Diner's Diary

The best 102 Paris restaurants are reviewed in Hungry for Paris. Since the Paris restaurant scene changes constantly, I regularly post new restaurant reviews and information on the city’s best places to eat on this site. I also review selected books with various gastronomic themes and comment on favorite foods, recipes, cookware and appliances. In addition to the reviews and writings here, I'd also invite you to follow me on Twitter @ Aleclobrano. So come to my table hungry and often, and please share your own rants and raves in the Hungry for Paris readers forum.

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Entries in Paris restaurants (92)


L'INTENTION--Decent if Timid Intentions in the Marais, B-


  Though the ambient consumer culture in most Western countries presents aging as akin to a slowly developing case of the plague, I enjoy the annual privilege of notching another year on my belt. I'm much happier today than I was when I was twenty-one, and I've also lived long enough to see the outlines of an interesting and rewarding life emerging out of the ether of youth. In fact one of the more amusing things as time goes by is a deepening understanding that the to-twenty-something-year-old ears tiresome bromide that 'all experience is somehow useful' actually turns out to be true.

  On those painfully always too early-to-work mornings, because they followed too-bibulous-and-too-late-to-bed evening after evening, when I was grinding cabbage after cabbage to make enough coleslaw to feed a hundred hotel guests at noon--one summer I worked as a salad chef in a hotel kitchen on Fire Island of all places, I never dreamt that this tedium would yield valuable experience. In the space of a few hours, I had to make grated-carrot-in-gelatin salad (the crowd at this hotel preferred orange or cherry Jello, just for the record), macaroni salad, tomato salad, tuna salad, rice salad, three-bean salad, and others, and I went through big institutional jar after jar of Sweet Life brand mayonnaise, bottles of lemon juice and frighteningly cheap olive oil, and, I'm afraid to admit, my hygiene as I hastily executed these chores was, well, let's say it was casual to put it politely. Fortunately, I never poisoned anyone to the best of my knowledge, and during other similar college summers, I also worked variously as a bus boy, a waiter, and a line cook, and I was just awful at all of these jobs. What these long ago activities left me with, however, was a real hands-on knowledge of how restaurant kitchens and dining rooms really work and a profound respect for all players in the restaurant business. 

  What brought all of this to mind the other night was when I showed up at L'Intention, a new bistro in the Marais that opened last July, and the very polite but slightly harried young man in the dining room sheepishly told me that he'd be doing everything himself that night, i.e. all of the cooking and also waiting table, because his waitress was out sick. I assured him that I was sure everything would be just fine, and my friend Greta and I would be understanding. Since there were only three tables of two in the dining room, I was pretty sure he'd be okay, too, but when Greta showed up, I told her we should order right away so that our orders could be staggered between those of the table that was already occupied when I arrived, and those who were seated a few minutes after she sat down.

  The simple little dining room with exposed stone walls, modern art on the walls, modern lighting fixtures and dark wooden tables had the same winsomely sincere aura as the short menu did, too. The three starters--mache salad with hazelnuts and a beet-and-tarragon vinaigrette, parsnip soup garnished with boned confit de canard, and leeks with a poached organic egg, salad and a creamy mustard vinaigrette all appealed and were all offered in PT or GT--half or full portions, a nice touch, as was a risotto with pumpkin and Parmesan cream. 

  There were three main courses, too: poached roasted guinea hen with smoked bacon, creamed cabbage and chestnuts; daube de boeuf with baked polenta; and salmon slow cooked with winter fruits (quince, apples and pears) and vegetables (carrots, parsnips and turnips) in a casserole. Well, we both ended up ordering a half portion of the leeks and the daube de boeuf, because that's what we both wanted. To be honest, I tried to cajole Greta into the risotto and the salmon, but she wasn't budging.

