Editor Pick
Chez Papa
- March 27, 2006
- Rated 5 of 5 by
eviet from Brooklyn, New York
By the time we arrived at our hotel, I was ready to rip through the city I had daydreamed about for years. My sister, on the other hand, looked longingly at the soft bed a mere few feet away. But hunger overruled the need for sleep, our growling stomachs shoving us out of our homely boutique hotel.
Heeding the words of the concierge and my trusty Let’s Go, we scuffled over the wide sidewalks of the residential 14th arrondissement towards Chez Papa. We entered under the prominent sign only to be bombarded by culture shock: when one of the rushed servers spoke to us in French, all phrasebook preparation vanished, eliciting wide eyes and blank stares. This must be a common occurrence, as he sweetly began speaking in English.
As soon as we were seated at a cramped corner table in this packed Auvergne café/restaurant, I began to take in the utter Frenchness of this, gasp!, Parisian chain. There was the older man in intense, probably deeply intellectual, conversation, his fedora tipped ever so nonchalantly to the side as he sucked on his hand-rolled cigarette. Or how about the cashier/waiter, a cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth as he squinted his heavily bagged eyes at the machine in front of him. Yes, I was in Paris.
Before I could even consider the entrées, I had to curb my ravenous appetite with an order of the pain sur planche au confit de poireaux. I entered into a fork battle with my dad as we hungrily lurched towards this baked bread topped with gooey melted cheese and savory ham. Pulled back from the brink of starvation, or at least supreme crabbiness, I was ready for more.
Always one to opt for a unique restaurant special, I immediately spotted the Spécial Cassoulet "Papa," a hearty stew of white beans, sausage, and duck. The concoction arrived practically steaming, the bread-crumb cover bubbling with heat. As I gently dove into the bowl for fear of ruining a masterpiece, I found plenty of thick, fresh beans; succulent duck meat falling off the bone; and one supremely delicious link of sausage.
Of course, your first meal in Paris isn’t complete without wine. Since red tends to stain my teeth an ungainly shade of brownish burgundy, particularly frightening to small children, I opted for what I thought would be a crisp white. Well, dry whites do not appear to be the strong suite of the French; I should have followed my parents’ lead and ordered a strong red, like the Buzet.
Wine folly aside, this anti-chain chain exuded a French essence not to be repeated in any café or restaurant, bourgeois or low-key, throughout our Paris jaunt. I had indeed arrived.
From journal The Grand Dame of France