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.
38 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.
Rillettes de porc · Paris
Pork cooked in its own fat until it gives up, shredded, packed into a jar, sealed under a fat cap. You get a jar, a knife, toast, cornichons. You do not get a portion size.
Where you'd actually eat it: Bistro counters and charcuteries citywide, sold by the jar. Drink Chinon or any light red served cool, which is how every bar in the 11th pours it anyway.
From behind the bar: Take the jar out of the fridge 45 minutes before serving. Cold rillettes taste like nothing and spread like plaster.
Gougères · Paris
Choux pastry with hard cheese beaten through it, baked until hollow. Warm from the oven they are one of the few things worth interrupting a conversation for.
Where you'd actually eat it: Burgundian by birth, now the standard free bite pushed across the zinc in wine bars. Aligoté or Chablis, cold enough to hurt.
From behind the bar: Comté and Gruyère are set with calf rennet, so the classic version is not vegetarian. A vegetarian-rennet Alpine hard cheese works and nobody will call you out.
Terrine de campagne · Paris
Coarse pork and liver, baked in a loaf, pressed, then left alone for two days. Cut thick. Anything thin enough to see through is a hotel buffet.
Where you'd actually eat it: On the slate at every bar à vins worth sitting in. Beaujolais, a Loire cabernet franc, or a beer if the place is honest about being a tabac.
From behind the bar: Ask a butcher for the coarse plate on both meats. Fine-ground terrine goes pasty and tastes like supermarket pâté.
Jambon persillé · Paris
Ham hock pulled into chunks and set in a wine jelly loud with parsley and garlic. Burgundian, Easter food originally, now a year-round cold plate in Paris.
Where you'd actually eat it: A charcutier product you buy by the slice, but bars à vins in the 11th plate it whole. Aligoté, no argument.
From behind the bar: Traditionally the set comes from a veal foot in the pot. Powdered gelatin is the honest shortcut and gives a cleaner slice.
Croque-monsieur · Paris
Ham, cheese and béchamel between two slices of white bread, more cheese on top, baked until the top blisters. Counter food at four in the afternoon, when nothing else is being served.
Where you'd actually eat it: Any café with a zinc counter, ordered with a demi of blonde beer or a glass of cheap Côtes du Rhône. Peaks between lunch and dinner.
From behind the bar: Fry an egg and slide it on top and it is a croque-madame. That is the whole difference; do not let anyone tell you otherwise.
Maquereaux au vin blanc · Paris
Mackerel fillets cooked in a wine and vinegar bath with carrot coins, then left in it overnight. Served cold from the fridge. It looks like a tin because it usually is one.
Where you'd actually eat it: Sold in tins on every bistro counter and made in-house at the better ones. Muscadet, Picpoul, anything sharp and cold.
From behind the bar: Handle them once. Move the fillets after cooking and they shred; carry them to the table in the dish they cooked in.
Harengs pommes à l'huile · Paris
Smoked herring fillets sitting in oil with carrot and bay, warm potato salad underneath. An old bistro cold starter that works better as something to pick at over a second glass.
Where you'd actually eat it: A workers' bistro fixture that never left. Order it with a small carafe of white or a cold blonde and lean on the bar.
From behind the bar: Buy herring already in oil if you want this tonight. The 24-hour marinade is the version worth planning for.
Bulots mayonnaise · Paris
Sea snails boiled in aromatics, served cold in a bowl with a pot of mayonnaise and a pile of toothpicks. Chewy, salty, extremely good with cold white wine.
Where you'd actually eat it: Brasserie seafood counters and any bar near a shellfish stand, especially Sundays. Muscadet sur lie, poured too cold.
From behind the bar: Overcooking turns them to rubber. If you are unsure, pull one at 18 minutes and bite it; it should give, not bounce.
Huîtres, sauce mignonette · Paris
A dozen oysters, a spoonful of shallot and vinegar, brown bread with salted butter. There is no cooking here, only shucking, and the shucking is the whole job.
Where you'd actually eat it: Brasseries with a shucker working the sidewalk from September on, and half the bars in the 11th at apéro. Muscadet or a dry Chenin.
From behind the bar: Do not drown them. Half a bar spoon of mignonette per oyster, and drink the liquor with it.
Escargots de Bourgogne · Paris
Snails buried under garlic and parsley butter, baked until it boils over. Nobody is eating these for the snail. The snail is a delivery system for the butter and the bread that follows.
Where you'd actually eat it: Old-guard bistros and brasseries, ordered while you decide on the rest. Chablis, Aligoté, or the house Burgundy by the pot.
From behind the bar: Canned Burgundy snails are what most Paris kitchens use too. Buy the ones packed plain in brine, not pre-buttered.
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.