  The leeks were pleasant--neatly trimmed and tender and the accompanying egg perfectly poached. I'd have liked the vinaigrette to be more authoritative, though, and this dish very much needed more salt and pepper. The daube de boeuf was not quite what I was expecting either, since it came as a decidedly cartilagenous single slice of tender beef in a curiously sweet red wine sauce with nice little Nicois olives and a wedge of slightly dry oven-baked polenta. If it was a nicely made dish, the sauce lacked the ruddy depth of a really superb daube like the one chef Dominique Le Stanc serves at La Merenda in Nice, and I'd have preferred the polenta to be creamy and rich with Parmesan as opposed to solid.

  I've thought a lot about these two dishes during the last twenty-four hours, since I make a sometimes agonizing effort to be fair to a chef as sincere and competent as Cédric Barbarat, who previously cooked at La Cour Jardin restaurant at the Hotel Plaza Athénée and most recently at Sofitel Pullman de Versailles. As I learned many years ago, working in a kitchen is seriously hard work, so working in a kitchen and simultaneously running a dining room is a real high-wire act. So under the circumstances, this was an agreable meal that was served with charm and generosity, but I'd like Barbarat to channel his lustier instincts in the kitchen, where I think he's currently too timid, and then this nice little bistro will likely see me again. Oh, and he should also take the cheeses he's planning to serve of any given service out of the fridge earlier, and refuse delivery of a cheese that was as many miles from being ripe as the camembert that was served with the Saint Maure and compte that comprised the cheese course we split as we finished up an excellent bottle of Le Petit Canon de Lariveau, a canon-fronsac by winemaker Nicolas Dabudyk that's a terrific food wine and a great buy at 22 Euros a bottle. Overall, though, Barbarat's intentions are good and mine are too.

L'Intention, 3, rue du Roi-Doré, 3rd, Tel. 01-42-74-31-22. Closed Saturday and Sunday. Average 40 Euros.


LE PETIT CHEVAL DE MANEGE--A Good Neighborhood Bistro, B

   Ghastly though it may have been in some ways--the American political situation comes to mind, 2011 has been a brilliant year for eating well in Paris, and the 11th arrondissement continues to thrive as one of the most reliable incubators of new culinary talent in the city, as the recently opened Le Petit Cheval de Manege so deliciously proves. Alerted to this place by my friend Nadine, who lives nearby, I met her for dinner on a Friday night at the end of a frantically busy week, and as soon as I spotted it, I knew from its warm Edward Hopper like facade that we'd probably have a really good meal, especially since there was some great cheese on display when I came through the front door.

  She was already ensconced with a glass of white wine at a table in this pretty dining room with a beautiful Belle Epoque tile floor and ox-blood red walls when I arrived, and an alert and friendly waitress proved the verity of something that talented American-in-Paris chef Braden Perkins of Verjus had said to me earlier in the week. To wit, "Even if you're cooking great food, a restaurant just isn't going to work without good service." 

  I've known Nadine since both of us worked as editors at Fairchild Publications, she in Milan as their bureau chief, and me in their Paris office, and since we have such a long and deep-rooted friendship, there was a lot of catching up to do before we could even begin to pay any attention to the chalkboard menu. So we did a generally hilarious long first lap of conversation before we zeroed in on dinner. 

   Ultimately, both of us decided we wanted the same things, which was just fine, since the short menu didn't offer many options, and I wasn't going to bully her into having something different just for the sake of a review I wasn't even sure that I would be writing. So we ordered their last bottle of white Gaillac, a wonderful food wine, and tucked into a surprisingly excellent ceviche of sea bass.

   I say surprisingly excellent, because I instinctively doubted the chef here would get this dish right. Too often in Paris, this dish is over seasoned and the fish flacid from having sat in a cold citrus bath for hours before coming to the table. As I learned during a trip to Peru, the best ceviche (shellfish or fish 'cooked' by the acid in freshly squeezed citrus juice) is prepared shortly before being served. Here, though, the exquisitely fresh fish was just tinged with citrus and beautifully garnished with orange segments, pitted black olives, avocado and ribbons of cucumber. Light, vibrant and precisely cooked, it was how I discovered Belgian chef Thierry Xavier's cooking--impressed, I asked our waitress who was in the kitchen, and she explained that Xavier had worked at Lapérouse and Lucas Carton before taking the reins here. 

