I have been bothering boyfriend for a long time about going to l'encrier.
It is on the rue Traversiere, which seems to be directly between the homestead and everywhere else in the city. Every time we walk past I spy the plates of food and smiling laughing customers and I say to him "Gosh, doesn't that look nice?"
Boyfriend will usually grunt and change the subject.
This evening boyfriend was home early from work so we decided to celebrate. Our original plan was "the little gastronomic restaurant where nobody ever goes" I did not have high hopes, despite my pleas for La Gazzetta, where I have been dying to go, I acquiesced as it is just round the corner. We wandered in at half ten and were greeted frostily; kitchen closed, bugger off.
Then I remembered l'Encrier. Just the other side of the viaduct, what had always appeared a little pocket of inaccessible warmth was about to become a reality.
Open the door of L'Encrier and you'll be greeted with a smile, great smells, a hubbub of contented chatter and the sight of the chefs all pottering away in the open kitchen. It was every bit as gorgeous as I had imagined, only with the added bonus of exposed beams making me feel like I was in the countryside.
It is kind of like having dinner at a friend's house. The staff are relaxed and friendly, and sat down to dine and chat at the next table towards the end of the evening.
We ordered the menu suggestion (33euros for 3 courses and cheese). I went for their duo of salmon to start, and boyfriend had the foie gras. Mine was light and simple. His was absolute knock you out flavour heaven, and came with the most delicious orange and cinnamon chutney. I need that recipe.
The food came, simply presented and in generous portions. Exactly how I like it; honest, unpretentious and absolutely delicious. I get so annoyed with finicky little half-platefuls...
Perhaps because of the lateness of the hour, our mains arrived almost straight away. I went for the St Jacques Provencales, and boyfriend had (surprise surprise) the beef with morel cream. I need to do a little shout out to the chef here, because everything was perfectly cooked. I mean perfectly. My scallops were crispy outside and jelly-quivering within, and boyfriend's beef was a whole new shade of blue.
Cheese came, and it was generous, simple and delicious. We then attempted to take on a mango sorbet but were too stuffed and too happy to give it a proper go.
No pretence here, just good food and a friendly human warmth. I'll be going back.
UPDATE: The other day I walked past and saw Louis Garrel hanging out in front of the restaurant; praise indeed.
L'encrier
55 Rue Traversière
Paris
75012
open monday to friday 12-2.30
monday to saturday 7.30-11.00
Monday, 3 May 2010
Thursday, 29 April 2010
ARGH. Thursday, a very ranty Duchess
Have you ever had a coldsore? Or a mosquito bite?
Or TWO coldsores AT THE SAME TIME as well as A MILLION MOSQUITO BITES?!
Let me tell you kind ladies and gentlemen it is not fun. It is not fun at all. It is, in fact, distinctly un-fun.
I woke up this morning with a start at 6 am with what felt like two bees stinging my face. They were having a great time, taking it in turns to stab their merry little chubby bee bottoms into my upper lip. My first thought was to smack myself in the face, thereby killing said bees and stopping the pain. Clearly I am not a morning person, still I'm sure Oscar Wilde said something about only dull people being brilliant before breakfast.
Have you ever smacked yourself in the coldsore? If you have one, try it. It feels not unlike your face is exploding.
My startled squawk awoke boyfriend, who grumbled a little something like "poor baby i lov..........*snore*
Thankyou darling, you are a shining example of good boyfriendry. Correct response would of course have been to pick me up, naked but for a rather fetching sheet, and rush me to the nearest plastic surgery clinic for recuperation until my face is fit for public viewing. Perhaps I have overdosed a little on Nip/Tuck recently, but that seems to be about the best solution for any minor disfigurement.
As it was, this muffled appeasement would have to do.
Next problem; it is 6am. I don't have to be awake legally for another two hours. Why have you done this body clock? WHY? The rest of the city is just starting to wake up and make noise, the traffic is beginning the overture leading to its ear splitting rush hour crescendo. Now is not the time to be going to sleep, it is the time to be BEING asleep.
