Paris Has Finally Remembered How to Feed People

Paris has a problem.

It is one of the most beautiful cities on Earth, packed with magnificent buildings, extraordinary art and enough restaurants to feed the population of a small country.

And yet finding somewhere to eat without selling a kidney can sometimes feel like a competitive sport.

Particularly in the 16th arrondissement.

This is the sort of Paris where the buildings are elegant, the streets are immaculate, and the price of a sandwich can make you briefly consider eating the pavement instead.

Then along comes Bistro Blandine.

It is on Avenue Kléber, just a short distance from the Arc de Triomphe, which means you can spend the afternoon looking at one of the world's most famous monuments before discovering that the best thing you've seen all day might actually be a plate of beef.

This is not a restaurant trying to reinvent French cuisine.

Thank God.

There are no foams.

No mysterious gels.

No chef explaining that the three peas on your plate represent "the emotional journey of the French countryside".

Instead, Bistro Blandine has apparently decided to do something much more radical.

It cooks French food.

Proper French food.

The sort your grandmother might have made if your grandmother had been French, lived in Paris and possessed an alarming confidence with butter.

The menu reads almost like a greatest-hits album.

Soupe à l'oignon.

Œufs mayonnaise.

Bone marrow.

Cordon bleu.

Bœuf bourguignon.

Salmon with sorrel.

And then, because the French have always understood that life is considerably better when carbohydrates are involved, a gratin of ravioles.

There is no tasting menu.

You simply choose what you want.

This should not be revolutionary.

And yet, in modern restaurants, it increasingly is.

The onion soup is the sort of thing that sounds boring until you eat a really good one.

Onions, stock, bread and cheese.

That's basically it.

And yet the French have somehow managed to turn it into one of the great comfort foods of civilisation.

Then there are the œufs mayonnaise.

Boiled eggs with mayonnaise.

That's the entire concept.

If you told a modern chef he had to open a restaurant serving boiled eggs with mayonnaise, he'd probably burst into tears and start looking for a different career.

The French, meanwhile, just eat them.

And quite right too.

Then comes the serious artillery.

Bœuf bourguignon.

Cordon bleu.

These are not delicate little plates designed to make you wonder whether you have actually eaten anything.

These are dishes that arrive with intent.

Bœuf bourguignon is essentially beef that has been persuaded to spend a considerable amount of time in wine until it becomes tender enough to fall apart when looked at sternly.

The cordon bleu is equally magnificent.

Chicken, ham, cheese and breadcrumbs.

Again, not complicated.

Again, absolutely brilliant.

And this is what makes Bistro Blandine interesting.

It isn't pretending that simplicity means cheapness or that tradition means being old-fashioned.

The restaurant opened only about a year ago. Still, its entire purpose seems to be centred on bringing back the classics of French bourgeois cooking in a setting that feels as though it has been there for considerably longer. 

Inside, there are brown vintage banquettes, old bottles, bric-à-brac, wood panelling and Art Nouveau-style glass.

In other words, it looks like a French bistro should look.

Not like a Scandinavian furniture catalogue that accidentally developed a wine list.

There are around 75 seats, and when the place fills up, it apparently becomes exactly what you want from a Parisian bistro: noisy, busy, convivial and slightly chaotic.

Then comes dessert.

And this is where the French demonstrate once again that restraint is not their strongest characteristic.

Tarte Tatin.

Crème brûlée.

Paris-Brest.

Chocolate mousse served by the spoonful from a large cocotte.

And baba au rhum.

Yes.

At this point you have eaten beef cooked in wine; cheese-filled chicken; bread, butter and mayonnaise; and the French response is essentially the following:

"Excellent. Now have some rum."

Who are we to argue?

The wine list doesn't exactly suggest moderation either.

Bordeaux.

Burgundy.

Chablis.

Meursault.

Margaux.

Pauillac.

Saint-Julien.

This is not a place where the wine list has been written by someone whose entire knowledge of French wine begins and ends with "red" and "white".

And then there is the price.

Starters begin at €10.

Main courses from €19.

Desserts are around €12.

Now, this isn't a Parisian bargain basement. Nobody is going to serve you a three-course dinner beside the Arc de Triomphe for the price of a motorway service-station sandwich.

But considering where you are, these are remarkably sensible prices.

And perhaps that's the real appeal of Bistro Blandine.

Paris doesn't need another restaurant trying to become famous.

It needs restaurants where people can simply sit down, order something delicious, and remember why French food became famous in the first place.

You don't need a laboratory.

You don't need tweezers.

You don't need a waiter to explain the philosophical meaning of a carrot.

Sometimes you need onion soup.

Sometimes you need beef cooked in wine.

Sometimes you need chicken, ham and cheese covered in breadcrumbs.

And sometimes, after all that, you need a tarte Tatin.

Bistro Blandine appears to understand this.

Which means that if you're wandering around Paris, you've spent enough money on museums, you've been nearly killed by three scooters and you've reached the point where another €30 cocktail might result in an international incident, there is another option.

Find Avenue Kléber.

Sit down.

Order the beef.

Get some wine.

And for once, let France do what France has always done rather well.

Feed you.