and Huong Lan is exceptionally delicious and works perfectly in tandem with their spicy sauces. BC sampled their duck with coconut red curry, called Kheng Phed Pet and it was really lovely.  But it was S’s lacquered duck with bok choy that I really burned for.

[Autobiographical aside: I was once told by an ex-boyfriend (after much introspection) that the animal I most resembled in character was a duck. I was totally crushed, as I was hoping for a bit more glamorous spirit animal. In retrospect, this game was pretty skewed towards his own egotistical gratification. When I asked what his spirit animal was, he responded that he was “a wolf or maybe a shark.” The “lone wolf” reference certainly wasn’t lost on me, but I wasn’t sure about how the shark might fit in to the veiled conversation we were obviously having about his fear of commitment. Then I remembered that if sharks if stop swimming for even an instant, they die. Man, can I pick ‘em or what? Anyway, apparently I’m fond of eating my spirit animal. I don’t really remember that part of Totem and Taboo.]

So last night, under the auspices of “blog research,” I drug poor M back to Rouammit and Huong Lan.  I pretended to let her look at the menu, but she never had a chance.  I was bound and determined to have that duck and to also sample the rave-worthy Phad Thai.  I think she knew that she was merely a cog in the vast machine of my scheme.  She’s an excellent sport (and perhaps this blog’s biggest fan), so she let me have what I wanted.  It was delicious.  Perhaps best of all, the bill was yet again incredibly reasonable.  Virtually none of the plates are more than 10 euro, making some experimentation practically a necessity.  I saw a heavenly-looking salad pass our table, which I think suspect is the Lap Neua, a spicy concoction of cold veggies, tripe, and beef.  I also lusted after passing plates of  Khao Nom Kroc, artfully arranged shrimp dumplings, and chili-oil spiked mango slices (didn’t write down the name of those).  Let’s just say I’ll be going back.

Details: It’s cheap, delicious, and the staff is unflaggingly friendly.  It’s also crazy-popular.  Get there any later than 7 p.m. for dinner and expect a serious wait time in the street.  Probably not best for bigger parties, though we managed to get a table for six by arriving early. Open 12-3 p.m. for lunch and 7-11 p.m. for dinner Tuesday through Friday, 12-4 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday.  Closed Mondays.

Clarence in Paris: Tokyo Eat

Tokyo Eat at the Palais de Tokyo

13 avenue du Président Wilson, 75116 Paris

Métro: Iéna

Yesterday I went and watched some psychoanalysts fight with each other at the Sorbonne for a few hours. The conference I attended ended with one of the panel members storming off the stage and the other throwing his glasses on the table in frustration. The were fighting over the stakes of a dogmatic reading of one of Lacan’s seminars, which I’m sure to most people would seem like a pretty irrelevant thing to get so bent out of shape about. But this was a niche audience and everyone got really fired up. It was kind of exhausting to witness, though I suppose that my ability to mock an angry French speaker improved immeasurably.

Worn down to a single raw nerve, I met up with my friends afterwards for an evening at the Palais de Tokyo, a museum that I’ve mentioned here before. How to explain the Palais de Tokyo to the uninitiated? It’s a rather enormous, partially unfinished contemporary art museum with no permanent collection. They put on a few large-scale exhibitions a year and have weekly lectures, concerts, film screenings, and other cultural happenings on Thursday nights. On the upside, some of their curatorial work is really sharp and the vastness of the museum space itself allows for certain work to be showcased that might otherwise have difficulty finding adequate museum space. The also have, hand-down, the best Photomaton in Paris (it’s actually nearly impossible to find the black and white kind that make photos in a vertical strip here, Amelie be damned). The downside? Well, sometimes the exhibitions indulge the emptiest trends of contemporary art. The last exhibition at the Palais, Chasing Napoleon, was a good example of the former alternative:  a fascinating group show that hinged upon the idea of the Unabomber as an exemplary escape from the social into a kind of aesthetic isolation. The current exhibition, Pergola, which is supposedly about the haunting of architectural space, is well, let’s just say it’s not that great. It’s the kind of show that makes intelligent people wander around bewildered, musing about how they too can get in to this conceptual art racket and make a killing assembling boxes out of construction-grade plywood. Or maybe that’s just my friends and me.

