Le Grand Colbert
Karen’s birthday is the day after Christmas. I thought it would be fun if we celebrated with dinner at Le Grand Colbert. This is the brasserie where Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson and Keanu Reeves dined in the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give.”
I phoned, made a reservation, 6 p.m. No problem. We like to eat earlier. Parisians as a rule don’t even think about finishing lunch until about 3, or going to dinner before 8 p.m., even on a Tuesday evening. We left the flat, hopped the Metro, got off at Le Bourse. We located Rue Vivienne and walked south, toward the Palais Royale.
It was just a couple of minutes before we saw the red neon sign down the street: “Le Grand Colbert.” We were ready for the weariness that is inevitable among hosts receiving ordinary Americans that stream to establishments made famous by movie stars. I was amazed, therefore, to see in the beautiful restaurant’s entryway windows a huge poster of self-commemoration: “Something’s Gotta Give” photos and publicity material. It was a level of tackiness that I believed, until that moment, was impossible for anyone French to achieve.
We pushed through the door. The café was large, deeper than it was wide, and beautifully appointed in brass rails, etched glass, and polished wood partitions, in the “belle époque” style. There was not a customer in the place. In front of us, mopping the floor, a young woman turned to us. We said we had a reservation. “You want to eat here? Now?” the woman said. Appearing behind her and brushing past was a most pleasant gentleman, the maitre ‘d, who welcomed us and showed us to a cozy booth in the very front of the café.
We ordered a carafe, or pichet, of bordeaux, munched bread, and studied the menu, which was in French and English. In the movie, Diane Keaton raved about the roast chicken, but we weren’t in Paris to go out for chicken. We took our time. I wanted oysters, but our waiter said the kitchen would not be prepared to serve seafood until 7 p.m. Karen chose a Caesar salad and rigatoni with three cheeses. I decided on escargots, oysters and a steak with marrow bone and French fries. You either like escargots, or you don’t. There is only one way to prepare them, in their shells, then packed with parsley and garlic butter. The meat is unremarkable; I think most people eat them for the green garlic butter, sopped up with bread.
Several kinds of oysters were on the menu. I had ordered the large ones and was not prepared for what arrived. These oysters were at least five inches long, larger than I would have dreamed an oyster could be. “They’re huge!” I said as they arrived. “Very American,” said our waiter, in an obligatory way. They were also great. Karen gave me the anchovies from her salad, and they were great too, very mild and fresh, compared to American service.
People were starting to arrive. Beginning at 7:30, Le Grand Colbert filled up like a stadium. An older couple was seated in the booth across from us and ordered in French. Presently her oysters arrived, same size as mine. My steak arrived. I had ordered it medium, having no idea how to order it Pittsburgh-style. But that’s how it arrived: charred on the outside, pink on the inside. With it, and the marrow and fries, was a whole head of roasted garlic. Le Grand Colbert was a really good experience.
Karen’s rigatoni was like the best macaroni and cheese you ever had in your life. But she couldn’t eat it all. At the end, she asked for a doggie bag. “We don’t do that,” said a new waiter, whose expression was most opinionated. He moved to take her plate, but she got a grip on it. For a couple of seconds, there was a small tug-of-war at our table. “I want to take it with me,” she said. “You can’t take it with you,” he said. “Just put it in something,” she said. “Non, madame,” he said. “Tinfoil?” “We don’t do that.” “Just do it. Wrap it up.”
He gave up, with a gassy shrug, and returned in a few moments with the tinfoil parcel of rigatoni and a wide load of disdain. He had a last laugh, though. I left the rigatoni on the table. As we were leaving, he said to me, “M’sieur, don’t you want your ‘doggie bag’?” I turned back, he went to our table, fetched the item and delivered it to me like he would never forget this and hoped I wouldn't either. He thought he had me, but he was wrong. There was the movie tackiness, leering at us again through the entryway windows. Let him shrug off THAT. And then we had Karen’s birthday rigatoni the next evening. It was really good.
I phoned, made a reservation, 6 p.m. No problem. We like to eat earlier. Parisians as a rule don’t even think about finishing lunch until about 3, or going to dinner before 8 p.m., even on a Tuesday evening. We left the flat, hopped the Metro, got off at Le Bourse. We located Rue Vivienne and walked south, toward the Palais Royale.
It was just a couple of minutes before we saw the red neon sign down the street: “Le Grand Colbert.” We were ready for the weariness that is inevitable among hosts receiving ordinary Americans that stream to establishments made famous by movie stars. I was amazed, therefore, to see in the beautiful restaurant’s entryway windows a huge poster of self-commemoration: “Something’s Gotta Give” photos and publicity material. It was a level of tackiness that I believed, until that moment, was impossible for anyone French to achieve.
We pushed through the door. The café was large, deeper than it was wide, and beautifully appointed in brass rails, etched glass, and polished wood partitions, in the “belle époque” style. There was not a customer in the place. In front of us, mopping the floor, a young woman turned to us. We said we had a reservation. “You want to eat here? Now?” the woman said. Appearing behind her and brushing past was a most pleasant gentleman, the maitre ‘d, who welcomed us and showed us to a cozy booth in the very front of the café.
We ordered a carafe, or pichet, of bordeaux, munched bread, and studied the menu, which was in French and English. In the movie, Diane Keaton raved about the roast chicken, but we weren’t in Paris to go out for chicken. We took our time. I wanted oysters, but our waiter said the kitchen would not be prepared to serve seafood until 7 p.m. Karen chose a Caesar salad and rigatoni with three cheeses. I decided on escargots, oysters and a steak with marrow bone and French fries. You either like escargots, or you don’t. There is only one way to prepare them, in their shells, then packed with parsley and garlic butter. The meat is unremarkable; I think most people eat them for the green garlic butter, sopped up with bread.
Several kinds of oysters were on the menu. I had ordered the large ones and was not prepared for what arrived. These oysters were at least five inches long, larger than I would have dreamed an oyster could be. “They’re huge!” I said as they arrived. “Very American,” said our waiter, in an obligatory way. They were also great. Karen gave me the anchovies from her salad, and they were great too, very mild and fresh, compared to American service.
People were starting to arrive. Beginning at 7:30, Le Grand Colbert filled up like a stadium. An older couple was seated in the booth across from us and ordered in French. Presently her oysters arrived, same size as mine. My steak arrived. I had ordered it medium, having no idea how to order it Pittsburgh-style. But that’s how it arrived: charred on the outside, pink on the inside. With it, and the marrow and fries, was a whole head of roasted garlic. Le Grand Colbert was a really good experience.
Karen’s rigatoni was like the best macaroni and cheese you ever had in your life. But she couldn’t eat it all. At the end, she asked for a doggie bag. “We don’t do that,” said a new waiter, whose expression was most opinionated. He moved to take her plate, but she got a grip on it. For a couple of seconds, there was a small tug-of-war at our table. “I want to take it with me,” she said. “You can’t take it with you,” he said. “Just put it in something,” she said. “Non, madame,” he said. “Tinfoil?” “We don’t do that.” “Just do it. Wrap it up.”
He gave up, with a gassy shrug, and returned in a few moments with the tinfoil parcel of rigatoni and a wide load of disdain. He had a last laugh, though. I left the rigatoni on the table. As we were leaving, he said to me, “M’sieur, don’t you want your ‘doggie bag’?” I turned back, he went to our table, fetched the item and delivered it to me like he would never forget this and hoped I wouldn't either. He thought he had me, but he was wrong. There was the movie tackiness, leering at us again through the entryway windows. Let him shrug off THAT. And then we had Karen’s birthday rigatoni the next evening. It was really good.
Labels: Paris
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