Category: paris restaurants

This is how we do it in America

So I guess it all started yesterday morning, when I awoke to an e-mail from my dear friend J, who sadly left Paris last week to return to Southern California.  The e-mail announced that she and her longtime boyfriend BC (who is still here in Paris for a few more weeks) got engaged last week an hour or so before her plane took off. I couldn’t be more delighted about this news, as I can’t really imagine a more awesome couple than this one. They wanted to keep the news on the down low until they informed everyone in their (large) families, so BC has been pokerfaced all week during numerous hangouts. I decided that a celebration was in order, so I enlisted the help of B and S.  S is staying with me for a few days before he too leaves Paris for the States, so there is a definite end-times vibe in the air. We decided that there was no better celebratory meal for a bunch of expats in the Paris than a huge Tex-Mex feast. B’s visiting friends from Indiana recently brought him a suitcase full of Old El Paso delights, including pickled jalapeños and escabèche, dubious-looking “mild taco” and “cheesy burrito” seasoning packets, and mysteriously shelf-stable flour tortillas. These, coupled with a bottle of Tapatio that S had from birthday care package from the States and a few Haas avocados that surfaced at my local vegetable market last week, formed the basis of our fajita blowout.

It’s a trick to make anything Mexican in France, as this country wholly eschews spicy food. S and I went to three or four different markets yesterday in an attempt to purchase something vaguely resembling a fresh jalapeño or serrano or even poblano chile. We ended up with the equivalent of bell peppers shaped like poblanos, the appeal of which is completely lost on me.   We improvised, and I concocted a pretty killer (if I do say so myself) steak marinade by food processing together some garlic cloves, cilantro, Bermuda onions, lime juice, “mild taco” seasoning, smuggled-in chile powder, and olive oil.  We got most of the heat in our pico de gallo and guacamole from the aforementioned can of pickled jalapeños and escabèche that was hand-carried to us from South Bend, Indiana. France appears to be the place where avocados come to die, but the ones I picked up last week were pretty decently textured, if totally bland. I coaxed a mediocre guacamole to life, using copious amounts of lime juice, cilantro, and a spoonful of Maille mayonnaise. The mayo is trick my mother taught me. In a pinch, it gives your guacamole that fatty taste that good avocados have when, well, you don’t have good avocados. It sounds gross, but it works. S whipped up a gallon or so of pico de gallo, which he kicked into action with the vinegar from the canned jalapeños. Finally, we found some Colby cheese masquerading as “imported Cheddar” at Monoprix.

The result:

As it was a celebration, we kicked off the evening with a shots of tequila and a bottle of champagne, followed by two carafes full of my splendid homemade margaritas (equal parts lime juice, Cointreau, and tequila, with simple syrup to taste). You can see B pouring the first round from what looks like a bottle of Muscadet. At this point in the evening, we were actually reusing glassware! Organic champagne and recycling! How far we had to fall!

In case you didn’t get the memo, smoking kills:

Frying up those huge plates of peppers, onions, and steak was no small feat in my miniature kitchen on my glorified hot plates. By the time I was finished the entire apartment was filled with smoke and the floors were slicked down with grease. Thank goodness smoke detectors are something that only paranoid Americans have. The dinner was a wild success, if somewhat a disappointment as the guys seemed way more amped to about talk about the World Cup (go Côte d’Ivoire!) than the wedding. I wished that J was here to celebrate with us so that she and I could have geeked out on the romantic stuff. Oh well. She was missed.

I don’t know whether to attribute the events that followed to the two six packs of beer we somehow consumed, or the rather toxic (if strangely delicious!) French tequila we were drinking. It might also have been the two dusty Desperados (tequila-flavored beer!) that our British friends had brought to a party a few months back that I inexplicably decided to drink. All I know is that by 10 p.m. or so I was out for the count and had crawled into bed to pass out. I vaguely remember that the boys were going down to the river to finish off another round of margaritas (classy!). I also recall B patting my head saying in a soothing voice that he would take care of cleaning up the mess.

At two a.m. I awoke to the feeling that my brain was caving in on itself. Finding myself alone in the apartment, I surveyed the damage. Every single surface of my apartment seemed to be coated in congealed grease. Somehow the bowl of pico de gallo had been upended and there were chunks of tomato and vinegary juice covering the table and dripping onto the floor. As I stared dismayed at the carnage, S and B stumbled in. That they even made it back to my apartment was a miracle, as neither of them could enunciate or even walk very well. I quickly realized that they were going to be no help and sent them to bed. I was now decidedly in the hangover phase of my evening, so I pushed up my sleeves and got to work cleaning.

