Paris on a plate: Go for the culture, but not the cuisine

Let me pop your culinary pipe dreams right now: Paris ain’t no heavenly feast.

Before you call me out on my unsavory sass, let me share with you an experience I recently enjoyed in the City of Good Eats.

Whether a fan or not, you have to admit that Paris is a bit checkered. On the one hand, stretched far out into the 19 narrodisement, the eats are a combination of touristy shlock (read: day-old croissants) and tasty tidbits without much embellishment. There are even sandwich boards advertising the “American breakfast” — an overdose of fried eggs, meat, croissants, and in some cases, pancakes. Because we Americans fly halfway around the world to eat pancakes.

Down by the Seine, however, I expected things to heat up. That is to say, get more romantic and delicious. The romantic part was soured by persistent rain, and the food… well… Let’s just say it left me wondering what this lust for Parisian fare is all about.

The best dish I had — soaked from a storm and resting inside a back street bistro after four hours in the Louvre — was a cassoulet. You know this peasant dish, surely. Simple but oh-so-scrumptious, it smelled of day-long simmering and earthy rosemary. All in all, it was nothing to write home about: beans met duck met sausage. That was it. But I couldn’t say enough about how rib-sticking satisfying it was.

Sadly, though, that’s about all the praise I have for Paris eats. Breakfasts were expectedly carb-heavy, though not even high-quality, flaky carbs — just mass produced pastries and pre-buttered bread dolled up next to strong cups of coffee. Lunch was non-existent (it turns out they don’t like you noshing on sandwiches in front of the Mona Lisa). And dinner was whatever I could find, wherever I could find it.

In an attempt to experience something outside the tourist-clogged heart of the city, however, I did venture out to Versailles. And while Louis’ gardens are both beautiful and ridiculously impressive, the food in the nearby ville was something of a let-down. My final night’s indulgence: Chicken à la Normande, which turned out to be schnitzel with a cream sauce, some butter lettuce, and fries piled to the sky. Escoffier would have turned over in his grave.

The truth is, I’m willing to give Paris another shot. I didn’t have a chance to make it up the Eiffel Tower, after all, or ride a boat down the pollution-logged Seine. But if I’m going to sail across an ocean for a meal and an experience, I need them both to be good. So where do I start? Tell me, oh international foodies still anchored in Denver — tell me where I can be awed by the gustatory prowess of the culinary capital of the world!

Or is this all just a silly pipe dream?