It was a smooth flight from Newark to Orly. I can’t write “smooth flight home” because I can no longer say with clarity which is which. I’m coming up on eight years in Paris. Eight years since I locked the door on my Williamsburg loft for the last time and headed toward JFK with a takeout deep-fried cheeseburger (from an erstwhile Slovakian resto in Park Slope) and a one-way ticket on Norwegian Air (a transatlantic route that has also been discontinued).

French Bee hit us with a little upgrade. Mimi fell asleep before takeoff and didn’t stir until the seatbelt sign illuminated and the flight attendants perched for landing. I downed a glass of champagne, popped an OTC sleep aid, and drifted off to Little Miss Sunshine (an early-aughts indie film with a banger of a cast that I will report, dear reader, holds up!).

We breezed through customs. I didn’t get sequestered by border agents, as usually happens to me, on account of my paperwork for the temporary lift on Mimi’s interdiction de sortie de territoire. (You can read that backstory here.) My seven-year-old, metro-riding socialist didn’t put up a fight when I told her, “We’re definitely taking a taxi.”

A cab is whisking Mimi and me, her head resting in my lap, from the Left Bank to the Right. I’ve tapped my already-rusty French to successfully negotiate the cab fare, which blinks 52 euros on the meter, but I know by now that the prefecture-set standard rate from Orly is 45. I gaze out the window, taking in the relative quiet of Paris on the cusp of August. My eyes drift along the tea-stained Haussmannian façades; the deep blue street signs that look like mini briefcases; waiters emerging from doorways balancing trays of wine glasses and carafes. It all seems like vignettes of someone else’s life. I’m certain that I live in the most beautiful city in the world. And yet, something inside me wilts like the tangled leaves of the monstera plant barely surviving in my un-AC’d apartment.

My friend Bea recently penned a piece for Dazed about the trend towards earnestness in art. She ends it with this:

“Personal experience, no matter how honestly or ‘bravely’ it’s articulated, must offer the audience more than the knowledge that it was sincerely felt.”

I inject personal experience into a lot of my writing. But I push myself to consider: What is the point of this, for the reader? Why should they give the teensiest fuck, not to mention a sliver of their precious time?

I suppose I’m writing this because, like many wannabe modern-day Hemingways in Paris, I do share those rose-tinted vignettes, and people sometimes tell me that I’m “living the dream,” which is just about the most obnoxious thing you can commit to words. But this life was, for a very long time, my dream. I am a writer in Paris. I eat a lot of excellent food, oftentimes for free, and I interview dedicated and inspired restaurant people. I get to sit around, frequently in men’s Uniqlo boxers, and craft stories about it all.

But grid photos and restaurant write-ups rarely transmit the cost of living here. I feel the weight, like a boulder, heavier than ever after a month back in New York, surrounded by my people. They say the grass is always greener, and I’m saying that feeling travels every direction.

Our taxi shuttles across a bridge over the Seine. A giant Ferris wheel appears, and I know how goosebump-pretty the view is from way up there—to the dome of Sacré-Cœur and all the mansard roofs in between. Meanwhile, my mind swirls with sounds and glimpses of where I’ve been: the red string lights in the K-town karaoke joint, bashfulness giving way to determination as I belt out “In the Navy,” saluting in tandem with my best friend Ari, who I’ve known since I was two years old; the jingle of the ice cream guy’s bells in LBI and the Pavlovian response of our kids, who slap together their sandy hands and sprint up the beach, trailed by my mom, dutifully trudging behind them with her wallet, stuffed tighter than a chorizo; holding my best friend Brady’s newborn baby, Maple, in my arms at a wood-fired pizza joint in a tiny mountain village, feeling her warmth against me like a tender little meatball; my brother, tending to steaks with surgical care, nipping at a tumbler of Japanese whisky while the barbecue sizzles; my sister’s contagious laugh and unwavering optimism as we lead our gaggle of kids up and down the island of Manhattan, the way my stress melts when she assures me, “They’re having a ball.” The next day, riding across two Catskills towns just to buy potato knishes, then sitting in the Stewart’s parking lot, squeezing spicy brown mustard packets onto the pillowy, potato-y goodness. When summer days move that slow, it felt like a thing to do.

The feeling of being known—not for what I’ve written or where I’ve traveled, but for who I am. Seen as a person who’s Borscht Belt-witty and prone to daydreaming and, at times, a little too rigid, and loved for all of those parts. Admiring my friends and family and the lives they’ve built that I mostly only get to observe from a great distance.

You can love the life you’ve cobbled together abroad and be excited to return to it, while at the same time feeling a needle-sharp wistfulness each time you’re reminded of the people you’ve found yourself so far from—and of the life you can imagine for yourself had you stayed. When living in the most picturesque snow globe in the world, the grass back home seems fresh-cut-lawn green. So green I can smell it.

I returned to Paris, heart heavy with moments and people I cherish, wishing I’d done more—that I’d stayed up a little later with my brother and sister; that I’d skipped a morning jog to just sit and sip coffee with my mom as she looked out our solarium windows over the woods. Occasionally, she’ll dart to the door and onto the porch to get a better view—the fox that pops out from under the giant rocks; the blind bear that lumbers through the ferns. “Cait, come see,” she’ll call to me in a whisper that holds the heavy vowels of her Bronx roots. I wish I were around more often to spy on locals with her.

Back in the 9th arrondissement, I unpacked our carry-on suitcases as soon as I got home. I stashed my American charger in the kitchen drawer and plugged in the Euro one to charge my devices. Mimi and I went to our favorite sushi spot just down the street. The next day, I dropped her off at her dad’s. A childless month stretched ahead of me like an interminable runway.

In August, I have a full itinerary—Brittany and the Pyrenees; Vienna and Geneva and a couple of nights in Burgundy. Some of it is for assigned stories, some of it is for stories that are still coming together in my head, and some of it is for pure pleasure—eating buckwheat galettes with butter-crisp edges and amber-hued yolky eggs washed down with the crispest cider while sitting on the edge of cliffs that jut out into the endless green-blue sea kind of pleasure. Even if I’ll be doing a scaled-back version of ‘work’ most of the time, it’s a summer plan that would have sounded delusional back when I was living in New York, navigating two annual weeks of PTO.

I’m heading off with plenty of anticipation, but I also welcome the distraction—from the imperceptible hole left by the closeness I felt during a month in New York that always passes too fast; and the foregone possibilities that felt so real.

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What I'm excited for, back in Paris!

• Trâmette

• Akatcha, the new spot from 228 litres

• Le Poisson Volant, the new spot from the Cornichon team

• Bus Palladium — still haven’t been.

• Le Chateaubriand — what the hell, I still haven’t been. As a French food journalist recently DM’d me: IL FAUT UNE FOIS DANS SA VIE. [his caps, not mine.]

• Alsooooo, The 75 Interviews are on summer hiatus, but I’m excited to dive back in in the fall. Who should I interview? New and now is nice but not necessary. Most importantly, it has to be a spot that people love, and want to return to. Drop your suggestions in the comments!!

The first time QT and I met for lunch, at a banger of a new spot that will remain unnamed because we don’t like to throw shade here, he asked to taste a red wine. I’m not a day drinker (not for self-optimization reasons, but because it fizzles the joy of a glass come apéro time), so I sipped a sparkly water and looked on as the owner poured QT a shallow swirl the color of raspberry jam. He took a sip and smiled.

“I’ll stick with water,” he told the guy, who shrugged and walked away.

If you’re going to drink wine, it should be good. That’s QT’s ethos. I knew we’d be friends.

What are your favorite wine bars in Paris?

It’s a question that tends to have a deer-in-headlights effect on me. The thing is, I drink a lot of wine in Paris, almost all of it outside my home, so it’s a question I should be able to answer. And yet sometimes I find myself struggling to rattle off my quick hits, not unlike I did at a recent dinner party when someone asked me who my favorite actors were and, movie nut that I am, I found myself stammering for an answer. Call it temporary amnesia brought on by an abundance of choice.

Paris has great wine, and most of it is affordable. When I go home to New York, I’m less shocked by the food prices than by the price of a glass of wine. But Paris is different.

There is no excuse to drink mediocre wine in this city. But with so much great, affordable grape juice, narrowing down a concise list of top spots is tricky.

Still, I think it’s my journalistic duty to offer a solid road map—so that every glass you sip in Paris feels worth it. And if you taste one and it’s underwhelming, there’s no shame in sticking with sparkling water, à la QT.

So I asked the man who refuses to drink wine that’s merely pas mal. When QT wants to sip wine in Paris, these are the places he trusts, with a few notes on why.

Billili (10th arrondissement)

QT: Always a fun time here. Amazing food with a wide-ranging selection leaning on the natural side.

Me: I strongly second this pick. Can never leave after just one glass.

GRAIN[S] (6th arrondissement)

QT: Super nice staff with a lot of international wines.

Folderol (11th arrondissement, now two locations)

QT: Wine and ice cream, perfect combo, very trendy but worth it.

Me: I don’t mix wine and ice cream, but each is very good on its own here.

Giclette (11th arrondissement)

QT: Neighborhood wine bar with lovely pricing.

Augustin Marchand d’vins (6th arrondissement)

QT: An institution in the 6th, my go-to for rare and hard-to-find bottles.

Bar Principal (11th arrondissement)

QT: Go for the wine, stay for the delicious snacks and one of the best burgers in the city.

Me: Love this spot, but I stand by my claim that Kissproof has the best burger in Paris.

228 Litres (9th arrondissement)

QT: Impressive wine list you can check out on their website, beautiful glassware too.

Me: One of my neighborhood go-tos. Keep an eye out for a new spot from this team…

Pur Vin (12th arrondissement)

QT: Hidden gem in the 12th, an 8-euro corkage fee with a lengthy selection. Don’t be afraid to ask for bottles beyond what’s on display.

Me: If you’re guzzling in the 12th, def swing by Le Baron Rouge, too.

L’Avant Comptoir de la Terre (6th arrondissement)

QT: Chaotic in the best way. Underrated wine list full of hidden gems priced way cheaper than they should be.

Me: Love the wine, affordable. Love love the giant block of butter—serve yourself style, you can scoop a slab into a scallop shell and shmear it on good crusty bread.

La Compagnie St Germain (6th arrondissement)

QT: Dark and moody, chic ambiance with impressive BTG selection. (ed. note: BTG = by the glass)

You know that feeling when you finally wander into a new-ish spot that keeps popping up on your feed, and every plate leaves the table wiped clean, and you find yourself thinking: damn, that was so good. You slide your credit card into the little machine and already know you’ll be back.

That’s how I felt after my first dinner at Lissit, in the 11th.

I first heard about the restaurant through a video from Max Kreckel, a 20-something Tony Bourdain-type with candid takes and dry humor to match. I wondered: could quail neck sausage really be that tasty? (Yes.) What in the forced-meat hell is a tarte tatin boudin poire?

Turns out it’s a cheeky take on the classic French dessert: a butter-oozing crust and caramelized fruit—in this case pear—cut with a layer of rich, earthy blood pudding. The mastermind behind this utterly delicious Frankensteinian, sweet-savoury dish is Claire Grumellon, a ginger with a sweet smile, arms decorated with tattoos and freckles, and an obvious passion for charcuterie.

Owner Alexis Lissitzky and Claire describe the menu as traditional, focused mainly on meat and pork, with some vegetables and fish, and a strong emphasis on whole-animal cooking. “Very gourmand,” Alexis sums it up.

The pâté en croûte, with foie gras, pork, and gizzard, was heaven. The œufs mayo, topped with a sliver of pickled herring, were exceptional. The wines, which lean natural, are well chosen by Alexis, who is also sommelier and head of the dining room—passing bottles through a sliding window from the interior to the terrace, a touch I loved. Always trust a place where the owners are on-site, chatting with diners and working the floor.

On a sunny evening in May, in a night that felt positively effervescent with possibilities, we chatted with Claire and Alexis about their Paris favorites.