Around this time it became clear that B wasn’t kidding when he said the tequila really doesn’t agree with him. He ran into the kitchen needing to barf, but S was in the bathroom attempting to drunkenly extricate his contact lenses from his eyes. I yelled at S to get the hell out of the bathroom and passed B the trashcan, which he eschewed for some reason much to my bewilderment. He somehow made it to the toilet that time, but wasn’t quite as lucky in one of his six or seven subsequent trips, as I discovered when I slipped and nearly fell on a puddle of vomit in my living room. S wandered into the kitchen and carefully washed a single spoon, sighing with the sheer magnitude of his effort as he placed it on the dishrack and declaring that he felt dizzy. Realizing he was worthless in this state, I shooed him out of the kitchen and back to bed. I cleaned for an hour or so, breaking two wine glasses in the process. After I finally managed to mop up all the grease, pico de gallo, barf, and glass shards, I placed Advil and glasses of water near their S and B’s heads, and fell asleep muttering about how somebody better be buying me brunch tomorrow.

The three of us awoke midmorning with terrible hangovers and a lingering concern about what had happened to our friend BC along the way. S and B gradually pieced together the Seine portion of the evening. S said that he knew B was in trouble when eight or nine of his comments began with “Well, you know, where I’m from in Indiana…” followed by a total conversational non sequitur. Apparently the guys had decided it was appropriate to bring glassware down to the banks of river to drink their margaritas, some of which ended up broken and tossed in the Seine for emphasis. Let’s just say it wasn’t a banner night for Americans in Paris.

In light of this, we decided to do as hungover Americans do and get a big, greasy breakfast, paid for by the guy who barfed on the floor. None of us had yet been to the much-hyped Breakfast in America, which leads us to the following installment of Clarence in Paris.

Breakfast in America is a rather gimmicky establishment that was founded by some dude from Connecticut who missed proper American breakfasts when he moved to Paris to become a screenwriter. They’ve expanded the whole concept and the two branches of BIA (puke) are more or less simulacra of a generic American diners, complete with bottomless cups of drip coffee, Elvis on the stereo, and red Naugahyde booths.  In addition to a variety of Denny’s-style breakfast offerings available throughout the day, they also have a wide selection of sandwiches and burgers in the afternoons.

All that said, I resolved early on in this whole blarg experiment that I would only write reviews of restaurants I actually like and could say nice things about. I find myself conflicted as I don’t have too many nice things to say about Breakfast in America. The burgers were overcooked and tasteless, the bacon was limp, the pancakes were cold, and the coffee was sour and totally toxic (I suspect that this is their way of cutting back on the demand for refills). What kind of American diner doesn’t serve ice in their Coke? What kind of American diner doesn’t stock Tabasco? What kind of American diner doesn’t have air conditioning? Look, I’m all about a restaurant built around a stupid shtick (in fact, I’m cultivating a pretty serious fantasy about opening the first build-your-own burrito joint in Paris). There was just so much wrong with this place and I can’t imagine why it is so popular both with Parisians and Americans living abroad. If I ever find myself in this unfortunate condition again in the future, I plan to skip BIA and get a decent burger or omelet at any of the neighboring French restaurants.

Details:  If you find yourself wildly hungover in Paris and think that Breakfast in America might just be the stomach-coating ticket, well, you’re wrong.  Avoid it.

Clarence in Paris: Rosa Bonheur

Rosa Bonheur

in Parc des Buttes Chaumont

2, allée de la Cascade
75019 Paris

Métro: Botzaris (Ligne 7 Bis)

So I’m not the first self-loathing hipster to wax poetic about Rosa Bonheur, and I certainly won’t be the last. The concept is just so stellar.  It starts with one gorgeous, off the beaten path, Parisian park. Buttes Chaumont is surely my favorite public garden in Paris. It seriously makes me feel like I’m in Mirbeau’s torture garden minus all the gore (bonus points if you get that reference, and let’s be friends). This might have something to do with the fact that B erroneously told me that this was a major site for public executions in the eighteenth century (it wasn’t).  While not nearly as tightly manicured as the Jardin du Luxembourg or the Jardin des Plantes (my other favorite places to go on a sunny day), Buttes Chaumont makes up for it with traditionally styled English and Chinese gardens. The space began as a limestone and gypsum quarry, leaving the space full of miniature mountains and cliffs that you can climb up to ex(e/o)rcise your inner mountaineer. The park also has a large lake that contains both a grotto with an enclosed 65-foot high waterfall and an island accessible by a 200-foot long suspension bridge (aptly nicknamed the “suicide bridge”). The island itself is a verdant, craggy peak, atop which sits the belvedere of Sybil. Wikipedia informs me that the belvedere was added to the park in 1869 and is a Corinthian-style monument, modeled after the ancient Roman temple of Sybil in Tivoli, Italy. I’ll inform you that it is one of my favorite views in Paris.

