Last week, a friend of mine was in town and on his last night in Paris he took me out to dinner at Le Procope.
We had originally intended to indulge in an evening of slow-sipping outrageously priced cocktails (only plural because there are two of us and we’d each have one) lounging in the leather armchairs of the Hemingway Bar at the Paris Ritz, “where refinement and conviviality exist side by side.” But upon learning of the bar’s closure (in anticipation of the hotel’s shuttering for its 2-year remodel), thanks to a quick Google search before heading out, we opted to walk to Odéon with no place in mind and see what we would find.
Ample with options, even on a Monday night, the Odéon district of Paris’s 6th arrondissement presents a respectable spread of choices, from historic cafés to trendy little bars. Calculating he could treat us to a generous three-course dinner for what he would have spent on two drinks at the Hemingway Bar, and factoring in his growing hunger, my friend decided that maybe dinner was the right choice and so we made our way in the direction of Le Procope.
We had passed Le Procope a few nights prior, seeing it from its alternate entrance on the picturesque alleyway – the epitome of parisien – Cours du Commerce Saint-André. Strolling its cobblestone path in the drizzle, my friend had explained to me how the revolutionaries used to meet at Le Procope to make their plans. Founded as a café in 1686, it is the oldest restaurant in Paris, and continues today serving a lovely menu of les delicacies français.
That night we entered through the restaurant’s main entrance on the Rue de l’Ancienne Comédie. It being a Monday night, we were seated immediately. I was initially put off by the restaurant’s very commercial signage advertising seafood specials as one sees at Red Lobster (though obviously at much steeper prices and sans the “Cheddar Bay Biscuits”). But after stepping through the corridor and into the room where we were seated, my initial reaction dissipated and I became enchanted by my vintage Parisian surroundings.
The entire room was aglow in red, with hanging crystal chandeliers casting light against its Pompeian red walls, red leather seats, and red wood chairs. Gold moldings framed the walls that in turn displayed gold-framed portraits of the restaurant’s famous historic patrons. The room exuded “shabby chic”: candlesticks askew in their antique silver candelabras and even the doorway noticeably lopsided from years of welcoming guests. Some of Le Procope’s most famous faces included Rousseau, Voltaire, Benjamin Franklin, and Thomas Jefferson.
After spending some time with the more than satisfactory menu, my friend and I both chose the “Menu,” or prix fixe, option, that the restaurant had titled “Les Philosophes.” For a set price we chose three courses from a short but enticing list of appetizers, entrées, and desserts.
My friend’s dinner opened with a handsome plate of six escargot de Bourgogne Label Rouge (still dans leur coquille). I was shyer with my choice (having been a risk-taker with my entrée) and instead settled on the tomato gazpacho with a side of bruschetta. We were both satisfied with our choices and surprised by the liberal portions, a rarity in French cuisine.
Next up was trout meunière in almonds for him and steak tartar Charolais for me. Beef rarely makes it into my diet here in France and raw beef has never (intentionally) made it into my diet in my life. But acknowledging the traditional status of tartare de boeuf in French cuisine, I had committed myself to trying it during my stay here and what better (and safer) place than at Paris’s oldest restaurant. I put my fears and propensity for succumbing to food poisoning aside and went in for the plunge.
(It was much more appealing in appearance than is suggested in the photo.)
Like our appetizers, our main courses were delicious and satisfying. I was unquestionably full one third of the way through my tartare but somehow, with the help of dinner-extending conversation and my friend’s boundless appetite, cleared my plate in the end. My friend and I concluded our dinner with a sabayon glacé à l’amaretto (amaretto ice cream) and a croustillant aux deux chocolats (chilled layered chocolate cream over a crunchy wafer) respectively.
The conversations that transpired over dinner – our own and most certainly those of the guests surrounding us (we were seated between a couple who sat across from each other, staring ahead and completely engaged, iPhones raised, and a family of four women from three generations speaking loud enough to be heard across all six decades) – were far from revolutionary, but the atmosphere was alive with an energy fueled by the Pompeian red of the surroundings and its lopsided gusto.