But first, I wanted to pick Claire’s brain about charcuterie. I asked whether it was a disappearing art she was helping to save. Her answer? Pas du tout.

“I think there’s a renaissance. Nowadays, there are lots of chefs, in Paris and Provence too, who are doing charcuterie. Dents de Loup (Ed. note: excellent spot) in the 9th—a butcher counter where you can eat great charcuterie; Pierre Moritz, Loïck Tonnoir, Laetitia Visse at La Femme du Boucher.”

Here’s what else they had to share.

Last restaurant you fell in love with?

Alexis: A restaurant that just opened — Calcifer. Everything grilled on an open fire—whole fish, like a 3 pound turbot. It was nuts.

A spot you go again and again?

Claire: L’Orillon. I like to go there anytime of day. Lunch is great—they have a set menu that’s not expensive. At night, having a glass of wine at the bar is nice.

Alexis: My friends at Soces. I worked there for a year and a half. Lots of good memories. It’s my cantine. The wine list is thoughtful, the cocktails are always good, and there’s always a good ambiance.

Best wine bar in Paris?

Alexis: Divvino. They’ve been serving natural wines for years.

Claire: Les Caves Saint-Martin, next to Gare de l’Est. Across the street is Fromagerie Fernin. For me, it’s the best cheese shop in Paris.

Best restaurants for traditional French food?

Claire: Quedubon in the 19th. Nothing but offal, classic butter-based French cooking, good sauces, and a great wine selection.

Alexis: Bistrot Darsy—it’s a great spot, a former bakery, mosaics everywhere, a zinc bar. They work with the rotisserie, with great sauce. It’s simple, it’s convivial—it’s my go-to lunch spot.

Best spot to cure a hangover?

Claire: Hollybelly. “I’m a huge fan of English brunch.”

Alexis: A pastrami sandwich at Will’s Deli, rue Poissonnière. “200g of meat. It’s so indulgent, with the little pickles and mustard sauce, as it should be.”

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I was dancing on a banquette at La Guérite, a restaurant on Île Saint-Marguerite, a rugged, 2-mile-long island shrouded in eucalyptus and Aleppo pine trees just off the coast of Cannes. To get there, we had taken a speedboat—all sleek black and blond wood floors and beige leather seats, a real rich-people ride—driven by a Greek guy named Petros, deeply tanned on every visible inch of his body but a skinny strap where his thong flip-flops slid on and off. On the way, we pit-stopped to sip chilled rosé and listen to Christine and the Queens and bob in the water. A dinghy flying a flag reading “PIZZA” zipped by.

Back on the banquette, I wore a Bond-girl black bathing suit with a sheer netting band around the middle and dark vedette sunglasses. Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” blasted from speakers as tall as me. I danced next to a Ukrainian woman with plump lips and a doll-smooth face—we met the day before, but several bottles of rosé later, we were thick as thieves. The neighboring table, a group of Armenians from L.A., the girls with waist-length, glossy, ink-black hair, passed us shots of ouzo. I threw one back and howled with laughter, thinking back on my earlier promise to have just one glass that day. Later, one of the guys, so sauced his eyes couldn’t focus, told us he was planning to propose to his girlfriend that day. I hoped he wouldn’t hurl beforehand. No one wants a vomit-scented proposal. But then again, we all airbrush the undesirable details.

It was 4 p.m., the restaurant was bursting, a champagne bottle shaken and uncorked. All of the tables were lingering after lunch—ours, a half dozen journalists, a few publicists, and occasionally, one of the owners, had polished off velvety hummus dotted with pomegranate seeds; grilled, meaty octopus; Greek salads with blocks of fresh feta; burrata and chilled ceviche and a massive steak, sliced thin, the juices pooling onto the platter; and huge prawns wrapped in nesty filo dough. A mariachi band moved from table to table, harmonizing with the music blaring from the DJ. At one point, they announced the countries where the diners hailed from, while hundreds of white napkins helicoptered in the air. It was a monster of a daytime party. Virtuous resolutions evaporated. All the while, my daughter was back in Paris, sitting crisscross applesauce for story time in maternelle, or pre-K, soon to be picked up by her dad.

It was the first instance I remember thinking that maybe being divorced wasn’t so bad. If an objective observer watched video footage of the past few years, they might even find that this version of me was having a lot more fun.

(Full disclosure, this was a press trip—an invitation to discover the best of Cannes. Not my lifestyle so much as a rent-the-runway version that I borrowed and returned after the weekend.)

I’ve been thinking about writing this newsletter for a while—before I read Belle Burden’s gripping, osprey-haunted Strangers. Before the phrase “divorcée summer” entered the Instagram lexicon.

Inspiration hit during a Google News feed scroll. An AD article spotlighting Laila Gohar’s Paris apartment popped up. I noticed she was with a partner who was not the man from her stunning Sevillano-inspired wedding snaps splashed across Instagram. It dawned on me, probably late to the party: she was divorced. I love Laila’s work.

The realization brought me back to the months just after my divorce, on the phone to my sister Mary Alice, a bottomless well of support in those days. I was sobbing, not about the end of my marriage, but the new identity I was shouldering: divorcée. It felt so dowdy, so failure-stricken, so frumpy and uncool. A sinister, self-critical voice had hijacked my brain.

Around that same time, I had thumbed a note into my phone:

“Divorce, for me, feels like another source of shame. All of your life, you’re told how this decision, who to marry, is one of the most important you can make. When you get divorced, it’s like, shit, guess I chose wrong.”

I was hovering a little ways from Mimi’s school, sunglasses on during a cloudy day to conceal puffy eyes from the other parents who were clustering outside, waiting for the doors to spring open.

My sister said, I’m paraphrasing:

You need to stop seeing yourself like that.

She told me to look at the cool girls who were divorced and seemingly thriving. Jemima Kirke, for one, was so effortlessly cool. And sure enough, she was a two-time divorcée.

Drinking up sisty’s words like a girl lost in the desert, I made a list of divorcées I considered “It”: Jemima. Zoë Kravitz. Phoebe Waller-Bridge. Nora Ephron. Frida Kahlo. The ultimate It-girl, seven-times-divorced Liz Taylor (including two divorces from Richard Burton).

What exactly about this new identity was I so hung up on?

Perhaps it was the unshakable influence of an Irish Catholic upbringing. And a society that churns out dreamy wedding photos (guilty as charged) and celebrates love confirmed through a state-sanctioned union.

I kept the list saved in my phone notes and added to it when new girlies joined our ranks—Em Rata. Amy Schumer. Quinta Brunson.

(Feel free to pause and make your list right now, if you need to. Consider adding the never-been-married It girls, too, like the timeless icon of cool, Diane Keaton.)

In case you don’t have a sisty to tell you: being a divorcée has its logistical nightmares. At least when you’re in the thick of it.

But being a divorcée can be fucking fun, too. Filled with new adventures, new bonds, and new love(rs).

Maybe what’s ahead is better than you think. Maybe you can finally spend some time nurturing the other loves of your life—kids, siblings, parents, friends. Tennis, hosting apéros, nights that last too long and giggling through the haze of the morning after. Making mistakes and breaking hearts and having yours bruised, too, and realizing that nothing is irrevocable; every wound heals, eventually, even the paper cuts. Remembering who you are on your own, without another half.

Maybe you will find a romantic love, and you’ll appreciate it even more because you now know you don’t need it.

There’s a moment when it stops feeling sad and starts feeling kind of powerful, especially insofar as relationships are concerned. Because you’re a person who knows how to commit, but you don’t need to go through the whole rigmarole again. Maybe you’ll find yourself at an altar (or city clerk’s office or a beach somewhere with a non-denominational officiant), but you’re not rushing there.

You know “happily ever after” is a hoax, and if it weren't, life would be kind of dull.

Any relationship I have, now and in the future, is an everyday choice, not a legal bind, religious obligation, or a personally imposed weight. I am free. Love and commitment are opt-ins, not necessities. And there’s something terribly romantic about that.

Paris is in the midst of a fire-cooking revival. New restaurants, like Cypsèle and Orson, are wooing meat-toothed diners with dishes like wood-fire-cooked partridge and aged côte de boeuf with pickled wild garlic, kimchi jus. New chefs are stepping up at existing spots and bringing the heat, as is the case at Terra, where exec chef Allan Gillery Pavard presides over the binchotan. His menu includes Pyrenees lamb shoulder with a fiery “devil’s sauce” and Black Angus chuck flap with sauce au poivre and crispy frites.

Allan’s cooking is enhanced by the flame but not limited to it. At a recent dinner, we ordered the tarte au pigeon—a glossy pigeon pie stuffed with veal sweetbreads, foie gras, pork, truffle, and morels, with a side of rich pepper sauce in case our heart rates weren’t sufficiently raised. It was one of the most interesting, decadent, diabolical dishes I’ve eaten in a while. My date struggled to finish his half; I left behind only a few flakes of the buttery crust.

Open Google Maps now and flag Terra, a great address for several reasons. It’s in the heart of the Marais, which, IMO, isn’t as dense with restaurants you actually want to go to as the 11th or Belleville. It’s sleeker than a neo-bistro—think moody date night, where you want to lean in close enough to smell their perfume (or natural musk, even better) while scanning a wine menu with over 1,000 references. The glass solarium ceiling and potted palms give it an urban-jungly vibe. At night, the low lighting and candlelight set the scene for a sexy evening. And yes, sometimes sexy means devouring your weight in a meat-filled pastry.

Allan brings his own energy to the kitchen—disciplined but a bit mischievous. He’s a mostly self-taught cook who clocked time at Verre Volé, Le Royal Monceau, and Pollen Street Social in London. He also once held the title of World French Fry Sauce Champion—like every artist, trust the chef who’s mastered the basics. He’s a devout Marseille follower, a tough stance in a sea of PSG fans, but you get the sense Allan doesn’t shy away from marching to the beat of his own drum. When I ask him about his cooking style, he says, “Impossible to answer. I’m a children of the world.” He applies his influences liberally, like a pepper sauce on steak. More than anything, he said it’s just about good food.

On a Thursday night before service, as the staff tucked into a meal beneath the glass ceiling, the day’s last gasp of sunlight trickling into the dining room, I tapped Allan for some of his top recs in The 75.

The restaurant he goes to again and again and again: Les Arlots. (Hot tip: they’re famed for their saucisse purée. Allan also commends the wine list. I have come to love their sister cave à manger, Billili.)

Where he goes to soak up a hangover: In Belleville, where he lives, Le Grand Bol, Lao Siam, or Ravioli Nord-est.

A recent discovery he loved: Les Arlots dialed in to proffer up an answer for this one: Le Clarence.

Where to party all night: La Cave à Michel. “A dice board, 200 euros minimum, friends arrive, it’s on, all night long.”

The dining room had no music. That was the first thing I noticed when I took a seat on an antique, Louis XVI-style chair, upholstered in velvet the color of a Red Delicious apple, at Le Clarence. The restaurant’s inside a private mansion near Paris’ Golden Triangle of glitzy hotels, big-name boutiques, and—for a certain type of modern French aristocracy—homes.

Memories of that lunch are like slides in a View-Master: the sun pouring through the tall windows, the leafy trees on Avenue Franklin Delano Roosevelt fluttering outside. The crystal glasses sparkling. The tablecloths were crisp white. From a second dining room, toile de jouy wallpaper popped shades of sky blue and flamingo pink.

Prince Robert of Luxembourg, president of the company that owns the restaurant, is said to have personally chiné’d around antique shops and flea markets to decorate the space, meant to feel like a family estate in Bordeaux. (Nailed it.)

Music, I guess, was an afterthought. The other senses were so alive, so highly attuned, that I suppose the restaurant considers it superfluous. Like mixing a dirty martini and adding a squeeze of lemon just because. You really don’t need it. It’s a subtle choice, but a choice nonetheless.