Here’s an old timey map of the park:

See that little building called “Pavilion du Chemin de Fer”?  Well, since it was a railway outpost had many culinary incarnations, including this one from the nineteenth century:

The people at Rosa Bonheur renovated this amazing historic building to be a sort of bobo wonderland, complete with two bars with cheap rosé, yummy snacks, lots of outdoor seating, great music, and a view of the sunset.  Here’s the outside in 2010:

And the inside:

The food is built around the wonderfully simple concept that you can eat everything accompanied by a brown paper bag of freshly sliced baguette.  On a recent visit, our spread looked like this:

Clockwise from the top, that’s an aged comté, slices of spicy chorizo, black olive and fig tapenade, dry sausage, and a lovely jar of duck rillettes.  At a couple of euros for each component with a big bag of bread, you can put together quite a picnic.  Pair that with some cold beers or a bottle of rosé and you’ve got yourself a nice lazy afternoon.

The logistics are kind of heavy on this place.  First of all, the park itself is on the bizarre line 7 bis, a one-way, miniature subway line complete with a short train and a maddeningly slow schedule.  B refuses to even take it and insists on walking from Jourdain on line 11.  I’d recommend instead that you suck it up, take the 7 bis, and get off at Bozartis.  As you exit the métro, the park will be on your right hand side.  Walk up about a block to the entrance, then veer left on the path about another block to Rosa.  You can obviously enter the park anywhere, but it can sometimes be quite a hike to get to Rosa if you start at the bottom of the hill.  You can think of it as earning those rillettes.

My favorite time to go to Rosa is in the afternoon, as it is bar none one of the best places to laze away with friends on a sunny day.  The park gates close at 7 p.m. and Rosa becomes kind of a scene, with hoards of Chuck Taylor and tortoiseshell glasses clad hipsters waiting at the gates to be slowly let in by an unamused park security guard.  So if you want to go there for the evening, just show up at six so that you can get in to the park without a wait.  Try and snag one of the tables to your right as you enter the restaurant if you want a killer view of the sunset and the envy of the coolest kids in Paris.

Details:  I think I’ve covered it, though Rosa also has a very comprehensive website, from which I lifted both the map and the old photo of the pavilion.  Sometimes their hours get funky with the change of the seasons or private events, so it’s worth visiting their website or Facebook page if you are planning a visit.  On another note, it’s a very friendly place for kids and dogs, both of which run around in joyous abundance.

Clarence in Paris: Higuma

Higuma

32 bis rue Saint Anne, 75001 Paris

Métro:  Pyramides

Oh, that’s right, I have a blog.

Don’t think for a second I forgot about you, dearest reader. In fact, I would describe the past two weeks as being consumed with “gnawing guilt” that I’ve neglected you so throughly. Well, gnawing guilt and finals time at the university where I teach and a steady stream of visitors from all over the place. It also got hot, suddenly, and I’m worthless when I’m sweaty. Any kind of weather extreme and I lose all desire to do anything other than sit around and complain about how uncomfortable I am. I’m a real charmer.

One thing that has kept me rolling the past month or so has been the discovery of Higuma, the Japanese ramen place that I fantasized might exist in previous entries. The Little Tokyo area of Paris is rather oddly located in the heart of the first arrondissement, so if you find yourself barfed onto the street with the rest of the hoards after the claustrophobia-inducing exercise that is touring the Louvre, I would highly recommend that you skip all the overpriced “French” tourist traps in the area and instead head to rue Sainte Anne for some noodle-based fortification. You won’t regret it.

My friend S (now temporarily bereft of H) had highly recommended Higuma as he often frequents it when he stays in a gorgeous apartment owned by family friends on the same block (color me virescent with drooling envy). Sainte Anne is packed with terrific-looking sushi and noodle shops, many of which attract lines that would suggest that good cooking is afoot. The line is always longest at Higuma, however:

But it moves fast! Really fast, actually, as this is one of the few places in Paris where puttering around over your empty plates is highly frowned upon by both the staff and the line of famished patrons who watch you slurp every last noodle.

As you can see, the front dining room is dominated by the open kitchen, where you watch skillful chefs with seemingly fireproof hands and faces prepare your food. As far as I’m concerned, watching my meal come to life is the most entertaining show imaginable. Some internet naysayers complain that you leave Higuma smelling of meaty smoke and pungent spices.  Yes, you do. I can’t think of a more delightful thing to smell of. I can just imagine this high maintenance chick who is worried about her blowout smelling like ramen. Trust me, sweetie, that hot guy at the bar would rather you smell like pork than tropical flower cotton candy any day of the week.

