The France Diaries

It was the last day of our holiday in Paris. The boys had left, and we planned to treat ourselves to a memorable meal before flying out. Of course, we had had a few memorable meals, right from Michelin star restaurants to rustic Provençal terrasse brasseries serving delicious local fare, but this, I thought should be the one which would underline my experiences and feelings about Paris in the summer of 2013.

That’s when the name Frenchie came up.

Homard Breton, tagliolini with cuttlefish ink, chorizo and mussels at Frenchie bar a vins

To many, Gregory Marchand’s restaurant and neighbouring bar à vins is not news. The restaurant has been around under 3 years, the bar a little less, but in Paris, the hysteria does not seem to have died down.
One report in Le Figaro by François Simon raved that “Mais bon sang de bois, pour se dégoter une table, c’est tout simplement l’enfer. Les portes de prison doivent être plus accueillantes et, au moins, on en connaît le mode d’emploi.” (“…to dig up a table, it’s just hell. Prison doors should be more welcoming, and at least we know its manual.”) The NYT and its ilk across the pond have raved themselves silly as well (“It’s like watching professional ballet dancers in a basement club: there’s style, sure, but their joy comes from being able to let loose.”) And never mind the Eiffel, it seems to be on top of the list of must-sees for most visitors to Paris. At our hotel, the receptionist rolled her eyes and shrugged when I said the word Frenchie. Nonetheless she gallantly tried all day to get us a reservation. With no hope of one, of course. When people wake up early a whole month ahead in the US just to snag an online reservation, what chance did we have for one the same day? Better try elsewhere.

The entrance

What finally got us to fix on Frenchie’s bar was David Lebovitz’ blog, which mentioned that while it was all but impossible to score a seat (among the mere 24 available per sitting) at Frenchie the restaurant, it made better sense to try the Frenchie bar à vins right across the tiny cobblestone alley. The food was similar to the restaurant, but not the same. This place took no reservations, and Greg Marchand and his super-young team produced small plates of fascinating flavours paired with a very interesting wine list. Indeed, most often, Greg hopped across from the restaurant to rustle up a dish or two and help in this kitchen. Serve and wash dishes, too, if needed.

So we joined the 20-deep queue of enthusiasts an hour ahead of opening time for the bar à vins, a nondescript small wooden fronted room with high tables (all for sharing – MTR style!) and a tiny, tiny kitchen. We were seated at a table with an Australian couple and 2 American girls. You have to be the convivial sort to enjoy Frenchie’s bar: you don’t know who you will be seated with, but you might just walk out making new friends. In about 5 minutes the place was packed. Latecomers stood by the bar with a glass of wine, patiently waiting their turn. It could take an hour, even two. (more…)