Le Clarence had been echoing in my brain for some time. In The 75 Interviews and in off-the-record conversations with restaurant people in Paris, so many named it as their bucket-list spot.

In a city that rains Michelin stars like April showers in Basque Country, I wondered: what set this place apart?

Well, now I get it.

Le Clarence opened at the tail end of 2015 and was awarded two Michelin stars in 2017. The opening chef, Christophe Pelé, left last year, and sous chef Andrea Capasso ascended the gilded ladder to become executive chef. There was some muttering—could they hold onto their two-star status? As the 2026 Guide affirmed, they could.

I asked the 31-year-old Rome native what kind of kitchen he set out to build. What was the vibe he was after? “Not Italian,” he said, then his shoulders shimmied with laughter. Though at least a dozen people are performing the prep ballet at any one moment, the kitchen is pin-drop quiet. It’s, unsurprisingly, immaculate. But there’s also a spirit of improvisation that defied my expectations.

“Strawberries?” called out the pastry chef.

“Not today,” said a voice.

“Kiwis?”

“Oui, chef.”

Those sweet, barely tart kiwis were destined for our plates on top of pistachio cream and a ruby-red slice of tuna. The meal continued in that spirit.

Dishes didn’t arrive one by one, but in clusters, filling the table with delicacies. Creative is an overwrought word in fine dining, but I’m not sure how else to describe them. Who would think to bastardize a delicate fillet of turbot with a creamy slab of veal brain? Truth be told, I had to force myself to forget what I was eating, but the plate was wiped clean.

I had never seen such plump, meaty morels. Topping them with a lamb jus felt like a delicious sin. And the lamb. A lacquered, shiny lollipop of a chop on one plate. A piece of lamb neck, the skin brown and crisp, served with a couple of wild asparagus spears and a silver anchovy fillet (why not?). A little cloud of housemade brioche for buttery carb support.

I know this is veering into precious food writing territory, but it’s hard to talk about this restaurant without waxing a little poetic. For many of us, like me, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. That it was not for the solo diner next to us, a fifty-something with an Alpine-winter-bronzed complexion, who seemed as at ease as a cow in a pasture as he nibbled his way through an hours-long meal, cheese course and all. In his Patagonia fleece and all-black Skechers, he was a stealth-wealth Succession bro if there ever was one.

Naturally, I had to pick the brain of the guy leading the kitchen.

I wanted to know why all the chefs love Le Clarence. “Because we put no limits on the plate. We can do anything.” A touch of unfiltered swagger that felt somewhat refreshing in an industry where people increasingly tiptoe.

I asked about the Paris restaurants he’d eaten at recently and loved. Maison Sota (11ème) and Le Doyenné (Saint-Vrain). “You have the garden, the farm, everything is homemade. You can really discover the seasons,” said Andrea. “One of the best parts is the breakfast, the day after.”

I needed to know where the Italian chef went for a taste of home. “In Paris, I don’t like Italian restaurants,” he laughed. For real Italian, he waits until he’s back in the madrepatria. “Not even a pizza place?” I asked. He conceded he had a favorite: Fratelli Castellano in the 15th, run by three brothers from Naples. “One of the best pizza places in the world.”

One Paris restaurant he frequents regularly? “For the price, for the cuisine, for the wine, Vantre,” he said. “One of the best wine cellars in Paris. Incroyable.”

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The 75 Shouts & Whispers

There are so many things happening in Paris these days—fav spots with new outposts and épiceries, fresh chef collabs, ROLAND GARROS events, our prized chefs are popping up across the pond, too! We’ll dive into it next week.

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Eqbal Hossain was visiting family in Bangladesh when an email landed in his inbox: an offer to open a restaurant. He clicked “delete.” Back in Paris, Bastien Peccoux and Alexis Gracio weren’t so easily deterred. They followed up. That’s when Eqbal realized their message wasn’t spam after all.

An email disregarded as sketchy is the beautiful origin story of Tandoor Club, the partnership that gave rise to the very popular Delhi Bazaar in the 11th, and more recently, Mumbai Café in the 9th—it’s in my hood!

Someone asked me about the best restaurants I’d tried recently. It’s a good question—it’s my job to eat out. It’s also a question I pose to The 75 interviewees. Le Clarence, which I’ll write about soon, was an obvious standout. But aside from bucket-list, break-the-bank restaurants, which had I truly loved? I found myself flipping through a mental scrapbook of meagerly portioned seasonal plates, struggling to land on a winner.

I think I’m suffering from a case of neo-bistro fatigue—when all of the studied, cool, bistros with occasional foreign touches, begin to blur together into a sea of raw wood tables and indigo aprons. touched on this in her newsletter—on the proliferation of fine but unmemorable dining experiences. Not that I don’t appreciate the thought and effort that goes into these places. Having clocked time in Michelin-star kitchens in Spain and France, I understand on a visceral level—a stabbing-calf-cramps-in-the-middle-of-the-night level—the blood, sweat, and tears (usually while locked inside the walk-in) it takes to make a restaurant tick, day-in, day-out. But these days, I find myself excited about places that offer something beyond the neo-bistro formula. Mumbai Café isn’t my favorite restaurant (because I find that question tedious and impossible to answer), but I’ve been there three times in two months. That’s the kind of review that speaks louder than flowery adjectives.

The interior is sprawling, and the design is inspired by Irani cafés that once abounded in Mumbai. Some quick googling informed me that while there used to be hundreds, more recently they’ve dwindled to dozens, a trajectory not unlike the bouillons of Paris. Mumbai Café is always busy, even on a Monday night. The energy feels kind of London. The food is great, and that’s owing to Eqbal, the executive chef, who draws inspiration from his experience cooking in Bangladesh, London, and Paris. You might find creative mashups like a Scotch Egg with masala ketchup. My personal favorite is his crunchy, messy palak papdi chaat—crispy, deep-fried spinach leaves drizzled in yogurt and chutney. A solid way to consume one of your daily veggie servings. And I’ll never turn down a well-spiced butter chicken. Plates are reasonable enough, in size and price, that you can order a bunch to taste.

Eqbal told me he tends to adjust the spice level for Parisian palates, but hot freaks like me can request that the kitchen kick it up a notch. •ᴗ•

You’ll notice bistronomie touches—seasonal ingredients like broccoli florets that you might not find in a traditional Indian or Bengali restaurant. I asked Eqbal whether he’s noticed any local misconceptions about Indian cuisine. He said people tend to think of it as heavy, oily food, but his cooking is anything but. That’s part of the reason you won’t be surprised to find customers eating at Delhi Bazaar or Mumbai Café on a weekly basis. It’s the kind of place that easily slips into your regular rotation.

The 75 Shouts & Whispers

Paris in May is poppin off.

On May 3, chef Sam Schwarz (formerly of our beloved Soces!) will pop up at Lissit, one of those hot spots that everyone has been raving about and I’ve been meaning to try!!

Also on May 3, Daniel Morgan is joining Esteban Salazar in the kitchen at Finka in the 3rd, prepping dishes like lechona cochona and pescado frito!

ALSOOO, on May 3, my friend Sutanya Dacres of Dinner for One will be making dinner for many! At Comptoir Sur Mer. You’ll find me there, too, chowing down on Jamaican escovitch fish and octopus stew.

19 SAINT ROCH chef Pierre Touitou is collaborating with Le Cornichon chef Bertrand Chauveau on May 11 and 12: a four-hands, nine-course menu I’d deffff attend if I were free. Alas, mom duty. You should go, though!

Not necessarily new, but places I’m trying soon: Bittikesu, Slack (tantuni and Islak burgers), Casa Pregonda, Pétrelle, and God help me if I don’t eat my way through the 13th arrondissement Chinatown this weekend. I’ve never been (to eat, at least), a shameful lapse in my Parisian eating résumé.

In other news, I worked as a producer for a couple of months on the CNN Searching for France show that recently premiered with Eva Longoria. Television is a chaotic beast, where they call you with an offer a week before you’re set to start, and you dive in headfirst, full-time. Those were some whirlwind weeks at the end of 2024. The production team — all women, all Brits except for me — was smart and collaborative. Thank you, Alba, Rebecca, Cecilia, and Shauna, for giving me such a positive first taste of TV. I was happy that many of the places and people I scouted out, like The Cooks Atelier, Château Angélus, Hautes Côtes, and Helixine Bourgogne, a charming Burgundy snail operation run by a snail farmer influenceuse Perrine, made it to the small screen. Have you watched?

Hot off filing another draft (fourth? fifth?) of a personal essay for Issue 3 of , I’ve been thinking lately about the (excuse the self-important-sounding word) process. How do you, or at least how do I, go about writing a personal essay?

Quick proviso: I don’t think the personal essay boom is over. And I don’t think you’re a Joan Didion wannabe for writing one; if you’re trying to convey a larger truth or observation through a personal narrative.

I think half the homework is reading authors and essayists you love, and understanding how they moved a story forward; the choices they made. I particularly like writers who pepper their dry sense of humor throughout. Essays I read again and again include Jo Ann Beard’s The Fourth State of Matter and Ann Patchett’s My Road to Hell Was Paved.

I’ve published personal essays here & there — Modern Love, Condé Nast Traveler, Food52, and others — and my nuts & bolts of essay writing are quite specific, formed by years of scribbling and re-reading old journals and typing and listening to music while taking long, aimless walks. If you see me wandering down Boulevard de Clichy with noise-canceling headphones, I’m probably working through something in my head.

If there’s a story inside of you and you’re not sure where to start, or you’re in the editing process and feeling a bit stuck, maybe this roadmap can help. I’d love to hear your personal writing routines, too.

Start with a cinematic scene

The nugget of an idea for an essay begins with a moment that feels cinematic, as I’m living it. For example, when I was riding my bike across Paris with my ex, on the way to the police station to get travel authorizations for our daughter, I had the Truman Show-esque sensation that we were performing scenes in a movie. Or when I was lying on a beach in Normandy with my mom and Mimi, watching them shepherd a kite, I knew it would be the closing scene in an essay I wrote about being, essentially, trapped in France.

Pay attention to moments that feel like a movie scene—when emotions are swirling inside of you.

Set the tone

Before I start writing, I try to settle on a tone. In other words, what’s the vibe of the story (or the section)? Hopeful? Panicked (like Black Swan)? Sentimental and kooky (like Darjeeling Limited)? Or maybe it’s human and heart-wrenching (Magnolia).

I’m not sure I can articulate why, but this helps me — choosing words, rhythms, scenes, and a playlist (keep reading).

Build your ‘write’ playlist

Build a playlist that fits your vibe. I tend to choose soundtracks/film scores (like If Beale Street Could Talk, Eternal Sunshine, Lady Bird, Call Me By Your Name), certain composers (Jon Brion, Max Richter), and musicians (Nick Drake, Van Morrison, Kid Cudi).

Put readers into the scene

I usually begin with my cinematic moment and use that to get a draft on the page; one version of my narrative and its arc that might change later. Then, I go back and refine. I put meat on the bones.

Close your eyes, imagine certain moments, and insert your reader right there next to you.

How bright was the room? Did the light hurt your eyes? What sounds did you hear? Did the paper crinkle when you shifted your weight on the examination table?

Describe how you felt

As it’s a personal essay, feelings are gonna be important. Readers want to know how you felt in certain moments. But I would avoid to the extent possible, just telling them — I was so sad, mad, happy, overjoyed, whatever. Go deeper into how that feeling manifested in your body and movements.

One of my favorite personal essays, mentioned above, is Jo Ann Beard’s The Fourth State of Matter. (SPOILER ALERT coming).

When Jo Ann describes the moment that she learns one of her close friends has been killed, she writes:

“Oh no, oh God. I lean against Mary’s chair and then leave the room abruptly. I have to stand in the bathroom for a while and look at myself in the mirror. I’m still Jo Ann, white face and dark hair. I have earrings on, tiny wrenches that hang from wires.”

