Paris pit stop: A la Biche au Bois

A la Biche au Bois, 45 avenue Ledru-Rollin, 12th
Dinner for two: 80 euros

I hate flying, love trains and adore Paris. Accordingly, when Mr F and I were planning our summer holiday in the south of France, the budget flight to Nîmes was not an option; not when there were adventures to be had on the TGV. Taking the train meant crossing Paris to change stations, and how better to spend a few hours in Paris than in the company of people who are serious about traditional French cooking? 

I have wanted to go to A la Biche au Bois for years, ever since a friend recommended it to me as a place to eat well without spending too much. Unfortunately, like most self-respecting French restaurants, it doesn't open at the weekend. For a range of reasons, I have never managed to be in Paris when it is open. Arriving in Paris on a Thursday and needing to be in the vicinity of the Gare de Lyon for our train, it was time to stop missing out. I cajoled Mr F to book us a table (his French is far superior to mine) and looked forward to proper French cooking.

The Michelin Guide recommends A la Biche au Bois as one of the best places in Paris for coq au vin. It also counsels the prospective diner on the cosiness of the dining room; you will eat elbow to elbow, it warns. In both respects, we found the guide to be accurate. The dining room is fairly small but, as the red book says, they cram in more tables than you would expect to fit into such a tight space. However, the cosiness breeds a convivial atmosphere and a tendency to share in each other's conversations - as we were to find out.

The house aperitif, a feisty mix of red wine, cassis and eau-de-vie de mirabelle, had to be tried, even though we had already tested out the Negronis at the bar over the road. We should have realised that getting up at 5am for our early train was going to be difficult. I started with the parfait de foie nature. Two generous slices of parfait came with a little dish of cornichons for the table; the liver wonderfully velvety and rich, and the pickles properly sour and crisp, not like the sad, sweet things that we tend to find in this country. Mr F's terrine de lapin had a good balance of slightly rugged textures, unlike the super smooth parfait, and the reassuringly meaty, almost cat-foody, taste of proper pressed meat. It was a promising start.

I was obliged to order the coq au vin, what with it being a speciality of the restaurant. Likewise, Mr F felt he had no choice but to try the fillet steak with sauce aux cepes. Both were serious, substantial main courses that required no more by way of accompaniment than a large salver of perfectly crispy frites. The coq came in its own little cocotte filled with dark, savoury gravy and tiny nuggets of intensely smoky bacon. The meat was tender without being overcooked, as were the potatoes nestling alongside it; both had taken on the wine-sodden flavours of the sauce. Mr F's steak was brilliantly rare and almost quiveringly raw in the middle, as it should be. Alongside it, the woody, earthy sauce had been enriched with good beef stock. Full of meat, we paused to enjoy some wine and make space for another two courses.

Meanwhile, the table next to ours was finally occupied by two French gentlemen who were determinedly demolishing a bottle of rosé and a plate of foie gras as a sort of pre-starter, punctuated by the odd trip outside to smoke a cigarette. I was impressed.

The cheese was brought over for us. Mr F was sensibly restrained but I wanted to try everything. There was a wide choice but I remember enjoying the Pont-l'Évêque, bleu d'Auvergne and a goats cheese rolled in pepper. Without realising it, my steadfast gluttony was noted by our fellow diners. It wasn't until after we'd finished our crème brûlées that they decided to strike up conversation, perhaps observing Mr F's excellent command of French. Coffee done and a couple of complementary Armagnacs in hand, we discussed the riots in London. To be more precise, Mr F discussed the riots in London and I punctuated the conversation with simple statements that tested the limits of my schoolgirl French, for example "she stole shorts". However, between Mr F's mastery of the language and my ability to put away cheese, we somehow ended up talking into the night and drinking their champagne; our politest English refusals met with Gallic indifference. They, by this time, were onto their second bottle of red and were showing off their mastery of French cuisine by dumping their chips into the remnants of their coq au vin. "C'est normal", apparently.

Somehow we managed to catch our 6am train the next morning, sore of head but content. With the set menu priced at an unbelievably reasonable 27 euros for four courses (although there was a supplement for the beef) and good wine available in pitchers as well as bottles, A La Biche au Bois is an excellent place to eat traditional French food. Just remember to book ahead and watch out for your neighbours - they may lead you astray.