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L'Ardoise, Paris

L'Ardoise
28 rue du Mont-Thabor
75001 PARIS

Date of Last Visit: Thursday, June 4, 2009

The Victims: Too many to mention.

The Damage: Unknown! Our CFO paid.

The Background: I was excited, of course, to go to Paris for work. But the fact that Craig and his wife Leann would be there at the same time made me look forward to the trip even more. I know I can always count on them for organizing a great evening.

Craig told me about a little restaurant he had been to the night before and how much he and Leann had liked it. So based on his rave reviews, we booked a return trip--this time, for nine people.

The Entrance: We enter and are shown our own private dining room. How great is this? (The only bad part is that our private dining room is on the way to the toilets.) We make ourselves comfortable and proceed to rearrange all the tables.

Ummm...Only to find out that this is not our table. We don't have a private dining room. We've got a table upstairs in the corner. Whoops. Luckily not our fault.

The Ordering: I steer clear of my co-worker from yesterday's lunch at Georgette this time around. Luckily, there are no paper menus, just a large blackboard. There are also no little toothpicks around, so I can't poke anybody's eyes out.

I do agree to share the cuissot de chevreau roti with the same co-worker, however. (And although I don't know what cuissot means--my French colleagues tell me "shin"; Google Translate says "leg"--I do know that chevreau means goat.) I also take our server's suggestion of the prawn starter, which isn't  even listed on the blackboard.

The Starters: We're brought a couple of boards of saucison. Great stuff. And then my prawns arrive, and I haven't stopped thinking about them since. They're served individually, each prawn in its own little pot of red wine, with a great buttery garlicky crouton on top. It was all I could do NOT to drink the remaining red wine in all the pots. Oh to be dining alone! (I did, however, help myself to some bread to sop it all up.)



The Mains: After a while, my colleagues insisted that I stop calling my main "baby goat." But the problem is, that's how my French colleagues first described to me. As I reviewed the menu, I said, "Well, that says goat" and they said, "Well, it more like baby goat. And what's that part of the leg? The lower part? Shin! Shin, yes. It's "baby goat shin." (Kinda like "baby fish mouth"? If you know what I'm talking about.) Well, the goat, baby or not, was delicious.

The Dessert: I'm not normally a huge crème brûlée fan, but again, I went with our server's recommendation. This was billed as a raspberry crème brûlée, which I figured was because of the raspberry sorbet on top. How wrong I was! This was full of plump raspberries. Fantastic.

The Verdict: This was a very happy meal. I left very happy. I would gladly go back here, and I would gladly recommend L'Ardoise to friends. And strangers.

P.S. Should I warn you that you're going to have to put up with a few non-London restaurant reviews in the coming days? Paris first, Madrid next! But I will try to mix up the reviews in between.

Georgette, Paris

Georgette
29, rue Saint-Georges
Paris, France 75009

Date of Last Visit: Thursday, June 4, 2009

The Victim: Colleague from Paris office

The Damage: Unknown, he paid.

The Background: Every so often, I learn something new about myself. In hindsight, many of these new things are maybe not surprising. But for me, at the time, they're revelations.

So it was when my co-worker took me out to lunch in Paris. He took me to the little cafe, Georgette, in the 9th. He had heard good things from his co-workers. And I'd generally agree with those good things. But...

The Entrance: Georgette is sunny and open and colorful. It seems to be run by women and a quick look at Zagats confirms that. We grab a seat and a server promptly arrives at our table. She speaks to both of us, but as I can only ask for the check in French, I have no idea what she's saying.

My colleague looks at me and looks at the menu (he's holding two: mine, his) and then he looks back at me. He says, "Do you like prawns?" I say "Well, yes, prawns are okay." (Knowing in the back of my mind that this is France and they will be prawns served still in their shells, which I just am not good with.)

He hands the menus back to the server and it's done.

It's done.

He's ordered my food for me. I haven't even had a chance to look at the menu. (And while I can't speak French, I know enough food nouns to be dangerous.) And really, he hasn't looked at the menu either!

I am seething.

Seething! I don't even know what I'm having. I have no idea what just transpired. How did this happen?

I ask my colleague if the prawns are going to be served in their shells, and he says, "Maybe. Probably." And I watch plate after plate come out of the kitchen and indeed, the prawns are served in their shells.

I wouldn't describe myself as a person who gets angry--tense, yes, angry no. But the wave of anger I felt rushing over me as I thought of all the delicious things on that menu that I would never get to try...arrggghhh. I wanted to poke somebody's eyes out with the toothpicks that came with our tiny little olives.

The Food: "It" arrives. And it's fine. The shells on the prawns have already been prepared so they can be removed easily. It's a fresh summery dish. But honestly, I can't concentrate on it because I seriously WANT TO SEE THE MENU.

The Verdict: Georgette was nice. But warning: unless it's Chinese or tapas, don't order my food for me. Or I'll poke your eyes out.

P.S. I know this is a terrible "restaurant review." I also know that I am a terrible person. Sorry.

Pierre Hermé Paris

Pierre Hermé
72, Rue Bonaparte
Paris

Date of Last Visit: Friday, April 10th, 2009

The Victim: Dad

The Damage: About 9 euros

The Background: I'm taking dad to Paris and Champagne for Easter. I've told him we can do anything he wants. I only have three things I want to do.  Pierre Hermé is one of them.

I forget how many stairs there are in Paris. My 68 year old dad is a trooper. We are on and off metros and up and down stairs and then there we are, at Pierre Hermé. I explain to my father that it's the place with the long line outside.

Everyone in the line is either American or Japanese. It's funny. A little.

The Entrance: The line moves rather quickly and I explain to my dad that we're not here for the pastries. We're here for the macarons. He says he's had macarons before, but I know he hasn't. He's thinking the coconut and chocolate ones that we'd get a lot back on the Island. (The Long one.)

The Service: Sweet. Attentive. I tell the man it's his choice and I want just six. He loads me up. I wish I could tell you what flavors I had, but I was given no notes. Nor did I take any. So you will have to live with the photos...

And my little purchase...

The Verdict: These were good. I liked them. But you know--they seemed just a little too soft and fragile. I know macarons don't travel well, but seriously, these died so much earlier than the ones I've purchased from Yauatcha and Ladurée. They demanded to be eaten. Immediately.

And I obliged.

The Verdict: Still a good visit in Paris. Smaller than I expected. And the macarons? Well, just a bit too soft.

Berthillon, Paris

Need I say anything, really? And yes, I did take a bite of the lovely almond-y bit in my Berthillon ice cream sundae before I snapped this photo.

Rue Cler, Paris

Date of Last Visit: May 3rd and 4th

The Victims: Aunt Ursula and Uncle George

The Damage: None.

The Verdict: I will gladly return to Rue Cler. If only we had a pedestrian zone of food shops here in London!