What’s kind of terrific about the Palais de Tokyo, however, is that even if the art viewing is a total bummer (an entire installation of non-functional pneumatic tubes?  really?!), the bookstore is consistently amusing and the bar and restaurant at the museum are pretty excellent. I’ve told you about the excellent neon lighting at the Tokyo Bar before, but I’ll emphasize again that it is a great place to meet up if you find pinky-orange light to be very flattering (I do). While the service at the bar is comically bad (just order at the bar, because seriously they are never, ever coming to your table), the bartenders are cute guys that certainly provide evidence that my students are wrong to say that there is no such thing as a French hipster.

The restaurant, Tokyo Eat, has a diverse, pseudo-Asian fusion thing going on that provides a nice break from Paris bistro fare. While it’s trendy and kind of expensive (a nine euro milkshake guys?  for that price it better be laced with cocaine), I actually really like eating there. Last night, my friends and I ate the tartare de boeuf au saté et sésame, roquette et frites maison (standard steak tartare/salad/fries with the twist that the tartare was made with a kind of lovely Asian sesame and saté flavor), the pastilla d’agneau aux aubergines et oignons confits et mesclun (a really lovely Moroccan-style lamb pastilla filled with eggplant and onions and served with a heap of salad) and the adorable daurade à la plancha, aubergines confines, et sauce cacahuète (sea bass with roasted eggplant and a peanut sauce). For dessert, we shared the mini macarons d’Hermès, dissident d’Hermé, aux parfums varies (an assortment of macarons served with a “dissident,” which I believe is what they were calling a small piece of lacy caramel).  I’d been eyeing a large display of macaroons in tall milkshake glasses all night, and my friends humored me in ordering one for dessert.  I felt kind of bad when I realized that M doesn’t even really like macarons.  Though how can you dislike macarons?  They are practically the most perfect Parisian foodstuff!  The tourism industry might likely crash to a halt if Ladurée or Fauchon closed their doors!  I’m not going to bore you with a long description of the macaron culture in Paris (there are fifteen other blogs that can do that for you just as well), but I will say that the ones at the Palais de Tokyo are pretty amazing.  While they didn’t have a lemon one (my personal favorite), the assortment of pistachio, rose, vanilla, and passionfruit that they serve is really lovely.  Further proof in my growing pile of evidence that M is actually a Soviet spy.

Details: Lunch and dinner served whenever the museum is open (noon to midnight everyday except Tuesday).  Reservations totally unnecessary.  Dinner service starts at 8 p.m.  A nice alternative to the many overpriced tourist traps in the area (surrounding the Eiffel Tower and the Musée du quai Branly).

Photos via Palais de Tokyo.

Clarence in Paris: Pho Banh Cuon 14

Pho Banh Cuon 14

129 Avenue de Choisy, 75013 Paris

Métro:  Tolbiac

I’ve always been lucky to live in places with excellent Vietnamese food. Growing up in Denver, we often went out for phở on Federal Boulevard when we would ditch class in the afternoons in high school (for the record, I still really like Pho 95 in Denver, popularity be damned.) Moving to Orange County for graduate school yields a few perks, including access to gorgeous beaches and close proximity to Westminster and Garden Grove, where you can take phở eating as seriously as you might in Saigon. While I know that it’s traditionally a breakfast thing, to me phở is most appealing when I’m fighting a cold or when it’s cold and dismal outside. As it’s basically been the latter situation for the past four months in Paris (why, oh why do all the best cities involve WINTER?), I’ve took my phở-finding in this town quite seriously.

I assumed (warning:  political correctness lapse forthcoming) that France’s colonial history in Vietnam would yield a serious wealth of Vietnamese restaurants in Paris. To be honest, so far I’ve been rather disappointed.  I (like my fantasy-friend Mark Bittman), was excited to eat bánh mì in Paris, as it seems like the classic ingredients of phở served on a baguette (with the addition of lovely French things like good pâté) would be the ultimate in French-Vietnamese street food. And my conclusion? Eh. They make some decent bánh mì at Thieng Heng (to the left of the Tang Frères supermarket at 50 rue d’Ivry in the 13th) and Saigon Sandwiches (8 rue de la Présentation in the 11th). Predictibly, the baguettes are better and so is the pâté – though they are closer to the consistency of rillettes at both locations. But compared to the tangy, spicy bánh mì I’ve eaten in New York and Los Angeles, the French versions are bland, bland, bland. Where are the bird chiles or the jalapeños?  Where is the vinegary bite to the carrots and the daikon? Actually, where is the daikon?! This isn’t exactly surprising – the French palate is entirely intolerant of spicy food. The French family that my friend B lives with nearly died when he served them a pretty tame chili con carne. And before anyone starts getting agitated about this minor criticism I’m making of the French palate (I can anticipate the Angry Reader before he even shows up now!), I’ll acquiesce and say that I’m sure my tastebuds have been so damaged by my spicy-food promiscuity that I’m numb to the kind of nuance the average French person takes for granted.