If she wrote, “it felt surreal,” that would be understandable but unsatisfying. But the way she describes going into a bathroom and studying herself, the seemingly composed behavior in the midst of this awful tragedy, really does it for me.

Avoid clichés

Needless to say, they never express much.

It was love at first sight.

Versus.

I spotted her on the beach and couldn't stop looking. Suddenly I wanted to spend the rest of the day asking her questions, getting to know the person behind that fiery gaze.

Reread every line until it sounds perfect, to you

Some might find this part tedious, but it’s my favorite. I could easily spend hours reading my own writing and making sure every word, every line, sounds just the way I want it to.

How do I want it to sound? I can’t really sum it up because it’s different for every story. But to quote SCOTUS Justice Potter Stewart punting on a definition of hard-core porn: I know it when I see it. In my case, I know it when I read it (and hear it in my head).

Figure out why it matters

The ‘why’ of it all—why are you writing this essay? Why should anyone care? How do you hope it will resonate with readers? This is something I do at the end—because sometimes I don’t know the ‘why’ until I get there.

As an editor once told me, too many people write personal essays for themselves. Catharsis or maybe an axe to grind. (Pro tip: never write anything with an axe to grind—you will come off as an unreliable narrator.) I think it’s good advice to aim to tell a story with the reader in mind. Why will it matter to them?

No essay is a lost essay

Don’t give up on a story just because your first or second or third pitch isn’t accepted. While I was waiting to hear back on my Modern Love essay (8 months of waiting), I pitched it to another publication where I regularly contribute. They passed. Had I started with them and gotten discouraged, I never would have had an essay in the NYT.

There are a MILLION reasons why an editor passes—it could have nothing to do with your story or writing. It could be budget or bandwidth or they just published something similar. Don’t give up.

Even if your essay is never accepted, it can be material for a larger project. (I’m harvesting some lost essays for a book I’m currently working on — keep an eye out, it’s gonna be spicy.)

Above all, keep writing.

At their essence, restaurants offer a simple proposition: feed people and give them a scene change—plus a night off from dishes. For diners, the point is just as straightforward—to eat delicious things, slip into a different vibe, maybe put on a nice shirt. But every so often, a meal leaves you thinking about the “why” of it all. It makes you believe the chefs might be working toward something higher: to rethink ingredients—even a humble carrot—and to challenge themselves. In the artist’s sense, to create.

That was our feeling after dinner at Flore, a restaurant smack-dab in the center of Amsterdam’s tourist-flocked heart that feels both connected to and slightly removed from it all. On the ground floor of the Hotel De L’Europe, the two-Michelin-star restaurant has expansive windows overlooking the Amstel River. The city is a moving mural, and the dining room is alive—with vegetation like lime hemp walls and mostly casually dressed diners who would look right at home in an 11th arrondissement bistro. Frank Ocean on the playlist. No silence pierced by cutlery against plates. Our dinner, on a recent Friday night, felt surprisingly chill.

Bas van Kranen is the chef at Flore, and the force behind an idea: a fine-dining kitchen using no dairy, no beef, and no pork. Bas explained that it would be easy, in luxury dining, to simply spend more money on better products—big Proteins. Together with his team, he wanted to learn to cook without. “If you bake a piece of turbot, you serve it with brown butter, you have a dish…Without dairy, our kitchen becomes more complex. [You have] more spice, more layers.”

I ordered the herbivore tasting menu (the other, omnivore, adds a few proteins like quail, crab, and pike-perch) to test the purest form of their vision, and can attest: none of the foregone ingredients were missed. A carrot dish with something called rosehip ‘nduja and a touch of citrus had the texture of al dente gnocchi. A piece of seitan was so expertly seasoned and roasted that it was unrecognizable from the bland vegan protein popularized by Buddha bowls.

Bas’s right hand is Jasper Panis, the 27-year-old chef de cuisine with a calm, sunny demeanor and an old soul. When I asked him about where to score weed and edibles, he laughed and admitted he wasn’t the person to ask. Not his thing. The question of where to party until dawn was likewise tough to answer. But Jasper knows restaurants and more casual bars, and was happy to share his local recs with The 75.

Recently discovered & loved: Cafe Vita Lente

Best place for classic Dutch cuisine: FEBO

Best place to sit outside on a sunny day: Waterkant, otherwise North Amsterdam

Favorite brown bar: Café De Gaeper

Break-the-bank restaurant: Choux

Best party spot: Bolle Jan

The Dish List: Amsterdam

In the future, this will be a paid-subscriber exclusive. For now, consider this a first taste—an amuse-gueule, on us.

Eetsalon Van Dobben (Dutch cuisine snacks)

Het papeneiland (cafe with best apple pie)

Stacks diner (diner)

Cue (restaurant)

Frank’s Smoke House (Fish and Sandwiches)

Roopram Roti (Surinam kitchen)

Garage Noord (Night club)

As I rolled my bike across the wooden pedestrian bridge to reach Restaurant De Kas, I felt the same rush of butterflies I had over a decade earlier. The massive greenhouse that houses the restaurant glittered under the blue sky. It was an uncharacteristically sunny March weekend in Amsterdam.

When we stepped inside, the restaurant was alive with the same commotion—the dining room full, eyes drifting toward the quietly bustling open kitchen. The host led us to a second dining room that hadn’t existed before. A newer addition, she told us. As we took our seats, I looked around. People in sneakers, casual. A couple barely past their early 20s on a date. Less Tinder, more anniversary. Rolling Stones on the playlist. Suddenly, I felt a panicky prickle of doubt about my own 20-something brain. Had my inexperience built this place up to be better than it was? Had living in Paris for seven-plus years raised my standard of cool? Or had this restaurant become…basic?

Well, the restaurant had changed. It had since earned a Michelin star, The Dish informed me, after spotting the iconic red logo when he popped outside for a smoke. It had also been awarded a Green Star for sustainability, the reasoning for which is self-evident. It doesn’t get more local or eco-friendly than dining in a literal greenhouse, with chefs gathering daily ingredients and inspiration just outside the kitchen. And the dishes on the tasting menu, centered on plants and produce, were excellent. Even the whipped butter, which we slathered on warm, crusty sourdough, was impossible to stop eating.

Maybe Paris hadn’t changed me so much after all. Maybe I just needed to relax, stop overthinking, and enjoy.

Our meal at De Kas tracked my overall impression of Amsterdam that weekend—disarmingly chill and exceeding expectations in even the simplest moments: thick-crusted apple pie with a cloud of whipped cream on a sunny terrace; the crispiest French fries with silky Dutch mayo, alongside pints of Amstel in a shadowy brown bar; a sparkling lemonade and a wisp of a joint on the shimmering waterfront in the North.

We chatted with Jos Timmer, head chef at De Kas, as well as Jasper Panis, wunderkind chef de cuisine at Flore, another plant-forward gem that holds two Michelin stars in the Hotel De L’Europe and has a delightfully unstuffy vibe. Here’s a condensed version of my chat with Jos. In Part II, dropping later this week, you’ll find my interview with Jasper, plus The Dish List—a new series in which The Dish, master of Google Maps, shares his top culture and restaurant picks from our most recent 75 Tripping destinations.

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The mission of De Kas is simple: “We tell the story of our gardens,” says Jos. Asked about what makes Amsterdam special, the chef confirms, it’s a vibe. “You have fine dining, but it’s also relaxed. It makes you feel like you can enjoy the meal in a relaxed atmosphere. You can be yourself, you can laugh and enjoy without being too fancy.”

Any restaurants he’s discovered lately and loved? Fuku Ramen. “The chef-owner was chef de partie at De Kas. During the week, it’s fine dining. On Saturday, you can have just a bowl of ramen or snacks. The best ramen in town.”

What’s one food that visitors to Amsterdam have to try? “Go to the Albert Cuyp Markt and just walk around, having a herring [broodje haring] with pickles and everything. It’s a bit hardcore,” he says with a laugh. “If you’re there in the morning, go for a warm stroopwafel with caramel. Just go and taste your way through.”

What’s the best classic Dutch restaurant? “Go to Van Dobben. It’s an old-school, traditional restaurant. They have all types of sandwiches,” says Jos. “You can try Ossenworst—a raw sausage, like beef tartare—with pepper or finely sliced onion. Get a sandwich and a glass of milk.”

Favorite wine bar? “Glouglou. It’s natural wines, it’s buzzy, it’s cool. On a nice day like this, you can sit on the terrace and enjoy the sun.”

Break the bank restaurant? “Flore. It’s a really cool two-Michelin-star place, also plant-focused. Bas is a talented chef.”

Stay tuned for Part II…

Nobody who has ever heard about François Mitterrand’s infamous last meal could doubt that the French left has a streak of gourmandise in its DNA. (“For his last meal, he’d eaten oysters and foie gras and capon—all in copious quantities—the succulent, tender, sweet tastes flooding his parched mouth.”) Maybe because socialism itself is delicious.

When Americans say ‘socialism,’ they tend to mean ‘social democracy’—and they increasingly want a taste. What used to be a dirty word in US politics, wrongly conflated with communism, has had a surge in support over the past decade, among the general population and especially with the youngest slice of voters.

The why of it is something so many of us feel: an economy rigged for the rich, that turned future financial stability into a mirage, cackled at the idea of owning your own home unless you inherit one, and, as a result, drove millions of Millennials and Gen Z to say ‘fuck it’ and try to trade their way out of the impasse. Crypto, options, Polymarket…whatever the least responsible, most profitable option seemed to be. My just-released memoir, Generation Desperation, critiques what I dub ‘desperation capitalism’, which drove me to try and do just that—trade my way out of it. Which kind of worked, to the tune of earning over $1.3 million—until it didn’t. [I lost the money. All of it. Read the book! It’s cathartic!]

It’s hardly surprising that so many Americans are ready to try what the European center-left has constructed policy around for decades: treating the market as a deeply imperfect tool, rather than an ideology to worship. As in, do you want to paint a wall? That paintbrush will do wonders. Do you want to build a wall, though? In the same way, the market is a means to an end, rather than the end itself; useful if the goal is giving society a range of computers to choose from, and much less so if society wants to provision healthcare with human health as the ultimate end.

I’m sure you’re expecting the rest of this post to be about healthcare, and it’s true, the balance France has struck with universal healthcare certainly is fantastic. The last time I wrecked my knee, I went to an emergency room at a clinic that happened to be just around the corner where I was given an X-ray, a brace, and an order for an MRI. Within the next two weeks, I got the MRI, saw a highly recommended orthopedic surgeon of my choice, got, on his order, a second MRI with contrast, saw him again, and then started physical therapy at a kiné clinic that I chose because it was close and also excellent. I don’t really remember how much any of this cost out of pocket, only that it was nominal—each bill the equivalent of a good sandwich, or maybe a basic t-shirt. That’s the point of paying taxes.

But this post is actually about three implementations of socialist policies that you’ve probably never heard of. Not enormous universal programs like healthcare, just three specific things that nevertheless make life better for everyone in France in tangible ways by—as with healthcare—seeking to push the market to a more socially desirable end than the market would ever produce on its own.

The “ticket-resto”

Since 1960, French employers have been legally obligated to provide some type of lunch service for their employees, depending on the number of people they employ. The Chèque-Restaurant (1962), Ticket-Restaurant (1963), and Chèque-Déjeuner (1964) were originally private enterprises offering a solution—lunch vouchers to be used at restaurants—to businesses that didn’t have the space to create full-on canteens, or enough employees to really justify it. In 1967, the French government, under de Gaulle, institutionalized the system: employers pick up between 50-60% of the cost of the lunch vouchers, which generally range from €12.20 to €14.64, and a maximum daily spend of €25, with employees contributing the rest (on a tax exempt basis for both parties).

Every time my parents visit, inevitably my mom asks me, “Do people in this country do anything besides sit on terraces and eat and drink?”