Rillettes de maquereau · Paris
Smoked mackerel forked into crème fraîche with lemon and shallot. Fifteen minutes of work and it is the thing on the table that empties first.
Where you'd actually eat it: Standard-issue on the small-plates list at natural wine bars around Oberkampf and Charonne. Drink a skin-contact white or a dry cider.
From behind the bar: Hot-smoked is the one you want, the flaky kind. Cold-smoked mackerel stays slippery and will not fork apart.
Brandade de morue · Paris
Salt cod beaten with olive oil, garlic and potato into something between a dip and a gratin. From Nîmes, on Paris tables since forever, best eaten hot on grilled bread.
Where you'd actually eat it: Southern-run bistros and Languedoc-leaning wine bars in the 11th. A cold rosé from the Rhône, or a Picpoul.
From behind the bar: Buy thick center-cut salt cod, not the thin tail pieces. Thin pieces desalt unevenly and end up either bland or brutal.
Museau de bœuf vinaigrette · Paris
Pressed beef muzzle, sliced into ribbons and dressed sharp with mustard, shallot and cornichon. Cheap, cold, chewy, and the most honest thing on any bistro counter.
Where you'd actually eat it: Butcher counters, old bistros and any tabac that still does food. Beaujolais by the pot, or a glass of Côtes du Rhône at the bar.
From behind the bar: Serve it fridge-cold and it tastes of nothing but fat. Twenty minutes on the counter fixes it entirely.
Tapenade noire · Paris
Black olives, capers, garlic and anchovy pounded into a dark paste. It is named for the capers, not the olives, and it belongs on bread with something cold in your other hand.
Where you'd actually eat it: Provençal, but it turns up in every Paris apéro spread and on the free bread plate at half the wine bars. Rosé or a cold light red.
From behind the bar: Anchovy is traditional, so this is not vegetarian. Leave it out and you have a decent olive paste, but call it that and not tapenade.
Œuf mayo · Paris
Half a hard-cooked egg under a spoon of real mayonnaise. There is a French association dedicated to defending it and an annual championship, which tells you everything about how seriously this is taken.
Where you'd actually eat it: The house test at any real bistro or bar-tabac, usually the cheapest line on the slate. Order it with a glass of Chinon or a demi.
From behind the bar: If the mayonnaise splits, start a fresh yolk in a clean bowl and whisk the broken batch into it a spoonful at a time.
Radis au beurre · Paris
Cold radishes, good butter, coarse salt. Three ingredients and no technique, which means the whole thing rests on buying properly. Spring food that stayed on the menu.
Where you'd actually eat it: Market-adjacent cafés and bistro terraces from April on. Chilled Sancerre, a dry Chenin, or a beer if it is warm out.
From behind the bar: Woody hollow radishes are a total loss. Buy the small ones with crisp green tops still attached, in spring if you can.
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.
Poireaux vinaigrette · Paris
Leeks poached soft, pressed dry, drowned in sharp mustard vinaigrette and served cold. Bistro cooking at its most stubborn. Cheap vegetable, expensive attention.
Where you'd actually eat it: On the entrées list at every prix-fixe bistro in Paris, and reworked as a small plate in the 11th. A dry Loire white handles the vinegar.
From behind the bar: The classic bistro version often gets grated hard-boiled egg on top, which is fine but not vegan. Leave it off and add extra shallot.
Champignons à la grecque · Paris
Button mushrooms simmered in olive oil, white wine, lemon and coriander seed, then cooled in the liquid. Despite the name it is a French preparation. Cold, sharp, and it lasts a week.
Where you'd actually eat it: A traiteur-counter classic sold by weight, and back on wine bar slates as a cold vegetable plate. Aligoté or any lean white.
From behind the bar: Take it out of the fridge 30 minutes ahead. Cold olive oil goes cloudy and dull and the coriander disappears.
Caviar d'aubergine · Paris
Eggplant roasted until it collapses, drained hard, then mashed with garlic, lemon and olive oil. Smoky and loose, not the thick paste sold in tubs.
Where you'd actually eat it: On apéro tables and in traiteur windows across the city, strongest in the eastern arrondissements. Rosé, or a chilled Gamay.
From behind the bar: For real smoke, char the whole eggplants directly over a gas flame for 10 minutes first, then finish in the oven.
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.
Œuf mayonnaise · Paris
Two halves of a hard-boiled egg under too much mayonnaise. There is an association in Paris that exists to defend it. Order one at the zinc, eat it standing, and understand why nobody has improved on it.
Where you'd actually eat it: The counter of any surviving bistrot de quartier, six in the evening, before the tables fill. Red by the glass, whatever is open. The eggs used to sit under a glass dome on the bar all day.
From behind the bar: Mayonnaise must be stiff enough to hold a ridge. If it slides off the egg it is a sauce, and you have failed.