But seriously guys, grow a pair.

Obviously, I’m a terrible food writer because I spend half my entry talking about my preferences before I get to my actual review of the restaurant in question. So anyway, to get to Pho Banh Cuon 14. It’s pretty good! It’s definitely the best phở I’ve found in Paris! And the crowds seem to agree – this place is always packed and you can anticipate standing in line for about ten minutes outside, especially if you are in a larger group of people (I definitely wouldn’t go on a weekend if I was with more than three people). They have a pretty standard list of phở meat options, including rare steak, beef meatballs, tripe, and chicken (no tendon, which is disappointing, and no seafood options, but maybe that is a California thing?). Their phở is served with white onions, greens that resemble dandelion greens, Thai basil, Thai chili peppers, lemon wedges, bean sprouts, and cilantro, as well as the requisite Sriracha (the only thing standing between this spicy-food addict and madness in Paris). The broth is hearty and satisfying, and I believe that they make their rice noodles in house.  In every possible way, this phở gets the job done. They also have some pretty killer fried spring rolls (a bit of a misnomer, as they are entirely filled with pork) and an assortment of drinks involving sweet azuki beans, coconut milk, and tapioca pearls if that is your thing. The staff is friendly and efficient. Would I recommend that you go here if you were in Paris for a weekend? Absolutely not. But if you are spending an extended period of time in Paris and you’ve got certain needs, Pho Banh Cuon 14 is a pretty great place to get those met. Incidentally, how bobo am I to feel like I need decent phở on a regular basis? Talk about a First World problem!

Details: Open everyday from 9 a.m to 11 p.m. They don’t take reservations (obviously, it’s a phở place). Be prepared to wait in the evenings, and avoid bringing a large group. They don’t accept bank or credit cards, and there isn’t an ATM nearby, so come with cash in hand.

Clarence in Paris: Les Diables au Thym

Les Diables au Thym

35 rue Bergère, 75009 Paris

www.lesdiablesauthym.com

Métro:  Grands-Boulevards

March already?  When exactly did that happen?  If anybody ever tells you that moving to Paris will be good in terms of progress on your graduate degree, don’t believe them.  You need to live somewhere like Orange County to be that breed of productive. Give me a cultural wasteland filled with chain restaurants and I’m a higher-learning machine.  Here I’m an unproductive imbecile that spends hours wandering around random neighborhoods muttering to myself about “the light,” stoned on endless glasses of red wine and various forms of animal fat.  It’s pathetic.  I mean, I guess my French is getting better and I know a lot more about wine now and I’ve watched more Italian cinema than you can shake a stick at in the past few months. So I’m not saying I regret it, exactly, but it’s really March?  Huh.

Sorry we’ve been so myopic over here at Keeping the Bear Garden in the Background. I was reading over the last week of posts and every single one is about my crankiness or my sadness or my liver.  How fun for you that must be!  Seriously though, I don’t know if it is more fun for you to read about the things I eat, but I do think that poor little Clarence needs to come out to play.  The detox has turned him into a dour little mope.

Among the many lovely gifts that A gave me during his month here, one thing I’m particularly amped about is my copy of Le petit Lebey des bistrots parisiens 2010.  A downsized version of the Le Guide Lebey, Le petit Lebey focuses entirely on the wealth of bistro cooking available in Paris, making it better suited to my sensibilities and budget.  If a restaurant makes it into the guide, it’s good.  From there, restaurants are given between one and three marmites (those sort of miniature dutch-oven things), indicating bonne cuisine, très bonne cuisine, and un des meilleurs bistros de Paris.  Each entry gives a description of the chef’s style and the general ambiance of the bistro, a detailed list of the types of dishes you can expect to see, and a breakdown of the meal that the reviewer ate (including the wine they chose).  Instead of some ambiguous system of dollar or euro signs that designate abstract ranges in price, Le petit Lebey gives you something like this (sample from the entry on Les Diables au Thym):

Notre repas du 19 mars:  Galantine de viande et confiture d’oignons, poitrine de veau farcie et gratin dauphinois, crème au chocolat.  Prix:  44 € pour ce repas avec un verre de haut-médoc et un verre de côtes-roannaises.