If you eat lunch in French restaurants enough, you’ll eventually realize that the menu du jour (often entrée + plat / plat + dessert; or sandwich + dessert + drink at a boulangerie) is priced almost perfectly to be covered by one or two ticket-restaurant. It’s hard to calculate the true intangible, social value of the ticket resto that my mom’s incredulous observation hints at: the vibrancy and accessibility of France’s food scene. But when it comes to estimating the pure economic impact, studies have found that every pre-tax euro spent by businesses on the lunch vouchers results in €2,70 in benefits to local economies, with traditional and fast-casual restaurants benefitting the most, to the tune of €8,6 billion per year.

French socialism is benefitting you, traveler, every time you eat out, whether you realize it or not.

The “intermittence du spectacle” regime

If you know an artist, then you probably know that one of the toughest things about the artist life is the unpredictability of one’s income—unless you’re an intermittent du spectacle. Since the 1960s, France has had an income equalization scheme for performing artists, that opens up once upon hitting 507 hours worked in a year.

Under this relatively complicated scheme, performing artists who meet the initial year’s worth of hours are paid a regular income during months when they’re looking for work, funded by taxes that their eventual employers pay on their contracts, all dependent upon their previous year’s income. In a sense, a UBI for working performing artists.

This frees up artists to focus on their craft, or to pursue a long-term project, without worrying about making next month’s rent. (And with billions per year pumped into affordable housing, combined with rent-increase controls, Paris and its inner suburbs are still relatively affordable compared with other media metropolises, like New York or LA). With the end result that France punches far above its weight in arts, music, cinema, dance, theater, and everything that has happens onstage.

The intermittence system, combined with traditional, large-scale cultural funding, makes theaters and other venues more affordable. The benefits flow through to everyone.

Le “prix unique du livre”

France has numerically more independent bookstores than the US, even though the US has five times as many people. Some of this is cultural; the French simply read more than Americans (or Brits) do. But some of it is also…socialism! Over 40 years ago, France capped book discounts at 5% off the list price, preventing giant resellers like Amazon from undercutting independent bookstores and creating a monopoly position in the market.

As a writer, I fully love this one. (Even if I don’t love that Jack Lang, the man responsible for the law, and for la fête de la musique, turned out to be…in the Epstein files.)

And that’s the thing: none of these policies abolishes the market. They don’t replace it, overthrow it, or pretend it doesn’t work. They simply ask a more practical question: what kind of outcomes do we actually want and how do we shape the market to deliver them?

In France, that means making sure artists can survive between gigs, that lunch is something more than a sad desk sandwich, and that bookstores aren’t hollowed out by discount wars. Small interventions, maybe. But ones that make daily life feel noticeably richer and more stable. Less dog-eat-dog and more Moveable Feast—for everyone.

That’s what Americans are really idealizing when they flirt with “socialism”—not some abstract ideology, but a system that feels like it’s working for them. Not perfectly, not universally, but tangibly. Call it social democracy, call it common sense, or call it what it is: using the right tool for the job.

Follow Alex on the social meeds, guys, and subscribe to his Substack.

The 75 Shouts & Whispers

Print, a new, 6-floor venue for concerts, expos, and cuisine has thrown its doors open in Ménilmontant.

À La Renaissance has a new chef !

Chez Carrie has tons of great collabs lately. Upcoming, a Saturday brunch with naturopath Jen Hart-Smith.

Restaurants I've tried and loved in the past couple weeks: Terra, with newly installed chef Allan Gillery Pavard; Mumbai Café; Krishna Bhavan; tea time at Airelles Chateau Versailles (an actual storybook); Recoin with Tharindu Lakshan U. Ganihiarachchi at the helm.

Trying soon: Prévelle, L’Oursin, and one day I promise, Dandelion.

Upcoming on The 75: our first of The 75 Tripping series, highlighting some of our favorite spots in Amsterdam, and a new column, The Dish List, featuring his top cultural picks from destinations around Europe (and one day, the world — keep dreaming, right?).

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The Dish and I had dinner at Gourou recently, a new Indian spot in the 11th. I shared a pic of the spread—palak paneer in creamy, carrot-hued sauce with fresh spinach (never frozen, according to the kitchen); dal palak tadka, a coconut milk lentil curry with crispy onions, whole cashews, a nice spicy oil, and more fresh spinach. The naan was just-baked, with warm ghee pooled in the middle.

My DMs blew up! Everyone wanted to know—was it any good? The subtext: Is a white French guy pulling off an Indian restaurant? The place had gotten some buzz. The colorful dishes, the restaurant’s beautifully busy interior, channeling a frenetic market in Mumbai—it was all very photogenic. But can Adrien Bouchaud (formerly of Le Richer, Le 52 Faubourg Saint-Denis), or any chef, really, lead a restaurant focused on a cuisine that isn’t natively his?

My answer: yes.

There was no hole in the Paris restaurant scene that they were looking to fill, Adrien told me. There was plenty of Indian food in Paris, some of it very good. They just wanted to offer another place to enjoy it.

I loved the spot, I loved the dishes, and I loved Adrien’s take on traditional recipes from around India. You can feel the bistronomy influence in certain details, like the insistence on fresh produce, the vibey lighting, and the pop-Indian soundtrack. But I’d also say that, by working alongside Bengali chef Saidul, traveling India, and deeply researching each recipe and ingredient, Adrien’s restaurant pays proper homage to a cuisine he loves.

“I don’t try to put new ingredients or French ingredients—it’s classic Indian recipes and I [prepare] it the best I can.”

His earliest culinary memory, his Proust madeleine, is his mom’s curried chicken. “Chicken with cream and curry powder from the supermarket. It was one of the first recipes she taught me. Then, I improved it with her—with onion and sugar and honey and coconut milk.”

I asked Adrien what authentic even means—and does it even matter?

“I think it matters, but authentic isn’t the word I use to define our restaurant. Authentic is something you can find in India. I’ve been in authentic places in Mumbai, in Kochi. I never found that in Paris or even London. A lot of restaurants try to make things as authentic as they can, and sometimes it looks authentic, but it never is for me. I’m using authentic recipes, but I’m a French chef. I use my lens to cook. We can’t say it’s authentic Indian food, but we’re using authentic recipes.”

So, when he’s craving Indian food in Paris, aside from Gourou, where does he go?

“I often go to La Chapelle because I can find special products there. There are two restaurants I like. One is Dishny, an old place that makes very nice curries, especially with coconut milk. The second is completely vegetarian — Krishna Bhavan. You have to order the ‘thali.’ You get lots of different curries, sauces, chutneys, and pickles, so you can try many things.”

Given his track record, I have to ask: what’s the best bistro in Paris right now?

“Dandelion. It’s a friend’s restaurant, and I managed to get a table last month. It was an amazing experience — not just because it’s a friend. I really think it’s one of the best restaurants in Paris.”

And if he’s going to break the bank?

“Epicure, the restaurant at the Bristol hotel. Since last year, Chef Arnaud Faye has been the chef. I used to work with him at the Ritz, and I love his cuisine. I’d really like to try what he’s doing. His cooking is always very precise — there aren’t many products on the plate, but they’re very well chosen.”

Pick your poison: wine, beer, or cocktails?

“That’s a very difficult question because I like all three. But if I had to keep only one, I’d choose beer. I like having a beer while watching a rugby match with my friends. Usually, I go to an Irish pub and order a lager or a blond beer. There’s one nearby — Le Ballon Vert — with a very good ambiance during matches.”

Has he had time to explore any recent openings? With the launch of Gourou, he admits he hasn’t been going out much.

“But one restaurant that opened about a year ago and was very good is Argile. It’s bistronomy, almost gastronomic, near Place de Clichy. The chef, Romain, is one of the best chefs I’ve worked with. His food is very, very precise, and the service is also perfect.”

What about street food — where’s the best in Paris?

“I don’t find very exceptional street food in Paris as you do in India. For me, street food doesn’t really exist here. But for takeaway food, I like the pizza from Tripetta — especially the prosciutto and mushroom with extra gorgonzola.”

In a city that loves its poulet dominical, where can you find the best poulet rôti?

For Adrien, Bar Fleuri. “It’s a little bistro near Buttes-Chaumont. They make roasted chicken with French fries. The chicken is perfect, the juices are perfect — it’s just very good chicken. And it costs €6.86. That’s the original price in francs — I think it was 45 francs — converted into euros. They’ve kept the same price for 20 years.”

How has the bistronomy scene changed over the past decade?

“People are going to restaurants less often, but they’re choosing better ones. They want quantity and better quality, so we have to improve. The quality has to be there — people don’t go somewhere just because others say they should.

“People are also consuming less meat and alcohol, which is a big change for restaurant economics. It’s a good thing for health and for the planet, and I also consume less alcohol and meat. But restaurants have to adapt. They have to reinvent themselves.”

If he could collaborate with any chef in the world, who would it be?

“The chef I dream of working with is Francis Mallmann. I love cooking with fire. And for Indian cuisine, I’ve heard a lot about Gaggan — an Indian chef in Thailand. He’s doing Indian gastronomy, fusion food. It looks very interesting.”

At a recent dinner party in the 13th (shoutout to the ladies of my Cookbook Club), Kiana Tiese and I cozied up on a tufted midcentury sofa as she shared some of the requests she gets from Paris-bound travelers. The anxious flyers. The geographically confused. The girlies looking for curatorial cues. The first-time visitors chasing legit Parisian experiences.

Kiana offers a grab bag of expertise—the kind of tailored tips only someone who knows and loves Paris, in all its romantic, chaotic, and capricious moods, can offer. Whatever it is, she’s got you—within reason. Your secrets are safe with her, and no question is too basic.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about travel advice and expertise—what they are, and who gets to claim them. Some people are triggered by influencers who parachute into a place, spend 48 hours, and dole out travel tips like free scoops of ice cream (on a sidewalk with natural wine, if you follow). I’m more forgiving of this kind of intel-sharing. I mean, I recently posted some of my fav discoveries in Amsterdam, and I’m no expert on the place. If you’re excited about a few spots and sharing them for free, why not?

If I were paying cash money, however, the equation would change. The only guides I’d trust are the ones who actually live in a place; who’ve spent years exploring it obsessively.

I happen to have creative, obsessive friends who are exactly that kind of expert: locals who can lead you beyond the Louvre to galleries featuring lesser-known, promising artists; who know where to find Napoleon’s handwritten love letters; who host cheese tastings guaranteed to curl your nose hairs; and who can get you into natural-wine-soaked pop-up collabs where you feel less like a voyeur and more like a Parisian just living the life.

In no particular order, here they are—with links to book their expert guidance the next time you’re in Paris.

PARIS, GENERAL

Kiana Tiese — Your Paris Planner (and unofficial weather oracle)

If you’ve ever wished your chic friend in Paris would plan your day for you, that’s Kiana. She’s a Brooklynite living in Paris for nearly a decade, sharing daily adventures (and weather forecasts). Keeping it as real, authentic and simple as possible is the goal of her services, aimed at women visiting Paris. You can book a 1:1 call to finalize your itinerary and ask all of the questions (a true “no judgment” zone). Or, you can ask Kiana to guide you around Paris on your first day to help you acclimate, master le métro, and beat jetlag. Says Kiana, “Follow along for weather and fashion reports so you don’t show up with the wrong shoes and a raspberry beret.”

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*** Here’s a 10% OFF code (LESCOPINES10), valid through May 9th.

ART & CULTURE

Alexandra Weinress — Inside Paris’s Contemporary Art Scene

LA-native Alex, founder of The Seen Paris, spent her undergrad years studying art history in New York before her francophile heart led her to settle permanently in Paris. Today, The Seen Paris offers bespoke art experiences that can introduce visitors to the city’s contemporary art scene—gallery visits, artist studios, insider cultural spaces, and charming restaurants, too. Alex has a keen eye for both compelling art and excellent neo-bistros. If you’re interested in finding a piece of art to haul home, consider Alex your trusted advisor.

