Food Memories: My First Bistro

And a recipe for my favourite bistro dessert

The fantasy Parisian bistro (this one À l'Épi d'Or) is not always so easy to find.

My first visit to France was in 1983. It was a school trip, and what I recall most was that we spent a lot of time in a tour bus, a lot of time in churches (I went to a Catholic school), and a lot of time eating lousy French food.

On the night we arrived, we were taken to a convent where, in a basement dining room, we were served a watery potage parmentier (leek and potato soup). With odours bleach wafting around me, I sat there slurping back the sad soup, wondering whether convent meals were planned for the entire trip.

Unfortunately not. From then on, most meals were eaten in cafeteria-style restaurants where we were handed a coupon and lined up for awful hamburger steak, frozen French fries and wilted salads, all washed down with bottles of Orangina.

Growing up surrounded by food magazines, I was all too aware that Paris was the capital of gastronomy. But what I was witnessing was downright grim. With visions of pâté en croûte, tournedos Rossini, and poire belle Hélène dancing in my jet-lagged head, I quickly snapped into reality and sulked my way through every meal. Admittedly my expectations were high, but was a simple jambon beurre too much to ask?

By the end of the trip, the future restaurant critic in me had complained enough about the food to gather several friends by my side and plan a mutiny of sorts. There was no way, I explained to my newfound band of foodie friends, that we could leave Paris without having enjoyed a proper French restaurant. They all nodded in agreement, until I floated the idea of going out to eat on our own dime, when half of the gang desisted, more interested in splurging on souvenirs than an authentic soupe à l'oignon.

On our final day in Paris, after a particularly grim lunch, I made my way to the teachers’ table and told them that I, along with three of my loyal gourmet friends wanted to eat our last meal in a restaurant of our choice. To my complete surprise, the teachers agreed, no doubt envious of my plan after having eaten all the dreck themselves.

Surprised by this unexpected turn of events, I was now faced with the task of finding a restaurant. We were in Montmartre in the 18th arrondissement, where there was no lack of small French restaurants. This, I thought, would be easy. I grabbed my equally foodie friend Shirin and the two of us went out in search of the perfect restaurant to end our trip on a high note.

Turns out finding the perfect little resto français wasn’t as simple as we expected, especially in such a touristy quartier. The establishments were either too pricey or too shady. With time running out, we were getting a little desperate, so I was ready to compromise. OK, it didn’t have to be Maxim’s or Lasserre, I told Shirin, we could even settle for a café. But my one request was that there couldn’t be a pinball machine in the restaurant. That may seem like an unusual demand, but for some odd reason, in 1983, almost every casual restaurant we visited that day had a pinball machine twinkling somewhere in the background. Non merci!

When we had all but given up hope, we entered what looked like the perfect bistrot. The owner approached us, we explained exactly what we were looking for, and he assured us he would set everything up. Goody goody!

Excited as all get out, we ran back to the basilique du Sacré-Cœur to get our two other friends and headed back to our chosen spot for dinner. Upon arrival we were thrilled to see the owner now decked out in the full French waiter tuxedo regalia, and our banquette beautifully set with a white tablecloth and flowers.

We pooled our spending money (relieved that the Canadian dollar did well against the French franc), and immediately ordered a bottle of — you guessed it! — Moët & Chandon Champagne. The waiter popped the cork with much ceremony, then handed me the little wire cage around the cork (a.k.a. the muselet), which I kept by my bedside for years. As for the meal — you guessed it again! — we ordered escargots, pepper steak and profiteroles. I mean, what else would a 16-year-old want to eat in Paris?

The experience was an absolute dream. I recall loving all the food and relishing every comment from our waiter, a charming Frenchman obviously enchanted with his enthusiastic Canadian customers. The evening was a complete success until the moment Shirin pulled me over and pointed to the back of the restaurant. There, next to the restrooms, was a pinball machine. We laughed and shrugged. There’s a moral in there somewhere, like don’t judge a restaurant by its pinball machine.

As my sister lives in Paris, I’ve returned to this magnificent city dozens of times since, and have written about my favourite restaurants and bistros just as often. But that first Paris restaurant experience still ranks right up there. Maybe it was because we were in Paris, the setting of Gigi, Funny Face, Jules et Jim, and even The Aristocats. Maybe it was because we were easy to impress. Or maybe it was because we wanted to do things our own way — and succeeded! Probably all three. But in my case, that early experience instilled a desire for countless culinary adventures to come. Every time I land in Paris, my first thought is always, “where should we go for dinner?”

Oh as as for the address. I wouldn’t have a clue. I searched my files for a picture, but alas, none was found. I’d almost think it was a fantasy if I didn’t have my friends to confirm that visit, now exactly 40 years ago. But there are so many bistros today to choose from so if you need recommendations, I have many in this post here. And in my next post, I’ll be featuring two more. And I promise, not a pinball machine in sight!

Meanwhile, here is my recipe for profiteroles:

Profiteroles

for 32 choux