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.
Gésiers de canard confits · Paris
Gizzards salted overnight and cooked slow in duck fat until a knife slides through. Crisped in a dry pan and eaten hot from the bowl, or thrown over bitter leaves. Cheap organ meat that drinks Cahors.
Where you'd actually eat it: Southwest-run bars in the 11th and 14th, the ones with a laminated card and a paper mat. A bowl for one at eight o'clock, with a carafe of Cahors that stains the glass.
From behind the bar: Canned confit gizzards are honest and save three hours. Warm the tin in water, lift them out, then crisp the slices hard.
Sardines millésimées, beurre demi-sel · Paris
A tin, a knife, cold salted butter, hot toast. The good tins carry a year on the lid and are cellared like wine, turned twice a year. That is the entire recipe and it costs almost nothing.
Where you'd actually eat it: Wine bars with more bottles than chairs, where the food list is a shelf of tins and one cheese. Muscadet, Chablis, or a beer once the kitchen has closed for the night.
From behind the bar: Store tins on their side in a cool cupboard and turn them every six months so the fish stay under oil. Past five years the spine has dissolved.
Tartine de foie de morue · Paris
Cod liver out of a tin, broken onto dark toast in lobes. Soft, oily, faintly metallic, deeply unfashionable. It costs three euros and it settles the argument about whether you are hungry.
Where you'd actually eat it: Breton conserve shops in the 11th and the bars that buy from them, apéro hour, everyone standing. Muscadet sur lie served too cold, or a demi of blonde.
From behind the bar: Cod liver is very high in vitamin A. Keep the portions small, and anyone pregnant should skip it entirely.
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.
Crevettes grises · Paris
Tiny grey shrimp boiled two minutes in hard salt water and eaten whole. Shells, heads, all of it. Salt and crunch, no cutlery, no work. Engineered to make you order another beer.
Where you'd actually eat it: The écailler stand set up outside a brasserie in October, or the shellfish bars on rue des Martyrs. Cold beer or Chablis, taken standing up in your coat.
From behind the bar: True crangon is near-impossible outside Europe. Use the smallest whole head-on shrimp you can find and eat them shell and all.
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.
Pounti · Paris
A dense loaf of pork, chard and prunes from the Cantal, baked and then eaten cold in slices. Sweet against salt, heavy, unglamorous. The bougnats carried it to Paris along with the coal.
Where you'd actually eat it: Auvergne bars and the Ligue Auvergnate halls, cut into cubes on a saucer at apéro. Marcillac from a chilled bottle, or gentiane if the owner has decided he likes you.
From behind the bar: It is better on day two, straight from the fridge. Warm pounti is soft and slightly dull; cold pounti has edges.
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.
Sandwich grec (grec-frites) · Paris
The two in the morning sandwich. Meat off a spit, salad, and the Paris part: the fries go inside the bread. Two sauces, both regrettable. Nothing else in the city repairs a night this efficiently.
Where you'd actually eat it: Rue Saint-Denis, Château d'Eau, lower Belleville, after the bars shut. Eaten standing on the sidewalk with whatever is left in the can.
From behind the bar: The fries go in last, on top of the sauce, so they steam slightly and glue the sandwich together. This is not an error.
Merguez-frites · Paris
Lamb sausage, red with harissa and cumin, split on the grill and dropped onto fries. Cheap, spiced, greasy in the correct way. What the grill sells you when the kebab line is too long.
Where you'd actually eat it: The grills under the elevated métro at Barbès and the counters up Belleville. Beer bought from the shop next door, or mint tea where the place does not pour alcohol.
From behind the bar: No merguez nearby: ground lamb with harissa, cumin, coriander, garlic and paprika, rolled into fingers and cooked to 160F / 71C.
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.
Os à moelle au gros sel · Paris
Beef bones split lengthwise, roasted until the marrow trembles, scraped onto toast with coarse salt. Pure fat and bone, no technique at all. The oldest thing on any wine list.
Where you'd actually eat it: Old bistros around Les Halles and the 11th, ordered to share while the table is still arguing about the wine. A big red, and more bread than you asked for.
From behind the bar: Ask the butcher for canoe cuts, split the long way. Round-cut bones look better and are much harder to get the marrow out of.
Cervelas rémoulade · Paris
Sausage cut into batons, drowned in mustard mayonnaise with cornichons, chilled an hour. A brasserie plate nobody photographs. Better than it sounds and worse than it looks.
Where you'd actually eat it: Brasseries with paper mats and Alsatian taps, ordered at lunch and again at six. Riesling by the pitcher or a demi pression, standing at the end of the bar.
From behind the bar: No cervelas nearby: a good knackwurst or a coarse frankfurter works. A supermarket hot dog does not, and you will taste why.
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.