Lunch at Au Petit Fer Cheval
When in Paris it’s important to check the hours of operation. Like the first time we went to Au Petit Fer à Cheval and had taken an Uber, from near the Place Vendome over to the Marais, and when the car passed the restaurant, I had seen it. It was closed. I was the only one, but I had seen it. I’d forgotten to check. I mean, I had looked, a few days prior, but I hadn’t looked that closely. And so when we arrived it was closed. As was the bookstore across the street, which I had also wanted to visit. I hadn’t looked that closely at the bookstore’s hours either, though they are, apparently, 5:30 p.m. to 2 a.m., you know, when bookstores are generally open. I had to come clean. I told Cassie. She was lovely about it, of course, more generous and forgiving than I would have been. We got pizza down the street, which was delicious. All was not lost. Toward the end of our meal, as we were waiting for l’addition, a beautiful couple sat down beside us and following right behind them, on a leash, was a big, fluffy, lovely dog. Rosie watched it, eyes wide and face beaming. I arranged the question in my head, or as closely as I could, and asked them if she could pet their dog. They smiled and Rosie proceeded to stroke their companion. As we departed, the beautiful couple waved to us and then proceeded to speak Italian to each other. I have no idea what they thought I had asked.
But I still wanted to visit Au Petit à Cheval. It had come highly recommended, by both book and friend, and so we returned a few days later, when it was open. Though not the bookstore. We don’t keep such hours with children in tow.
It’s hard to tell which places are good in Paris, though I assume you can’t go wrong. Parisians may say you can, but as an American, on my first visit, I certainly wouldn’t have known. The cafés and brasseries all have a sort of uniform appearance, uniform in that they are all equally lovely. Everything’s charming. I don’t care how quaint that sounds. It’s all charming.
There were seven tables out front, seven tables and fourteen chairs, with a gap in the middle for the entrance, which had narrow windows on either side, the frames and casings painted bright green. Inside, a small bartop and stools nearly filled the entirety of the front room. A few people were there, eating or drinking coffee, wine. It was still early. 11:30 or so, maybe noon. The guide book said to head to the back, behind the bar, where a few tables are arranged, before you reach the kitchen. The server pulled out a table for my wife and daughter to reach the seats along the wall. It was tight. Cozy.
The menus were in French. With the place being small and off of the main streets, I didn’t ask for carte en anglais. I knew some of what was listed, and the kids would order croque monsieur, and so they were fine. I noticed a handwritten menu on the back wall, near the small opening to the kitchen, that listed poisson du jour, and poisson du jour was what I was going to have. Cassie tried to navigate la carte by surreptitiously searching up words on her phone. I tried to assist as I could, but after canard and poulet and viande, I wasn’t much help. But the couple one table over, noticing, passed their English menus over, to her great comfort. When the server returned, I did as I did all week and ordered in French, and he did as they did that week and nodded kindly, offered a smile, didn’t write a single thing down, and never made me feel silly.
Drinks and bread were soon delivered and we chatted about the day, the week. There was a group of men a few tables down excitedly talking. Two of them were stylishly wearing scarves, a few in sport coats, cups and saucers strewn about, a few bowls of soup. I tried to listen in, though not to what they were saying; I didn’t have a chance. But to the cadence, the give and take, the rhythm and music of it all.
The children’s sandwiches arrived. So much ham and cheese in one week, on the most delicious bread. Oh, the bread. They thought it was fine, which is a shame, for it was more than fine, and the cheese, on this occasion comté. It was delicious. And they ordered limonades, which also were delicious. Our meals arrived soon after.
When I had originally ordered, the server asked a question about the poisson du jour. I said “oui,” though I hadn’t known what he had asked, but by this point I had tried escargot, pȃté, and the goat cheese wrap at McDo, the one on the Champs-Élysées, and so I was game. The poisson du jour was baked white fish with basil aioli and the creamiest risotto on the side. Cassie’s veal mignon avec frites looked fantastic and her first bite verified it. She passed a forkful to me. My goodness. What a meal: the food and the drinks and the server and the men talking two tables down.
One of the most interesting differences of eating out in France is that the waiters leave you alone, unless you call them over. And the table is yours, for as long as you want it. And even when you ask for the check, it can take awhile to finalize the deal and be on your way. Which was fine by me. But I thought it all so interesting. In America, we would think it bad service if we went without consistent interruptions and interrogations.
And so we enjoyed ourselves, quite lavishly, especially for the middle of the day. We were in Paris, at this small, magical bistro, which likely wasn’t magical at all, but rather quotidian to those who knew it, quotidian in the sense that you could build your whole life around such a place and be quite satisfied. In fact, at the end of the meal, quite overcome with satisfaction, I gathered the words as best I could and motioned the server over. When he arrived, I told him it was the best meal we had had all week, because it was true. He smiled and laughed and thanked me. I know it might have been absurd, to tell him, for he hadn’t made it, and he was busy, rushing here and there, but I thought someone should know, and he seemed like the guy. Maybe I could have stuck my head through the opening in the back and shouted it to the cook, but I thought this was enough. I can still picture him, smiling and laughing, assuredly thinking my French absurd, my praise misplaced. But I don’t care. I’m still glad I said it.
And then we went again for macarons, just as we had after pizza, and we ate them in the same small square on the same bench where the Rue du Bourg Tibourg meets the Rue de Rivoli. Though the first occasion we sat down here to enjoy our little treats, and as I was taking my initial bite, a bird pooped on me. I had been so proud, of how little I had packed, my simple uniform for the week, and then a bird defecated on my hat and coat, on the same day the bistro and bookstore had been closed. But then we had had great pizza, and I had spoken French to an Italian couple, and we were eating macarons on a bench in Paris. What is a little bird excrement on such a day.
And then we walked back to our hotel, in the rain.
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