The first time we ate at Higuma was at around 6 p.m., a weird time for Parisians to eat so found the place nearly empty (good advice for people like my mother who are congenitally incapable of waiting in line for long periods of time). B and I decided to try some ramen before we went to the Deerhunter show at La Maroquinerie. While I can’t say much for the study-abroad crowd attracting, vaguely monotonous stylings of Deerhunter, I can say that another delightful discovery of the evening (besides Higuma) was the opening act, a lovely woman who—with a set of laptops—goes by Bachelorette and makes dreamy fun electronic pop. My favorite cyborg moment so far of the year was when she announced in her little voice “We are Bachelorette, me and the laptops. (Pause). Nous sommes Bachelorette!” Love love this lady, check her out.  “Donkey” has totally been my jam for the past few weeks.

Back to the food. Sorry.

So there’s of course the ramen (spelled ‘lamen’) and it’s all things you want ramen to be: vaguely fatty, salty, hearty, and rich. Pictured is the miso lamen (6.50€), which has a nice mellow character to it:

I’d also recomment the shio lamen (6.50€), which is a great basic vehicle if you are like me and tend to douse your noodles with every condiment available on the table (in this case, a delightfully piquant chile oil and the requisite orangey MSG powder). I wouldn’t recommend the syoyu ramen (6.50€), as its soy-sauce based broth is a bit too salty for my taste (and my palate can handle a veritable sodium bonanza on occasion).

A lovely option (and a real “feeder” as my pops would say), are Higuma’s menus (10€), which include a main dish as well as an entrée. Worth their weight in pan-fried gold are these delicious little pork and veggie gyoza:

If you live back in the States and have a Trader Joe’s nearby, you surely know the joy that is having a freezer full of gyoza for your snacking pleasure. God I miss Trader Joe’s. Good gyoza are rather rare here in Paris and should be savored. Twice now at Higuma B’s gyoza have become communal property, and while he is too nice of a guy to admit that he doesn’t want to share, I can see a deep sadness in his eyes when everybody digs in to his dumplings. Sorry kid.

There are also some really toothsome rice dishes, including this katsudon (8€) of pork, onions, and egg over fried rice, pictured with a mediocre miso and a most interesting pickled radish thing:

I’d also really recommend the chahan (8€, also available in a menu as half portion with your choice of ramen for 10€). I don’t have a picture, as I forgot my camera that particular time. This pork, shrimp, and veggie fried rice dish doesn’t look like much when it arrives, but it is the apex of buttery, fatty, fried rice goodness. I ate nearly all of B’s portion when he ordered the chahan menu. Poor guy, he can’t even keep his food on his plate when Clarence is hungry.

I know you are already chomping at the bit to go to Higuma, but I haven’t even told you about the best part yet. And by “best” I mean consciousness-altering, game-changing, oh-my-god-where-have-you-been-the-past-rainy-six-months-of-my-life delish:

This is some serious yakisoba (7.50€) people. Tender pork, even tenderer calamari, oyster mushrooms, sautéed vegetables, grated ginger, and fried noodles in a spicy, salty, oh-so-heavenly sauce. This dish is umami personified. Variety be damned, I don’t plan on ordering anything else, ever.

Details:  There will be a line, but do you really have anything better to do? Meals are cheap, cheap, cheap, especially for that area of town. Beer is less cheap, but split a giant Sapporo with your date and spend the rest of your boozing money on extra gyoza. Open late and every day of the week. Done and done.

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Addendum:  My friend T–a first-order Japanophile, Paris denizen, and generally swell guy–had quite a mouthful to say about this post.  As he posted it on Facebook instead of the blog, I’m pasting it below. If there is anybody who has done his homework on Japanese food in Paris, it’s certainly him.

Higuma is pretty good, especially given the price, but you should definitely try Kunitoraya, the restaurant with the wooden facade just across the street and South a few metres.

I find the quality of the food to be much better (the katsudon is quite good), and, while I generally prefer ramen to udon, the udon at Kunitoraya is fantastic. Everything is super authentic (down to the staff, who barely speak French or English). It costs slightly more, but it’s definitely worth it. Their oden (which I suspect won’t be available in the summer) is also wonderful.

The butter corn ramen at Higuma (as strange as it sounds) is pretty good. It’s fairly popular in Hokkaido, and it only makes sense to make it with delicious French butter (though Ben will surely be disappointed by the corn).

(FYI: the orange spice blend is 七味唐辛子 (shichimi togarashi), and is MSG-free — in case anyone has an aversion to MSG.)

Whew.  Consider me schooled.

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.