The Kitchen
Everything here is a real recipe with real temperatures. Nothing needs a restaurant kitchen — a pan, an oven, and something to drink while you wait.
9 showing · 444 plates · 15 drinks
Apéro runs roughly six to eight, and it is not dinner. You order a glass, something to graze on arrives with it, and nobody hurries you out. In the old bistros that means œuf mayo and cold charcuterie pulled from the fridge. In the natural wine bars of the 11th it means a planche of pig and cheese, a good tin of fish, panisses. Bread lands unasked. Very little of it is cooked to order, because most of these places have a two-burner kitchen and no intention of apologizing for it.
Friture d'éperlans · Paris
Small whole fish, floured and thrown in hot oil, eaten head and all with lemon and too much salt. The classic thing to put in front of people who are drinking and not stopping soon.
Where you'd actually eat it: Riverside guinguettes and old bar-tabacs, and back in fashion at the natural wine bars. Cold Muscadet or a demi pression.
From behind the bar: Frozen smelts work fine but must be thawed and dried thoroughly or the oil will spit at you for ten minutes.
Panisses · Paris
Chickpea flour cooked to a porridge, set firm, cut into batons and fried. Crisp outside, soft as polenta inside. Marseille brought them north and the wine bars kept them.
Where you'd actually eat it: Marseille street food that colonized the natural wine bars of the 11th. Chilled rosé or a fizzy pet-nat, and no apology for either.
From behind the bar: They can be baked at 425F/220C for 25 minutes with a good coat of oil, but they will be firmer and less pillowy. Frying is the real version.
Piments de Padrón · Paris
Small green peppers thrown into a screaming hot pan with oil and salt. Mostly mild, occasionally one takes your head off. Two minutes of work and they land on every wine bar table in the 11th.
Where you'd actually eat it: Galician by origin, Basque by route, and now default apéro food in the natural wine bars around Oberkampf and Charonne. Pet-nat or a cold light red.
From behind the bar: Roughly one in ten is hot. That is the whole game, and there is no way to tell which by looking.
Grattons d'Auvergne · Paris
Pork fat cooked slowly until it gives up, then fried in itself. Arrives in a bowl, free or close to it, in bars run by Aveyron families. Salt, grease, red wine. It has no other ambitions.
Where you'd actually eat it: Bougnat bars around Ledru-Rollin and Bastille, where the owner's accent is from the Cantal. Drunk with Marcillac, or a shot of gentiane that tastes like a root cellar.
From behind the bar: Save the strained fat. It is the best frying fat you will own and it keeps for months in the fridge.
Cuisses de grenouilles à l'ail · Paris
Frog legs floured and hit hard with butter, garlic and parsley. You eat them with your hands and there is no dignified way to do it. The old brasseries still sell them by the dozen.
Where you'd actually eat it: Brasseries around the old market halls and any bistro with twelve tables and a zinc. Aligoté or Muscadet, and a growing pile of bones on the plate.
From behind the bar: Frozen legs are fine and are what most kitchens use. Thaw fully, dry twice, and do not crowd the pan.
Boudin noir aux pommes · Paris
Blood sausage warmed gently so the skin holds, with apples cooked down in butter. Sweet, iron, fat. Cut into short lengths and shared across the counter in February when nobody wants a salad.
Where you'd actually eat it: Auvergnat corner bars in the 12th and 20th on a wet night, four people standing at the zinc. Loire red, or dry cider poured out of a corked bottle.
From behind the bar: No high heat, ever. Above medium-low the casing splits and the good part runs into the pan. No French butcher near: morcilla or black pudding, same rule.
Accras de morue · Paris
Salt cod fritters with chile and lime worked into the batter, fried until they hiss. Antillean Paris runs on these. They arrive too hot to hold, which is the point of them.
Where you'd actually eat it: Antillean bars in the 18th and 20th and every Caribbean party in the city. Ti-punch, which is rhum agricole, cane syrup and a wedge of lime, ice optional and usually declined.
From behind the bar: Rest the batter the full thirty minutes. Unrested batter fries dense and greasy instead of hollow.
Brik à l'œuf · Paris
A pastry envelope with tuna and a whole raw egg inside, deep-fried for two minutes. You bite it over the plate, or over your shirt. Tunisian Paris eats these standing up.
Where you'd actually eat it: Tunisian counters around rue Richer and up Belleville, and every Tunisian household apéro in the city. Boukha or a cold beer, and napkins that do not help.
From behind the bar: Fold and fry one at a time. Briks built in advance go soft at the seam and open in the oil.
Oreilles de cochon croustillantes · Paris
Ears simmered until the cartilage gives, pressed cold, cut into strips and fried hard. Gristle, fat and crackle, eaten with fingers off a paper-lined plate. Ugly cut, cheap plate, drinks better than anything else on the board.
Where you'd actually eat it: Basque and southwest bars around Oberkampf and Ledru-Rollin, small plates and cold pours. Irouléguy, a Loire red, or a demi once you have given up on the wine list.
From behind the bar: Butchers keep ears in the freezer, and Latin and Asian markets always have them. Simmer and press the day before, fry to order.