Going for a wee whilst trying to remain asleep is a tricky business. It requires absolute confidence in the uncluttered nature of your floor (too trusting, beer cap to the heel: ouch), ability to keep your eyes at least 80% shut during your trajectory (I have this down thanks to years of playing the blind game with my friends as a child) and above all not, repeat NOT turning the bathroom light on. Disobey this last and you might as well say goodbye to any possibility of having a remotely productive day. These rules may well result in you urinating upon yourself and/or your bathroom furniture but at least you'll get back to bed with minimal sleep disruption.
Well at least that is unless your flat is a mosquito infested snore-filled sauna.
There are few things more terrifying than the cold metallic buzz of a mosquito as it closes in on your innocent half-sleeping form. The little bastards seem to time these assaults for the exact moment you are just losing your grip on cold reality for the cosy friendly warmth of sleep. Your pillow is reaching out to give your brain a nice big hug.
Buzz.
I make the obligatory noncommital slapping motion in the vague direction the noise seems to be coming from. It stops, so does boyfriends calmly rhythmic breathing as my flailing fingers meet his eyesocket. Luckily boyfriend is of the sturdy hurricane survival sleeping build and slumber continues peacefully. Buzzing stops. I begin once more the long and slow descent into oblivion.
Buzz.
This time I am far too tired to attempt to move my arms, which have just found a perfectly comfortable if unorthodox position and have subsequently turned to lead. This tricky situation can be handily assuaged by use of an impromptu "head-swatting", at least, that is what my sleep-starved brain believes.
Head swatting, it transpires, requires rather more skill than first believed. I spend at least ten minutes thrashing around embarrassingly like somebody's dad at the Isle of Wight festival. Mosquito flies off sniggering as I take a wall to the forehead.
I abandon my body to the inevitable and wake up with two whopping coldsores, red spots all over my pasty english limbs and a sore head.
I clearly need to go back to bed school.
Or TWO coldsores AT THE SAME TIME as well as A MILLION MOSQUITO BITES?!
Let me tell you kind ladies and gentlemen it is not fun. It is not fun at all. It is, in fact, distinctly un-fun.
I woke up this morning with a start at 6 am with what felt like two bees stinging my face. They were having a great time, taking it in turns to stab their merry little chubby bee bottoms into my upper lip. My first thought was to smack myself in the face, thereby killing said bees and stopping the pain. Clearly I am not a morning person, still I'm sure Oscar Wilde said something about only dull people being brilliant before breakfast.
Have you ever smacked yourself in the coldsore? If you have one, try it. It feels not unlike your face is exploding.
My startled squawk awoke boyfriend, who grumbled a little something like "poor baby i lov..........*snore*
Thankyou darling, you are a shining example of good boyfriendry. Correct response would of course have been to pick me up, naked but for a rather fetching sheet, and rush me to the nearest plastic surgery clinic for recuperation until my face is fit for public viewing. Perhaps I have overdosed a little on Nip/Tuck recently, but that seems to be about the best solution for any minor disfigurement.
As it was, this muffled appeasement would have to do.
Next problem; it is 6am. I don't have to be awake legally for another two hours. Why have you done this body clock? WHY? The rest of the city is just starting to wake up and make noise, the traffic is beginning the overture leading to its ear splitting rush hour crescendo. Now is not the time to be going to sleep, it is the time to be BEING asleep.
Going for a wee whilst trying to remain asleep is a tricky business. It requires absolute confidence in the uncluttered nature of your floor (too trusting, beer cap to the heel: ouch), ability to keep your eyes at least 80% shut during your trajectory (I have this down thanks to years of playing the blind game with my friends as a child) and above all not, repeat NOT turning the bathroom light on. Disobey this last and you might as well say goodbye to any possibility of having a remotely productive day. These rules may well result in you urinating upon yourself and/or your bathroom furniture but at least you'll get back to bed with minimal sleep disruption.