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Jacqueline Ngo Mpii — African Culture & Fashion in Paris

Founder of Little Africa Travel and Little Africa Village concept store, Jacqueline has been a trailblazer in curating immersive group experiences that explore African cultures in Paris. She created the first fashion and history tour of the La Goutte d’Or neighborhood and has also penned two guidebooks. Her tours include Taste of Africa in Paris, where guests taste their way through the local food market, discover standout ingredients and produce, and meet the vendors behind them. The experience ends with tucking into a two-course meal at one of Jacqueline’s favorite local spots. The Made in Goutte d’Or — African Fashion and History Tour is a PFW favorite. It includes lunch or dinner, a signed copy of the city guide Afrique à Paris, and a visit to the Little Africa concept store.

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Jessie Kanelos Weiner — Painting Paris in Watercolor

Paris might be an artist’s muse, but Jessie’s intimate retreats make it feel like your studio. The author of Thinking in Watercolor leads relaxed watercolor sessions with some of the city’s most inspiring corners. You’ll leave with sharper skills, a new way of seeing Paris, and a painting that doubles as your own little love letter to the place. Jessie also moonlights as a stand-up comedian, so expect plenty of belly laughs along the way.

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FOOD

Sutanya Dacres — Paris for the Solo Girlies

“We’ve been told the best way to experience Paris is with a romantic partner. And while candlelit dinners and romantic picnics along the Seine are beautiful, I deeply believe that Paris is for the girlssss,” writes Sutanya.

The Dinner for One memoirist, podcaster, and exclusive supper club chef-hostess recently launched a tour designed for single ladies and solo travelers in Paris. Sutanya’s tour offers visitors a chance to spend a few hours with her on what she calls a “sensory tour” of her Paris. She’ll take you to her favorite spots, from charming streets to lovely cafés. You’ll sip wine, tear into artisanal pastries, chat life & love, and soak up the Paris that isn’t in the guidebooks.

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Max Kreckel — A Left Bank Food Crawl

You might recognize Max of Club des Meals from his viral Instagram reels where he offers candid peeks inside great Paris restos, from excellent bistros like Quedubon to hot spots like Cypsèle. His tours are like tagging along with a Left Bank gourmand planning a dinner party, kicking off with visits to his fav food shops. From the Panthéon to the Pont Neuf, Max guides visitors through the Latin Quarter to meet six exceptional artisans (including three MOFs), tasting along the way and hearing the stories behind every craft. The finale is a private tasting on a historic two-masted péniche, with cold Champagne and the breads, cheeses, charcuterie, and pastries you’ve foraged along the way.

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Emily Monaco — Cheese, Markets & French Food Lore

Emily (aka “That Cheese Girl”), journalist and co-host of the Fishwives of Paris podcast, made a name for herself telling meaty (and cheesy), deeply researched stories about French foods and makers. Her Canal Saint-Martin Market Tour is like a trip to the market with a friend who’s on a first-name basis with the cheesemonger, baker, and wine guy (because she is—you’re traipsing through her 10ème arrondissement backyard). Wander along the Canal with stops at Emily’s favorite organic bakery and seasonal chocolatier before finishing with a copious cheese tasting paired with wine from a purveyor specialized in lost or rare grape varieties, all inside the city’s largest covered market – an oft-overlooked gem.

History nerds love her Sweets in the Swamp tour through the Marais, and her Saint-Germain chocolate tour involves minimal walking, maximum cocoa nerdery.

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Mathieu Mercier — Edible Parisian History

A former chef turned obsessive Paris historian, Mathieu stages edible time travel, sabering fine champagne bottles in antique Napoleonic helmets and all. In his words, he shares “the kind of stories no guidebook dares to print,” with thoughtful gourmet stops where every bite relates back to the city’s past. (I had the chance to do one of his tours and was legit shocked by all the Marais nooks and crannies Mathieu opened my eyes to—fascinating bits of history and food lore hiding in plain sight.)

Take your pick: Napoleon and Joséphine’s scandalous love story told through the Marais; a floating food salon on the Seine; or Saint-Germain’s revolutionary cafés, where ideas and nations were born. Def come hungry.

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WINE

Tanisha Townsend — Champagne, Done Properly

This is not your average wine region tour. Tanisha (aka “Girl Meets Glass”) curates carefully mapped out insider days in Champagne. It all feels very VIP, beginning with a private chauffeur from your hotel and unfolding through a mix of prestigious grand houses and intimate grower estates. You can expect a leisurely regional lunch, with plenty of tastings, and a final glass at a Champagne bar, guided by one of the sharpest wine minds in France.

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FLEA MARKETS & FASHION

Kate van den Boogert — The Puces, Decoded

The Puces de Saint-Ouen can intimidate even the savviest shoppers. It can easily feel like you’re getting swallowed up in the labyrinth of vendors—unless you’re with Kate, founder of Mrks. and author of The Paris Flea Market, Makers Paris, and Makers Paris 2. The NYT-featured author and OG local authority transforms the sprawling flea market into a curated visit, connecting you directly with dealers, designers, and the wider creative scene. Whether you’re treasure hunting for investment pieces or just curious to explore a Paris landmark, she demystifies the maze and opens doors you didn’t know existed.

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Kasia Dietz — Fashion Designers of the Haut Marais

New Yorker-turned-Parisian, journalist and designer Kasia takes you inside the Haut Marais, where independent designers are still helping to define Paris style. You’ll meet creators in their ateliers, see where samples are made, and discover pieces that can be custom-tailored just for you. With over 16 years in Paris, Kasia bridges fashion journalism and access. Rather than off-the-rack, her tours feel totally couture.

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FRENCH

Alexander Partridge — French teacher, fluency whisperer

I’ve been living in France for seven years and still, so many French phrases escape me. I genuinely appreciate my friend Alex’s quick Insta-tutorials, which never fail to teach, amuse—and occasionally feature Kenny G. For an even deeper dive into one of the world’s most beautiful and grammatically deranged languages, Alex is teaming up with Alexia of La French Tribe to host a three-day Paris retreat (just six to eight participants, so sign up quick!). It’s a chance for full immersion, with cultural outings like a true Parisian: the theatre, an art workshop, and plenty of the holy trinity of wine, champagne, and cheese.

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I could start this newsletter by saying Patrick Dooley is a boulevardier. That’s the name of the 1920s magazine he revived after unearthing original copies in the cave of Harry’s Bar, with a little-known story by young Hemmy tucked in the pages—what Patrick calls his Indiana Jones moment. According to The Boulevardier’s 1927 editor, Arthur Moss, “[a] boulevardier is a perpetual fun seeker. Their life is a permanent holiday. All they demand of society is wine and a song.” As for the drink, a Boulevardier—Bourbon or Rye Whiskey + Bitter Campari + Sweet Red Vermouth—it’s one of many classics invented behind the bar at Harry’s, where Patrick tends to the bar.

In a former life across the Atlantic, Patrick was the right hand to New York State’s most powerful politician. In Paris, his tattooed arms, not quite hidden beneath Harry’s signature white lab coat, stir and shake beverages perfected over decades at one of the city’s most iconic bars, where tourists flock, and locals don’t give a shit—we go, too! He helps orchestrate cool collabs with bars like 1661 from Dublin. In his “free time,” if you can call it that, he’s the creative director of The Boulevardier. With his team, he’s working on the second volume, focused on life and bar culture in Paris today.

I asked Patrick if he considers himself a boulevardier, and wasn’t surprised when he said yes. “I’m always putting together some sort of production of a party that reflects that.”

A lover of a dirty martini and a good stiff drink, I’m pumped to dive into Paris’s cocktail scene—just as passionate and dynamic as its restaurant counterpart, but with slightly softer edges. Like it’s got bite, sure, but the teeth aren’t quite as sharp. Patrick lives and breathes this world, and I can’t think of anyone better to call for mostly boozy Paris intel.

First, I wanted his take on the main differences behind the bar, New York versus Paris. “In New York, I always have this hum of anxiety—asking if someone wants something else or giving the bill to usher them out. Here, people can take their time. Some regulars stay all day. People just enjoy themselves.”

As for who are the bigger boozers, New Yorkers or Parisians?

“You’d think Parisians, but the East Village could probably outdrink the Marais.”

He reminisces about drinking tequila on the third floor of Piano’s—just a cup of tequila paired with Rihanna.

On the state of cocktail culture in Paris: “We’re spoiled for choice, especially after Covid. You can go to hotel bars, cocktail bars, wine bars, everything. Rive Gauche, Rive Droite—it doesn’t matter. There are so many options.”

So, what’s the best city in the world for cocktails right now? Even on the periphery of the industry, his answer is unsurprising: Singapore. “Specifically, the ladies at Fura have an incredible menu. They have a jellyfish martini, mealworms in margaritas, fermented wines… I could talk about that place for a while.”

Martini: gin or vodka? He chooses gin. “As much as I love a Dirty Martini or a Hot & Dirty, after a long week, I love a super dry gin martini.” He mixes it with Botanist Gin, no vermouth, and maybe some orange bitters.

His cocktail hot take? “I wish bartenders would stop clacking their shakers before they start shaking. It’s really giving kid-at-the-pool, mom-look-at-me, cannonballing.”

Outside of Harry’s, where does Patrick go for a drink in Paris? “If I have a night off, I’d go to Astoria Bar in Montmartre. Next door is Au Clair de Lune, a super old Parisian bar. Then I’d walk down to Pigalle and go to Dirty Dick for a muy thai.”

Recent openings that excite him? Memento (Marais) and Superfine (11th). “I hear they have a Sbagliato I’m due to try.”

Best bar food? “At Devie, in the lower bar—you can have a sausage roll. Barnie can mix you something to pair with that.” He’s also heard great things about the poulet frit at Harmony.

If it’s wine he’s after, he heads to Montezuma. “They have little booths on the top floor, very New York-esque. Great natural wine, incredible music, and the team is sweet.”

For a proper pint: The Wellington, The Cambridge Public House. “I also like Cork and Cavan. Lowbrow, but right on the Canal Saint-Martin. A pint on the canal on a sunny day…” His mind drifts to brighter times, on a rainy February day.

Hangover cure in Paris? Very New Yorker: a grandma slice from Rori, with hot honey (and one for the road for cold leftovers the next day).

Finally, his favorite restaurant in the city? Chez Denise. “I think that was Bourdain’s old haunt. You can get a huge confit de canard. One of the last places where you can order a bottle of wine and only pay for what you drink.”

A classy touch, fit for a true boulevardier.

“Pour one jigger of absinthe into a Champagne glass. Add iced Champagne until it attains the proper opalescent milkiness. Drink three to five of these slowly.”

This was Hemingway’s hangover cure, doled out in Death in the Afternoon. To that I say: Girl, no. Would not be my go-to. I’m a believer in the hair-of-the-dog—a drink to take the edge off the mental anguish of a hangover. I don’t get the headaches or the nausea, but I do get the blues. A little demi to quell the hang-xiety, or if I’m feeling bold, a Blood Mary, heavy-handed with the tabasco. But it has to be in the evening. Day drinking is never as enjoyable as I want it to be. Nevertheless, I’d rather swim laps in the Seine than sip a milky-looking, licorice-tinged cocktail. Sorry, Papa.

Of course, the very best hangover cure is abstinence, which is what I’ve been mostly doing for the past few weeks. My January was sloshier than the streets of New York and my brain needed a proper reset. Aware of my tendency to imbibe not too much but rather, too often, I try to take periodic breaks. In Paris, it’s so easy to slide into the habit of just a petite verre, a little glass, each night. But once you get in the habit of not drinking, you realize that it’s also quite easy to not drink. There’s so much to do—restaurants to try (lately: Gourou, Street Bangkok, À La Renaissance, Orson, Ficelle Sandwicherie), exhibitions to take in, movies to watch (recent fav: La Grazia at Le Louxur), and cozy girl dinners with friends at home, a bunch of snacks and a cold bottle of kombucha (served in the crystal wine glasses that I found in an antique store in Normandy).

