Passionfruit Butter

I love world travel.
I love spontaneity.
I love the instantly laid-back mentality we get from leaving home and obligations.
I love the idea of drifting wherever I find myself in my temporary new habitat.

That said, I’m also neurotic. More importantly, I’m fully cognizant that the same relaxation we love to savor when we see new places can pass us by in the blink of an eye, and before we know it, we’re packing our bags, heading to customs, and rubbing our heads bemusedly, wondering how it is that we missed such an OBVIOUS landmark or restaurant while we were sequestered away in our destination.

Which is why, when we went to Paris, I was not content to simply bask in the romance of the City of Light. So, while maintaining my permanent shun on all things resembling strict itineraries, I compiled, categorized, and compartmentalized to optimize our sightings and tastings to the short seven days we’d have in Paris, still allowing plenty of wiggle room for impulsive decisions or last-minute changes. Well, the first night found me before I could organize anything, so I closed my eyes and picked a random restaurant on one of the many printed-out pages I had from all the websites, blogs, and online articles I’d found to guide me through Paris, beyond the hollow clichés and into the more profound gems. Les Côtelettes, for being arbitrarily chosen, fit the bill to a T. With its oodles of charm, small dining room, and well-kept-secret ambiance, I couldn’t have asked for a better welcome to Paris. It’s not where you’ll get steak frites and other bistro favorites, but that’s only because it’s a notch up.

Thatched ceilings are genuine, not kitschy or contrived; immediately upon entering this darling little niche of a restaurant, nestled on a narrow rue in the Marais (just a short walk from the Bastille métro stop), you can tell the place has a history. Still, high ceilings and clean fixings on floor level keep the place from feeling at all musty, so the place feels quaint and intimate but still modern and fresh. Always a good sign.

simple, pillowy gnocchi

salmon ceviche

It took one look at the menu to realize that the French I used to take the AP exam and further learned while at summer school in Nice wouldn’t do worlds of good in our menu perusal. Luckily, our waitress was cheerful and gracious (antithetical to the gloomy stereotypes of prissy Parisians), using her English whenever possible to help us out so we knew what we were getting into. We settled on these two dishes to start. The gnocchi were simply and skillfully done, a relic of Italian cuisine done with that notorious French mastery and meticulous attention to detail. The presence of tomato was clear but subdued, mellow sweetness commingling swimmingly with salty cheese. The sauce just happened to be creamy; it was a far cry from the soupy, extravagant Cream Sauces defined by viscosity rather than any common, pronounced flavor. Everyone else at the table gobbled the ceviche, but the crisp cleanness of the fish itself was lost in a waxy consistency that I just couldn’t look past.

entrecote of beef with potato gratin

wild sea bass atop lemon risotto

I was eager to start my French frolicking with a nice piece of steak, so I got the entrecôte. I didn’t take it bleu, the way the French prefer, but I did ask for saignante (literally, bleeding) – there’s nothing like the rush of juice that comes with first slice. Surprisingly, I liked the steak, but I loved the potatoes. The meat was cooked to such a blushing shade of fuchsia, and each bite I took was a bonbon of sweet, throbbing, unmistakable beef flavor; my one qualm was that there wasn’t nearly enough meat amidst the band of fat that surrounded and permeated the cut. Take a look at any of the desserts I make and devour and you’ll see that I’m not anti-fat; I just wish the fat in meat would incorporate itself as stealthily as butter in cake. So, then, using a dull knife to steer clear of those large fat wads and instead cut a piece of that sumptuous meat in such a way that it could shine through for all that it was… well, that was a bit of a killjoy. The potatoes, though, were a godsend, with thin layers enveloping a comforting béchamel that was warmed with a good bit of nutmeg and an oven-crisp bubbly-brown top that felt like home.
The sea bass belonged to Jenna, so I was spared just a bite or two. It was a good piece of fish, if a bit strange with the risotto, which wasn’t cooked to my liking. If nothing else, it was a definite harkening back to the chef’s Italian influence that was clear with the gnocchi earlier. What matters is that Jenna liked it.

The waitress brought us a sweet little dish of sliced zucchini with olive oil and pine nuts to lighten up our heavy meals. That was a sweet, charming touch that made me feel like I wasn’t at all in Paris. I loved, I loved, I loved this, and always fell back on it when I needed a break from my relentless steak-sawing and fat-gnawing. Such a simple preparation struck a chord. Every bite just felt very… honest. Simple. Unadulterated. Hence my love affair with this top tier of fresh produce.

Wrapped up the evening on a good note with a bottle of rosé. My jetlagged, sated, slightly tipsy (this was the second bottle we shared with Mom and Neil) self didn’t store many notes on this to memory. All I remember is that it was perfectly good.

Les Côtelettes
4, Impasse Guéménée
Paris, France 75004
01 42 72 08 45