Well at least that is unless your flat is a mosquito infested snore-filled sauna.
There are few things more terrifying than the cold metallic buzz of a mosquito as it closes in on your innocent half-sleeping form. The little bastards seem to time these assaults for the exact moment you are just losing your grip on cold reality for the cosy friendly warmth of sleep. Your pillow is reaching out to give your brain a nice big hug.
Buzz.
I make the obligatory noncommital slapping motion in the vague direction the noise seems to be coming from. It stops, so does boyfriends calmly rhythmic breathing as my flailing fingers meet his eyesocket. Luckily boyfriend is of the sturdy hurricane survival sleeping build and slumber continues peacefully. Buzzing stops. I begin once more the long and slow descent into oblivion.
Buzz.
This time I am far too tired to attempt to move my arms, which have just found a perfectly comfortable if unorthodox position and have subsequently turned to lead. This tricky situation can be handily assuaged by use of an impromptu "head-swatting", at least, that is what my sleep-starved brain believes.
Head swatting, it transpires, requires rather more skill than first believed. I spend at least ten minutes thrashing around embarrassingly like somebody's dad at the Isle of Wight festival. Mosquito flies off sniggering as I take a wall to the forehead.
I abandon my body to the inevitable and wake up with two whopping coldsores, red spots all over my pasty english limbs and a sore head.
I clearly need to go back to bed school.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
A very pleasant find
Thursday. Chez Taeko and a good friend
A few days ago a very charming ex-parisienne friend popped over the channel to pay us a visit. The day was alternately blistering and gusty and I was immodestly attired. Miss Linnet, however was a picture of loveliness in war-effort style beige trousers. We wanted something hearty and filling and so we made for Rue de Bretagne and the Marché des Enfants Rouges.
"You must try the sandwich man." I had been imploring ever since I found out about her imminent visit. "It's just the best thing ever."
"Sandwich man", for want of a better name, makes beautiful sandwiches on fresh ciabatta, served with twinkling eye and twitching beard. Each one is a ten-minute masterpiece; bursting at the seams with avocado, onion confit, jelly-ripe tomatoes, salad leaves and drenched in fruity olive oil. You might think ten minutes is too long to make a sandwich, but there are always plenty of people willing to wait. They are a far cry from the usual cotton-woolly and faintly suspicious offerings at the supermarket, or the generic cheese and ham baguette of the garden variety boulangerie. They are, if i may say, proper fucking sandwiches.
But enough about sandwich man, because as soon as we arrived at the Marché des Enfants-Rouges, me practically dribbling with expectation, our faces fell. Sandwich man's day off. Bugger.
Not to worry though because being English means we do not need to rely on bearded men to have a good time. Following our noses revealed a very exciting looking (and smelling) Japanese stall, the smiling staff all bustling around huge pots. After a moment of trademark dithering we squeezed ourselves into the plastic encased seating area. A strange idea, but actually very comforting once you're inside; sort of like eating in a big soap bubble. The waitress popped in and out of the multiple sliding doors balancing bento boxes and metal pots of tea.
I had never eaten a bento box before, and I must say I was less than enthusiastic about their segregated, manicured look. My only experience with Japanese food in France has been slightly anaemic sushi, and being more of the bubbling cauldron school of comfort foodery I was slightly wary.
I take it all back, please forgive me Japan. After much hesitation (all the options on the menu looked exciting) I went for a Tonkatsu bento on The Guvnor's recommendation and was pleasantly surprised to find that within these neat boxes nestle all manner of tasty treats. There was the Tonkatsu itself, perfectly tender pork in crispy breadcrumbs drizzled with a barbecue sauce. (I'm sure this magic sauce has a proper name and if anyone would like to enlighten me I would be most grateful.)