A Libra, a striver for balance and moderation, I will go back to sipping eventually. I love a glass of bubbly before dinner, a crisp wine with it, a post-work demi on a terrace, or an ice cold dirty martini (some personal fav spots to sip that ‘tini: Harry’s, Bar Josephine, Sister Midnight, Le Classique, the bar at Maggie in Hotel Rochechouart). As invincible as I’m feeling right now, fully inhabiting the pink cloud, I’m sure there will be rough mornings in my future. I always ask people in The 75 Interview series where they head to cure their hangovers in Paris.

Here’s what they’ve said.

Céline Chung, Bao Family (and now, Street Bangkok)

Where: Dumbo

Order: a smash burger and chicken nuggets, no fries

Ollie Clark, Quedubon

Where: “Got to follow the Bourdain technique for a hangover. Cold coke, joint, spicy Chinese food, or Thai/Laotian. Living in Belleville that would have to be Lao Siam, they do offal and natural wines.

Order: The spicy foie de veau (calf liver) is a banger

Carrie Solomon, Chez Carrie

Where: Chez Carrie

Order: Eggs Benedict with spicy ‘nduja — “Honestly, these days my hangovers are few and far between. But I did manage to get one a while back. I work brunch all weekend, so my fix is at the restaurant — Eggs Benedict with spicy ‘nduja is my go-to.”

Félix Moulin, Recoin

Where: Loan

Order: Phở classique

Alternative:

• McDonald’s (Le Royal™ Deluxe, 4-piece chicken nuggets, Croque McDo™, and 5 Creamy Deluxe sauces) in bed, watching a show

Jack Bosco Baker, Le Canard Sauvage

Where: Le Grand Bol

Order: seiches frites (fried cuttlefish), “crispy outside, soft inside”

Malik Bouzid, (currently) Jaja Bistro

Where: Bobby

Order: I always get their Neapolitan pizza—so simple—with a really good tomato sauce, some amazing anchovies, a few capers, a bit of oregano. The crust is thin and super crispy, wood-fired. It’s the most comforting dish, and it really lifts my spirits after a heavy night.

Julien Catelain, Mehmet

Where: Bises Nouilles

Order: Spicy dandan noodles

Erica Paredes, Reyna & Mischief

Where: Sonny’s

Order: Chopped cheese pizza (mozzarella fior di latte, cheddar, chili oil sauce, ground beef, red peppers, onions)

Alternatives:

• Hanzhou’s dumplings that are always in my freezer

• Instant ramen with butter and cheese (“i swear its good lol”)

• Popeyes louisiana cheesy onion sandwich

• junk Smash burger—medium with fries

Caitlin Gunther, me, The 75

Where: Street Bangkok (rue Saint Denis)

Order: Fried chicken bites and pad thai

ICYMI

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For these American eyes, Le Canard Sauvage appears almost like an old-timey saloon. You walk in, and boom, a smooth bar of a rich-looking wood, behind which chef Jack Bosco Baker and his team are heads-down, busy perfecting dishes. The best seats line the railing up above, on the second floor, where you get a fly-on-the-wall view of everything unfolding. Outside, a few people with demis, smoking. Inside, a dozen Parisians around a high-top table decorated with two gold balloons—a 3 and a 4—floating above it. On the opposite wall, a vintage poster of the ‘68 French film Faut pas prendre les enfants du bon Dieu pour des canards sauvages (Don’t Take God’s Children for Wild Geese).

The restaurant name, however, isn’t lifted from the movie. It comes from one of the first productions, Le canard sauvage, at the neighboring Théâtre Antoine-Simone Berriau, an 800-seat Italian-style theater built in 1866, recently revived. Then, there’s the pièce de résistance dish. “Canard sauvage is one of my favorite things to cook when it’s in season,” says Jack.

I love this space, on frenetic Boulevard de Strasbourg in the 10th arrondissement. I love that you can come for just a beer, for natural wine and some savory snacky plates, or for a proper meal. And I love Jack’s cooking.

I was under the impression that this would be a carnivore temple; a restaurant geared towards game and offal eaters. The headline for its very good Le Monde write-up was: A Paris, le restaurant Canard sauvage fait de l’aile aux amateurs de gibier. In Paris, the Canard sauvage restaurant is a hit with game lovers. For sure (wink at Macron), we ordered the house specialty—wild duck—which was crispy and saucy and did not contain any pellets (some do). It was order-extra-bread, wipe-the-plate delicious. But I was surprised in the best way that the menu went beyond hunted meats. We started with buttery raw scallops, sliced thin, under a nest of agretti, an Italian saltwater shrub similar to salicorne, the Breton favorite. After, Jerusalem artichokes with custardy stracciatella and fresh basil and a healthy pour of olive oil. Of course, we had to order a few gildas.

Jack is young, but I’d already call him a career chef. Born in Leeds, many of his childhood memories unfold inside a restaurant with his dad, also a chef. “I was born into the kitchen,” he tells me. “I would be running around the kitchen, harassing the cooks, and eating chocolate from the dry stores.” He moved to London on the cusp of adulthood, earned some stripes, then it was Paris, where he caught the attention of food folks through his cooking in spots like Magnolia, Robert, and La Vierge. He opened Le Canard Sauvage with his business partners, Greg Back and Raman Suzat, in late 2025. The people (at least the ones I care about) have spoken: they love it. I do, too.

Recently, I asked Jack about his Paris favorites, plus some cliché Brit things that I couldn’t not ask.

In a death match between two heavyweight sandwich champs from across the channel—chip butty versus jambon beurre—Jack chose his beloved native starch bomb. “It’s not nostalgic for me,” he said of the Paris specialty. Sunday roast versus poulet dominical? It’s Sunday roast every time. Chicken, lamb, or beef all fly. Roast potatoes, cauliflower cheese, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, and boiled veg are essential.

Asked about the best spot for drinking demis or pints, he says Onze Bar on rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud, a dive bar near Rori and Cave Canaille. “But it’s been there a lot longer,” says Jack. “It’s just a classic, Parisian bar. Not expensive. That’s my local bar.”

Favorite wine bar? “I work most nights of the week, but my favorite thing to do on Sunday morning is go to Le Baron Rouge (in the 12th, bordering the 11th). It’s not a fancy natural wine bar, but the atmosphere on a Sunday morning, eating oysters and soaking it all in—I enjoy that.”

Best spot for getting pissed (f*cked up)? “Can I say Le Canard Sauvage?” he laughs. “That’s where that happens mostly at the moment.”

Favorite restaurant to nurse a hangover? It’s Le Grand Bol in Belleville. His go-to order is seiches frites with sweet chili sauce. “It’s a fried cuttlefish, soft inside, crispy outside.” The key is lots of fried food.

As for a favorite bakery, Jack says, “Probably one that everyone knows: Tapisserie. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything there that hasn’t been absolutely delicious.”

His best recent discovery in Paris is Gilou, near Buttes Chaumont. “My friend Chris [Woolard] is a very good cook. It’s exactly what I want to eat when I go out—simple and very enjoyable. He’s English as well so he gets extra points.”

As for the best break-the-bank special occasion restaurant, he goes with Le Cheval d’Or. “Hanz [Gueco] is a great cook. I would love to eat there more often. I’d be happy to spend my money there.”

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Red pendant lamps line the ceiling on the second floor of Gros Bao, a Chinese canteen in the 10th. The effect is a bit dizzying, a bit Kubrick-esque. Transportive, you could be anywhere in the world. But one wall of the massive room is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Canal Saint-Martin; you’re definitely in Paris.

The lamps were imported from Hong Kong, along with the light jade tables and even the architects, owner Céline Chung tells me. The result is kitschy, retro, and cool. She knew exactly what she wanted aesthetically when she opened Gros Bao, the second of her Chinese restaurants in Paris—the first being Petit Bao in Saint-Denis, an ode to Shanghai cuisine, bao, xiao long bao, and homemade wok-fried dishes. Céline, who grew up in the Marais, had a previous life in fashion—it’s obvious in the distinct point of view expressed in the space, which oozes style.

She spent six months in Shanghai to connect with her roots, and returned with a mission. Her idea, to show Parisians the breadth of Chinese cuisine, has blossomed into 14 spots across Paris, including, most recently, the Street Bangkok restaurants. (You can catch me at their party on February 5 to celebrate the reopening of Street Bangkok under new owners Céline and Billy Pham—snacks, rap, Thai boxing, tuk-tuk neighborhood tours included. I’m there.)

“I wake up with vertigo,” laughs Céline, when I ask her about running a restaurant empire. Her goal is to find balance between creating a lot, maintaining the quality, and preserving the soul of each address.

At Gros Bao, the setting is matched by excellent food. My friend Sulekha and I shared the glossy charsiu pork, Cantonese-style barbecued pork belly. For good measure, we added the Szechuan-style broccolini with black bean soy sauce and the chilled, garlicky, melty-soft eggplants rounded out with a creamy, tangy mango sago. That lunch made me want to immediately flag all of Céline’s restaurants on Google Maps.

When it comes to Paris dining, the Marais native has her go-tos. For her latest discovery, she shouts out A La Renaissance, an 11th arrondissement bistro dating back to 1919, recently revived by Carina Soto Velásquez and Joshua Fontaine of Le Mary Celeste fame. She loves the classic French food, the relaxed service, and the old-school menus. “I really enjoy the simple, good products,” she says.

For a wine bar, her pick is Billili, a 10th arrondissement spot with great wines, small plates, and charcuterie. Go early, she warns, as scoring a table can be tricky. Total scene.

When it comes to cocktails, Céline heads to The Cambridge in the Marais, where she collaborated with bartender Nicolas at Gros Bao. “He works with products from around the world, and has really mastered Asian spices,” she says.

For street food, Céline makes twice-monthly pilgrimages to Dong Huong in Belleville, a Vietnamese institution. The rice with green chicken and the pho are essentials, and she always orders the red bean with coconut milk. “It’s my comfort spot,” she says.

For boulangeries, she loves Miettes (which means crumbs!) in the 18th, close to her apartment and near L’Olive market. “I love the chou—the cream inside is always creative. Pistachio, praline… super good.”

Her favorites in Paris’ Chinatowns? For dim sum, New Hoa Khoan in the 13th arrondissement. In Belleville, for a traditional Chinese breakfast, it’s Best Tofu, where she gets the youtiao, the fried beignet, with soy milk.

Casa Pregonda is her pick for a splurge-worthy, cozy night. “It’s a beautiful place, the dishes are amazing—best Spanish tortilla I’ve had.” For a sexy date night, she recommends Soces in the 19th arrondissement. “Marius and Kevin will welcome you in the best way. The food is amazing. I love ordering oysters and white wine.”

And when Paris inevitably delivers a hangover, Céline hits up Dumbo. (Ed. note: BEST smashburgers in Paris.) Her order: cheeseburger and nuggets, no fries.

The one French dish she finds overrated? Confit de canard. “In China, we have canard pékinois, which is insane, so I’m sorry guys, but I can’t eat confit de canard.”

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This is one of the reasons I love Paris.

For restaurants, flashy PR campaigns mean peanuts next to word of mouth, at least in terms of the spots where I want to eat again and again. Recoin, in a nook of rue Saint-Sabin in the 11th, is one of those independent, understated bistros where one meal is never enough. Félix Moulin is half of Recoin, and in a way, embodies the soul of the place.

Félix is a bit camera-shy, but IRL, he’s that mischievous charmer who always convinces you to stay for one more round. Several demis later, you forget whether it was your idea in the first place, but you’re glad you stayed—at least until the gueule de bois brings you to your knees the next morning. But if I’ve learned anything from working in restaurants and writing about them: you want a hedonist at the helm.

I’ve witnessed how Félix’s personal brand of joie de vivre can infuse Recoin. On a recent Saturday night, a group of foreign girlies with blowouts huddled around at the corner table, chatting amongst themselves and snapping requisite Instagram pics. No doubt, the dishes are as seasonal as they are photogenic.

