What I Ate in Paris Part I

The good, the mid, the incroyable

I’m back. Let’s eat.

Day 1

My first meal in Paris came after taking a red eye, landing at Charles De Gaulle, taking an hour-long car ride in 95-degree weather in a taxi without AC, arriving at my hotel, immediately realizing that I left my laptop on the plane, and hauling ass back to the airport in the hopes of finding it. (It all worked out.)

So, our late dinner was fucking deserved. Le Bon Georges is a bistro close to our hotel that also happens to be on just about every “best Paris bistro” list you can find. That means getting a reservation day-of can be a struggle. But after some unsuccessful walk-in attempts on past trips, I planned ahead and made sure that my parents and I were scheduled for dinner at 10 pm. My dad is really weird about eating late, so I warned them ahead of time about the timing, and luckily, they accepted it. When in Rome, I guess.

At Le Bon Georges, the waiters present you with a giant chalkboard menu of the day and briefly go through each dish. We got this potato salad-type dish with smoked fish and creme fraiche to share, and I got a classic steak au poivre with frites — but since it’s Le Bon Georges, it’s a little elevated: The beef filet was large, generous, and cooked very medium rare (though, perhaps a wee bit rare for my liking). I pleaded with my parents not to order anything well done, lest we risk deportation.

Day 2

The next day, we took a cab across town for a lunch reservation at Parcelles, a restaurant that I would describe as contemporary French food that’s beautiful without being pretentious. Incredible quality and a really lovely menu that changes daily.

We shared oysters and a lovely little eggplant salad. I had some sort of fish dish that I wish I remembered beyond “it tasted good.” I remember my mom had sweetbreads over silky mashed potatoes and gravy, and my dad had a pork filet of some sort with spring vegetables.

For dinner, we went to a Django, where I’d had a great meal back in 2023. This time around, the experience was a little goofy: There was no AC (pretty typical of Paris), and we were initially placed in this very hot corner where we were barely able to feel the breeze produced by the fan they’d stuck back there. I felt like a very pesky American, asking if a table closer to the window was free (No, they went out for a smoke), or if there was a table available outside (Maybe in an hour). We eventually did get moved outside, but the overall service was lacking, drinks took forever, and the food was aggressively fine.

Day 3

Lunch the next day made up for the lackluster dinner the night before. My friend Diamond told me about a Senegalese restaurant called Waly-Fay, and it was one of the best meals I had in Paris, hands down. Spiced to perfection, hefty portions, and beautifully cooked. I think both my parents and I were craving something that felt a little familiar.

I’m not going to get too Pan-African or anything, but eating at Waly-Fay as a Black American emphasized the cultural crossover between West African cuisine and Southern American as well as Cajun cooking. We balled out and ordered fish cakes, okra skewers, plantains, traditional chicken yassa, a jumbo shrimp creole dish, and this fried chicken cutlet breaded with a pecan mixture with coleslaw and sweet potatoes.

For dinner, we ended up at some random Moroccan restaurant that had good reviews. I found it pretty mid. I should have known something was off when I saw a bunch of non-Moroccan food on the menu. I usually steer clear of—for lack of a better word—“ethnic restaurants” that have a lot of menu items deemed safe for an unadventurous, Western palate. An exception to this rule is a Hood Chinese Restaurant.

But whatever, we were tired and didn’t really care much. We just needed something in our bodies. (Anyway, when I was last Paris in 2023, I had great Moroccan food at a restaurant in the 11th arrondissement called L’Homme Bleu. Incredibly good Tagine.)

Day 4

For our last day, we had dinner at a Left Bank restaurant called La Rotisserie D’Argent, right along the Seine. I don’t care if it’s cornball and touristy—it was so nice to have dinner while the sun was setting and boats drifted by playing Whitney Houston remixes and watching people sit along the river’s edge (or people blasting French hip hop from their cars). Our table was right on a bridge that gave you a great view, and even if you’re paying a premium for it, it was worth it. La Rotisserie D’Argent is classic French fare, nothing contempo, just the basics. We ordered a bottle of wine, and my mom and I split escargot (which I like but struggle with mentally), and we all had different steaks and a dessert. The waiter, a very cute guy named Daniel, gave me an extra dessert, which I’d love to think was because he thought I was the most beautiful woman he’d seen all day and was charmed by my Americanisms and banter. But I’m pretty sure it was just that he’d dropped my entire dinner on the floor earlier in the evening.

The next morning, just before we were to head off to Gare Du Nord for our train to Amsterdam, I tried to grab a croissant at Mamiche, a cool pastry shop in the ninth arrondissement. Of course, I waited too fucking long, and it was a Saturday, and the line was all the way down the street. I told myself I’d grab it when I returned to Paris later in the month…and when I decided to actually wake up before 10 am).

Chat: Did I eat well? What did I miss? (There are four more days in Paris coming your way soon, don’t come for my ass too hard.)

ICYMI