In the other dinky sections were salmon sashimi, rice, salad and tofu and all of it was delicious, the contents of the bento boxes change with the seasons. I had never experienced "homely" Japanese food before (i don't think Wagamama counts...) but it was divine. The portions were generous, the ingredients were fresh and vibrant and all was served speedily by the charming waitress. The atmosphere in the bubble was friendly; a crowd of mostly local arty types who weren't overly threatening or pretentious and a rather beautiful couple who high-fived after eating.
We washed it all down with green tea and it came to somewhere in the region of 20 euros a head. Not as cheap as a falafel, but infinitely more satisfying.
Chez Taeko was a brilliant find, and a worthy alternative to sandwich man. I will definitely be going back.
Chez Taeko
Marché des Enfants Rouges
39 Rue de Bretagne
Paris 75003
open lunchtimes most days...
A few days ago a very charming ex-parisienne friend popped over the channel to pay us a visit. The day was alternately blistering and gusty and I was immodestly attired. Miss Linnet, however was a picture of loveliness in war-effort style beige trousers. We wanted something hearty and filling and so we made for Rue de Bretagne and the Marché des Enfants Rouges.
"You must try the sandwich man." I had been imploring ever since I found out about her imminent visit. "It's just the best thing ever."
"Sandwich man", for want of a better name, makes beautiful sandwiches on fresh ciabatta, served with twinkling eye and twitching beard. Each one is a ten-minute masterpiece; bursting at the seams with avocado, onion confit, jelly-ripe tomatoes, salad leaves and drenched in fruity olive oil. You might think ten minutes is too long to make a sandwich, but there are always plenty of people willing to wait. They are a far cry from the usual cotton-woolly and faintly suspicious offerings at the supermarket, or the generic cheese and ham baguette of the garden variety boulangerie. They are, if i may say, proper fucking sandwiches.
But enough about sandwich man, because as soon as we arrived at the Marché des Enfants-Rouges, me practically dribbling with expectation, our faces fell. Sandwich man's day off. Bugger.
Not to worry though because being English means we do not need to rely on bearded men to have a good time. Following our noses revealed a very exciting looking (and smelling) Japanese stall, the smiling staff all bustling around huge pots. After a moment of trademark dithering we squeezed ourselves into the plastic encased seating area. A strange idea, but actually very comforting once you're inside; sort of like eating in a big soap bubble. The waitress popped in and out of the multiple sliding doors balancing bento boxes and metal pots of tea.
I had never eaten a bento box before, and I must say I was less than enthusiastic about their segregated, manicured look. My only experience with Japanese food in France has been slightly anaemic sushi, and being more of the bubbling cauldron school of comfort foodery I was slightly wary.
I take it all back, please forgive me Japan. After much hesitation (all the options on the menu looked exciting) I went for a Tonkatsu bento on The Guvnor's recommendation and was pleasantly surprised to find that within these neat boxes nestle all manner of tasty treats. There was the Tonkatsu itself, perfectly tender pork in crispy breadcrumbs drizzled with a barbecue sauce. (I'm sure this magic sauce has a proper name and if anyone would like to enlighten me I would be most grateful.)
In the other dinky sections were salmon sashimi, rice, salad and tofu and all of it was delicious, the contents of the bento boxes change with the seasons. I had never experienced "homely" Japanese food before (i don't think Wagamama counts...) but it was divine. The portions were generous, the ingredients were fresh and vibrant and all was served speedily by the charming waitress. The atmosphere in the bubble was friendly; a crowd of mostly local arty types who weren't overly threatening or pretentious and a rather beautiful couple who high-fived after eating.
We washed it all down with green tea and it came to somewhere in the region of 20 euros a head. Not as cheap as a falafel, but infinitely more satisfying.
Chez Taeko was a brilliant find, and a worthy alternative to sandwich man. I will definitely be going back.
Chez Taeko
Marché des Enfants Rouges
39 Rue de Bretagne
Paris 75003
open lunchtimes most days...
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