Dining at Le Bouillon Chartier

Virginia Woolf once said, “One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” Taking the words of Woolf into consideration, I was hoping to enrich my Parisian experience by dining at the well-known restaurant, Le Bouillon Chartier. While I can now say that I have eaten at a restaurant that has been around for more than 100 years (which is quite an accomplishment considering the turnover of restaurants in today’s world), I was disappointed with the food and reputed service.

Walking into the dining room, I was overwhelmed with the décor. It was clear I was walking into a space much older in time than most other restaurants in the city just by glancing around; from the tall ceilings and barrel lights to the mahogany crown molding and mosaic-tiled floors. The staff creates a certain ambiance of elegance, as well, with their uniform of black waistcoats and bow ties. However, it turns out I was walking into the hype. With its beautiful setting and a reputation for quality service, I expected an unparalleled experience but left disappointed overall.

I was most impressed with the escargot, a starter I nibbled from the table in delight. The garlic butter sauce accompanied the dish well, and yet, did not seem to overpower the dish itself. While it was not the most amazing escargot I have ever tasted, it was definitely enjoyable and left me excited to try the rest of my food.

For my main meal, I ordered Poulet fermier roti avec frites; a simple roasted chicken with French fries. Overall, the dish was not horrible, but not what I was expecting, either. I imagined succulent, well-seasoned roasted chicken with meat that glided off the bones. Instead, my chicken was more bone than meat, and a bit dry. I have heard many people complain about receiving dark meat when ordering chicken, but after ordering quite a few poulet dishes throughout the month, I was not surprised or disappointed when I cut into my dark meat meal. However, someone I was dining with ordered the same dish and her serving included much more meat than bones, which furthered my dissatisfaction.

I also ordered a side dish of haricot verts, which I was glad about after the chicken. Although they tasted slightly bland to some people, I really enjoyed the green beans. It was a modest dish of warm green beans, with nothing more than salt for seasoning. They were simple, but very tasty and without the pretentiousness of other dishes. I ordered my green beans, and without fail, I enjoyed my green beans.

I was excited to see Coupe Mont Blanc on the menu, as I have seen this dessert at a number of restaurants and patisseries around the city. Each time, the mound of chestnut pulls me in and begs me to order it, but I resist. I thought Le Bouillon Chartier presented the best opportunity to try this dessert. This was the first time the dish looked differently than I had seen it before, but I attribute this to my lack of knowledge about the dessert rather than fault this particular restaurant. Keeping an open mind (since I have nothing to compare the taste to, anyway) I slid my spoon past the heap of freshly whipped cream down to the puree of hazelnut resting at the bottom of the dish. The taste was somewhat bitter, which the whipped cream helped to lighten, but it was the consistency I was least impressed with. I found it to be grainy and slightly uncomfortable on my tongue. I swiped the whipped cream off the top of the dish, and decided to leave the Mont Blanc hazelnut experience for another time.

In retrospect, I was forewarned that the food at Le Bouillon Chartier is simple, not five star dining. It is quite possible that I was expecting far greater food based off of the recommendations and reputation for the restaurant alone. Perhaps the food was not to my liking, but not the worst food I have ever tasted. As I mentioned above, the escargot and green beans were very nice, and my discontent with my dessert stems from the shock of receiving a dish far different from what I was expecting. The chicken, on the other hand, was just not that good.

Lastly, while the wait staff’s outfits are a defining characteristic of the restaurant, the service was not as amazing as I expected. With a reputation for having excellent service, I was looking forward to an “experience.” Our waitress muddled past left elbows and right shoulders to grab plates, and even handed me my dinner plate of hot food instead of placing it on the open space in front of me. I went with a larger group (14 persons), but for a restaurant claiming to have excellent service and basic, but still palatable dishes, I was not impressed. 

Reviewing M.F.K. Fisher's "The Gastronomical Me"

Book Cover Image via NPR

“Paris was everything I had dreamed, the late September when we first went there. It should always be seen, the first time, with the eyes of childhood or of love. I was almost twenty-one, but much younger than girls are now, I think. And I was wrapped in a passionate mist” (49).

The quote above, from M.F.K Fisher’s “The Gastronomical Me,” is one of many from the book that captured my attention. At 21, I epitomize the young woman learning about Paris while living here; I can appreciate (and even empathize) with the idea of ‘the passionate mist’ that takes over during one’s time in Paris. Whether the mist she is referring to is her love affair with Al or the city itself during her first visit, it is true that Paris is a city waiting to captivate the most self-assured and least-willing visitor with its people, art and most importantly to Fisher, its food.

Despite her ongoing love affair with France and the people she encounters, Fisher’s greatest love will always be food. Whether she is tasting an oyster for the first time as an adolescent in boarding school or devouring gin and Beluga caviar in Chexbres’ apartment whilst dressed in her Easter best, food is more than a meal to Fisher.

Food creates the central notion of which all other interactions follow. “The Gastronomical Me” allows the reader into Fisher’s life, not merely through her stories, but by recreating experiences. Throughout the book, the reader is offered glimpses of Fisher’s evolution as an American in France (in addition to extraneous locations) by recounting the joys and lessons that have come from eating meals all over and with many different people.

Whereas in American culture food is a means to an end; the French do not satiate their hunger to keep going, but instead use food as a tool to socialize and reminisce. Fisher learns this early on, and is able to take the reader on a journey of not only her experiences with food, but that of an expatriate setting up life in a foreign country as a local, rather than a tourist.

Although I thoroughly enjoy the way Fisher describes her experiences, I was confused and found the stories difficult to follow, at times, due to her writing style. Fisher speaks as if she were having coffee with friends, her cup filled to the brim with enough café that it can be sipped until every detail is divulged, and yet, the last drop still touches warmly to the tongue. As the reader, I am intrigued until the last word on each page, but like a friend listening to the story of an experience I was not present to witness, I miss some of the details.

This passage, for example, is eloquently stated, but not an easy read at first glance. However, with time and consideration, it is clear that Fisher has a way with words:

“On land, the tuggings of the moons can somewhat safely be ignored by men, and left to the more pliant senses of woman and seeds and an occasional warlock. But at sea even males are victims of the rise and fall, the twice-daily surge of the waters they float on, and the willy-nilly the planetary rhythm stirs them and all the other voyagers” (40).

I recognize that others may find the fluidity in Fisher’s prose more alluring than I did. While it captivated my attention at the start, I had to reread certain passages throughout the book to keep up with what she was saying. Overall, I enjoyed the book despite the aforementioned criticism.

And yet, Fisher said it best in her own words:

“How can I write the love story of a woman I don’t know? There must be more than celebration, more than the skillful plotting of my thoughts” (229).

For me, M.F.K Fisher’s “The Gastronomical Me” sheds light on the experience of a woman who could have easily adapted to French culture at any age. She had the “upper hand” so to speak, in that she recognized from the beginning that she preferred the finer things in life and wanted to enjoy every moment, every bite—a French culture necessity. Moreover, Fisher learned from her friends and family to be decisive about her choices, and from her experiences she picked up the ability to be independent and confident. She was never the tourist, even during her first experience abroad. And yet, her experiences elucidate the expatriate experience. Her tales leave you hoping for more embarrassing anecdotes, another passionate rendezvous, and of course, new experiences with food--since we know that is the root of this love story.