The clock neared midnight, the music got louder, and a beautiful din of conversation and melody settled over the restaurant. Plates were scraped clean. People seated at the bar rose from their stools, some of them dancing. Félix poured a few more mixed shots, just sweet enough to accept a second, maybe a third. Conversations spilled between tables. The girlies looked on, wide-eyed at a scene that defied their hushed neo-bistro expectations. They ordered another round of natural wine and stayed past the usual 2-hour dinner slot, taking stealthy videos of Félix and friends having a time. Eventually, they started dancing too.

Which brings me to another truth about great restaurants: the owners are a constant presence. Sure enough, any time I’ve gone to Recoin, Félix or his business partner Bertrand Flamain are on-site, and neither is too precious to roll up their sleeves and wash dishes or serve diners, who are, after all, the most important stakeholders. Though some restaurants seem to lose sight of that.

Bertrand and Félix, both alums of Café du Coin, opened Recoin initially in partnership with Florent Ciccoli. Their idea was an all-day bistro from a bygone era where the dishes respect the best local producers and the seasons; the menu always changing and the vibe never stuffy. Chef Julie Della Faille, who just left Recoin to continue honing her skills in Japan, did a bang-up job, with dishes like a blood-orange-hued risotto with hunks of the coveted Breton blue lobster, under a light nest of fennel fronds; a blushing lamb saddle with flowering broccolini, Swiss chard, broad beans, and an umami-rich pool of jus. Tharindu Lakshan U. Ganihiarachchi, a Sri Lanka-born chef who’s cooked in the kitchens of palatial Dubai hotels and alongside Marlo Snellman, Recoin’s original chef, then Julie, is taking the reins in 2026. The team’s formula has worked so well that they recently bought out their restaurateur partner and are now expanding the kitchen.

Félix is a rare native Parisian. “I never lived more than 2 miles from the hospital where I was born,” he tells me, adding that it’s in the north of Paris and the same where PSG footballer Kylian Mbappé made his earthly debut. (FTR, he’s a Marseille fan.)

Naturally, Félix has recs for The 75.

Ask Félix what Recoin is best for, and his reply is simple: it’s “the perfect spot for having lunch, dinner, or a good party.” The answer tracks. Recoin is as fitting for a quiet lunch as it is for an impromptu party that starts with a good meal and stretches well beyond expected.

One of his favorite under-the-radar lunch spots is an unremarkable Bar à Pizza tucked away on a sliver of a street in the 20th and owned by an old Kabyle guy named Camil. “The pizza is not super good but the place is nice,” he says. It’s the kind of place where you can come for lunch and leave at 5 a.m. “If you stay late after lunch or dinner, the wife of the owner calls to say ‘please come home.’” He loves this spot for the nostalgia more than anything. “It brings me back to my 20s, when I didn’t know what Le Fooding was.”

In a city that reveres its old-school bistros, Félix favors Bistrot Paul Bert, a temple of classic French cooking. He loves the food and the people. The staff are older, he says, having spent their entire careers in the same dining room. You feel they were born in the restaurant. The wine list, too, is really nice.

Asked about his favorite recent discovery in Paris, Félix shouts out Le Canard Sauvage, newly opened by his friend Jack Bosco. “I think he understands what we need—generous portions, rustic food but very tasty.” [Ed. note: Canard Sauvage is on the top of my list].

The question of the best spot for a sexy date night gives him pause. He squirms for a second, “I should call my girlfriend.” Then he decides: “probably my apartment.” He’d cook a nice dinner himself. Judging by his resto, no doubt it would be tasty.

As for where to drink demis with friends, his answer: Baccara. It’s a particular place, he explains. “Only old, weird people.” No credit cards. Either you arrive with a lot of cash or you’re heading to the ATM. “And you’re never drinking just one beer at the Baccara.”

Best sandwiches? Chez Aline.

Best wine bar? La Cave à Michel.

When it comes to a party that’s going to last all night, one where you come home when the sun is rising, Félix says the best move is to have friends who own restaurants, because the party really starts once they close. “Obviously not at Recoin,” he adds with a grin. From there, the night might continue at a place like Fréquence, then on to whatever boîte de nuit presents itself.

Once, he tells me, a night like that ended at the Foire du Trône [amusement park]. After twenty hours of partying, he found himself on a rollercoaster. He mentions one of his life goals: to play that game where you shoot balloons with airguns and win the mini motorbike.

Opening a beloved Paris neo-bistro: ✓

Winning the mini motorbike: In progress

When the conversation turns to the future of dining in Paris, Félix says, “I feel there is a return to the classics.” He continues, “In my opinion, people want more quantities and comfort food. When you go to a restaurant, people want to feel full.” With life getting more expensive, going out has to feel worth it.

“A bit more rustic, super tasty. Cheap and huge,” he laughs.

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When I first lived in Paris, Alain Passard was a king- and queen-maker. The city’s hottest chefs clocked time in his veggie-forward temple, L’Arpège—among them Bertrand Grebaut (Septime, etc.) and Tatiana Levha (Le Servan, etc.). Later, those same disciples trained a new generation of in-demand chefs: to have Septime or Clamato or Le Servan or Double Dragon on your résumé meant something (and still does). In today’s Paris, where tastes are increasingly global and palates crave bolder flavors, the empire of restaurateur Florent Ciccoli (Cafe du Coin, etc.) is birthing a new guard of Paris chefs and restaurant owners. One of those chefs is Malik Bouzid, an Algeria native who’s cooked in the kitchens of Cafe du Coin and L’Orillon, among other great Paris spots, and who most recently chef’d it up during a two-month residence at Touki Bouki, a cool Belleville restaurant from Étienne Biloa with a rotating-chef concept.

On a recent Friday evening before service, I chatted with Malik in the kitchen at Touki Bouki, surrounded by a perfectly organized mise: labeled tuppers of cod cream and fiery chili oil and golden mustard seeds and brick-red harissa and flamingo-pink pickled onions; fatty whole octopi; a tray of still-warm baklawa. Behind us, Clément Liard, Malik’s right-hand man and another L’Orillon alum, with a mop of curly hair tucked under a baseball cap, prepped his station quietly. Asked what constitutes a “good restaurant,” Malik told me it comes down to three things: good food, good service, good prices. “It seems simple, but most restaurants don’t have it,” he said. During his tenure, I can attest that Touki Bouki did. I dined there once and loved every bite, from the juicy lamb bourek to the plump, lightly fried sardines in that smooth cod cream with toasted hazelnuts. The dishes had the flavor, the balance, the textures that I jones for. My friend Hannah and I got tipsy. Service was warm. And we paid less than 35 euros each.

Malik cooks first and foremost the things he likes to eat, which adds a dimension of soul to his food that you can’t fake. As Clément told me, “What I love about his cooking is that he only makes things he himself would enjoy eating, so it’s always heartfelt cuisine. He’s attached to his family memories and recipes, but he also tries to add a personal touch, drawing from his own experience. He wants to share his vision of Algerian cuisine without distorting it, which, in terms of chili peppers, can sometimes be a bit of a shock to French palates.” Malik’s influences run deep: the traditional Algerian dishes he learned alongside his mom, who never cooked from a recipe, peppered with the French and Mediterranean techniques he picked up in Paris neo-bistros.

When I asked Malik where he eats when he’s off-duty, away from the pass, he didn’t pause. Lunch is Majouja, a Kabyle cantine in the 9th. For apéro, he stays close to home at Dikkenek, his “second home” in the 18th. Dinner, when he’s hungry for the flavors he grew up with, means La Table de Yemma in Ménilmontant. It’s traditional Algerian cooking, very good, and inexpensive—hitting the three magic notes of a good resto. And for the occasional soirée, Malik heads to Cabaret Sauvage in the 19th, a spot that promises the kind of night when anything can happen.

As for the future of Paris dining, Malik thinks the city is turning back toward simplicity—bistros and straightforward cooking. “People really love that,” he told me.

And what’s next for Malik? After some downtime in Algeria for the holidays, you’ll find him at La Maison des Michèles throughout January. Expect to see me there, too, chasing another hit of that goût algérien in Paris.

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“Mexico is four times bigger than France, and each region has its own molés, its chiles, its distinct ingredients,” said Carlos Moreno. We were craned over tostadas topped with jewel-like scallops crudas in the compact open kitchen of his 10th arrondissement restaurant, Comer. Since opening three years ago, Comer has aimed to share another facet of Mexican cuisine, “beyond the clichés.” Carlos didn’t want to open another taquería in Paris; he did want to create a place that felt intimate—like cooking for friends at home. “That’s the soul of Comer,” Carlos told me.

Initially, the space was multipurpose—he sold épicerie items like salsa macha, welcomed a handful of guests during the day, and prepared for catering events at night. As Comer evolved into more of a lunch & dinner spot, tacos crept onto the menu to offer people another snacking option. The Tabasco native doesn’t stick to one regional style; instead, his always-changing menu showcases a range of Mexican influences, with and without corn as a vehicle—like tamales with poblano peppers and crema, or roasted oyster mushrooms with a peanut and smoked morita mole, topped with pickled cauliflower and guajillo oil. Carlos’ restaurant has become a staple of Paris’ Mexican scene, alongside this writer’s other top spots like Furia (11ème) and Taco Mesa (10ème).

I asked Carlos whether he’s noticed a shift in Parisian tastes. His answer: definitely. People are more familiar with Mexican cuisine, thanks to traveling abroad and the growing number of offerings in France. And across cuisines—not just Mexican—French palates are becoming more accustomed to bold flavors and spice from ingredients like chiles. Though, he notes, chiles aren’t just about heat. “They add different notes and depth.”

After two decades in Paris, the 11th-arrondissement resident knows the city well, but he isn’t fiercely loyal to any particular spots. In a metropolis where each week seems to spawn a dozen new restaurants, he likes to try new things. That said, his favorite lunch places include L’Orillon in the 11th and a Chinese restaurant in the 3rd, on rue au Maire, that he’s been frequenting since he was a student. “I don’t even know the name,” he laughs. Like his own restaurant, he appreciates the familiarity of walking in and seeing faces that have spanned decades with you.

For apéro, he likes Le Verre Volé or Furia, where you can find a nice selection of natural wines and mezcals made from wild agave. For dinner, it’s Kubri, a Lebanese restaurant in the 11th; the neo-bistro Colombian cooking at Comite Caribe near Canal de l’Ourcq; or Reyna from Erica Paredes—“when I have a craving for the spicy chicken wings.” Lissit, on rue de la Folie-Méricourt, is a newer addition to his list of favorites.

I asked Carlos where he likes to salir de fiesta, and he admitted he’s not a big partier these days. For him, the parties take place at home. Though he spends his days in Comer’s kitchen, he still loves having people over and cooking for them. “I’m a bit of a homebody,” he says.

I feel quite afortunada that I can get a taste of Carlos’ homey cooking anytime (or at least Tuesday to Saturday), just a short walk from my place in the 9th to his spot in the 10th.

Shouts & Whispers

Mehmet is throwing a house music & chicken wings party this Saturday at La Montgolfière in the 18th. If their DJ skills are anywhere near as good as their fries, it should be worth checking out.

Le Chateaubriand is welcoming OG neo bistro legend Iñaki Aizpitarte alongside Alexandre Gauthier for an 8-course dinner that seems very cool and exclusive, and will probably be tricky to book. Look, when I was a student in Paris back in 2012, Le Chateaubriand was like the holy grail. As I remember it, the minimalist website had no reservations, you had to call a number where people frequently didn’t pick up, and I never got to try it. I would go to this. Maybe I will try again…

On December 12, L’Orillon is teaming up with Baby Sips, a lower east side wine bar from the best city in the world, my home, New York (where I’m heading in 2 weeks from today. hmu, guys!)

Kissproof celebrated its 3rd birthday recently. I went and I drank too many micheladas ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ What can I say, their dirty michies buried in tajín are the best.

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