I suspect that my readers are the type of people who would finds this kind of detail incredibly comforting.  I don’t mind spending some money on a meal, but it’s nice to go into a situation with a sense of what that is going to look like.  Moreover, wherever you find yourself in the city, Le petit Lebey is likely to have some recommendations nearby.  It’s broken down by arrondissement and even in areas I wouldn’t have imagined, they list several seriously delicious-sounding places. A’s rationale for buying it for me was that in addition to all of the above, it’s also purse-sized.  Sadly, instead I’ve been keeping it by my bed and reading it with the same kind of late-night fervor that I imagine a 14-year-old boy might use to peruse a porno mag.  To each their own.

When my friend O was in town for the theater, I was pleased to bust out my new guide when looking for a restaurant close to the theater.  I quickly found the two-marmite ranked Les Diables au Thym, the work of Chef Eric Lassauce.  They have a wonderfully laid-out website that also allows you to make reservations online, a nice feature when you are trying to make dinner plans for that evening but are stuck in that midday rut in which restaurants don’t answer the phone.  When I exited the métro at Grands-Boulevards, I had a moment of skepticism when I was confronted with a large Hard Rock Cafe.  My stomach sank as I searched for the restaurant as I was convinced that I was a Big Fat Failure of a Parisian resident who managed to pick a shitty restaurant in a shitty part of town for one of my friend’s only evenings here.  The area seemed to be crammed with every tourist trap available to the discerning Parisian palate, including Leon des Bruxelles (with their Denny’s-style Technicolor pictures on the menu) and Indiana (because when I think Tex-Mex, I definitely think Indiana).  To my surprise, however, Les Diables au Thym is a darling little place tucked away on a side street and sparely decorated with an eclectic collection of lamps and some nice collages.  We were the first people there (when exactly DO people eat if they are going to the theater in this town?), but they were incredibly welcoming of us.

Okay, here’s the part I know you’re hot for:  what we ate.  In addition to some killer-sounding dishes à la carte, Les Diables au Thym has a lovely menu that allows for you to select an entrée, plat, and dessert for 28 € (22 € at lunch).  I chose the salade de lentilles, haddock, œuf mollet; the poitrine de porc braisée, aux carottes; and the marquise au chocolat noir aux oranges confites.  My entrée of lentils were cooked with lardons and topped with iridescent, salty hunks of smoked haddock and a poached egg, whose yolk spilled deliciously over the whole affair.  My pork was arrived on a beautiful slab of stone and had a golden, caramelized layer of skin over the falling-apart and perfectly moist meat.  It was served with candied carrots and pearl onions that had a strong flavor of chili and anise in addition to the sweetness.  Really killer.  Finally, my marquise au chocolat noir, which I can sometimes find to be texturally uninteresting, was filled with pistachios, making for a lovely crunch in addition to the sweetness of the chocolate and the tang of the bitter orange sauce.  O had an entrée of galantine de canard, chutney de mangue; a fricassée de calamars au “Rigatoni” for her main course, and a baba au rhum, crème chantilly for dessert.  She seemed underwhelmed by her meal and said that the galantine de canard was especially bland.  The calamari in her pasta dish was lovely, however, and her baba was light and effervescent.  We shared a nice Saint-Émilion, I don’t remember which, but the wine list is excellently curated.  I keep using “curated” to describe these culinary decisions – is that food-writing blasphemy?  Oh well, I like it.

Details: What a nice place this would be to go for a peaceful lunch or dinner, especially if you were foolish enough to endure shopping in the enormous crowds at the big department stores on Boulevard Haussmann.  Certainly beats most of the other options in the area.  You can make reservations online.  Closed on Saturdays for lunch and all day Sunday.  The menu in particular is a wonderful nosh for the money (like I said earlier, 28 € at dinner, 22 € at lunch).