  Doubt, it would seem, was to be a theme of this very pleasant meal, since as much as I love scallops, those on offer that night were part of a preparation that included one of my least favorite 'condiments' and true bit of cuinary quackery--'truffle' oil. Since the truffle taste in 'truffle' oil is produced with an artificial flavoring that decomposes into something unpleasantly sweet tasting to my palate when exposed to heat, I kept my fingers crossed that the scallops would survive unscathed as part of a dish that otherwise sounded appealing--a sort of large open ravioli described as 'lasagnette' filled with celery root and hashed mushrooms and garnished with crushed hazelnuts and truffle-oil spiked chicken bouillon. Happily, this dish was truly excellent--four plump grilled scallops perfectly cooked, feather-weight pasta enclosing the duxelles of mushrooms, nice texture added by the crushed hazelnuts and no trace of the dreaded truffle oil. This dish was so good, in fact, that I'd love to offer it up as a retort to the whiners who continue to insist that "you don't eat as well in Paris as you used to." Not true, full stop, since at 16.50 Euros, this was leagues better than most of what you'd come across in a similar low-key neighborhood restaurant in any major North American city.

  Nadine and I finished up with a shared plate of very good cheeses, and with two glasses of white wine, and a bottle of same, and no dessert or coffee, this fine feed came in at under 40 Euros, further proof that the real-people gastronomic loam of Paris is offering up better day-in-and-day-out eating than it has in a longtime, since Thierry's food was well-sourced, original and assiduously well-cooked in terms of timing, texture and heat at the table, i.e. politely hot but not so heat-blasted that it continued to cook as you ate it. 

  Though not in the same league as Chatomat or Le Galopin, to say nothing of Septime, Verjus or Spring, this is a very good restaurant that's great for casual dining and a good place to see just how cosmopolitan contemporary French cooking has become during the last few years.

 Le Petit Cheval de Manege, 5 rue Froment, 11th, Tel. 09-82-37-18-52. Metro: Bréguet - Sabin or Chemin Vert. Closed Saturday lunch and Monday dinner. Average 40 Euros.


L'OFFICE--Good Eating in This In-Box, B

N.B.: Chef Kevin O'Connell is imminently to leave this restaurant; Charles Compagnon is a smart guy who knows good food, though, so stay tuned. 
  If I very much liked L'Office in its previous incarnation, the new one is terrific, too, and the change in chefs and ownership here adds momentum to one of the most welcome and interesting trends in Paris right now, which is that the city continues to be a magnet for talented chefs from all over the world. This internationalization of the city's culinary talent pool mirrors what happened in the French fashion industry a longtime ago, and it's adding a lot of energy, creativity and good food to the Paris dining scene. Among really good recently opened Paris restaurants with foreign-born chefs in the kitchen, there's of course Chicago-born Daniel Rose at Spring, but also Mexican-born Beatriz Gomez at Neva Cuisine, Australian James Henry at Au Passage, Italian Giovanni Passerini at Rino, and a whole brigade of exceptionally talented Japanese chefs.
  Meeting Judy for dinner the other night, a lunch-less day meant that I was really hungry, and so a ravenously receptive audience for the cooking of the latest American chef in Paris, Kevin O'Donnell, who worked in Italy and at New York City's excellent Del Posto before teaming up to take over this restaurant with Frenchman Charles Compagnon, whom he'd met at a dinner at the James Beard Foundation in New York. 
  Arriving, Judy was already set up with a good glass of Riesling at a table with an L-shaped banquette up-front, and the dining room looked very handsome after a recent redecoration, which gave it sea green walls--a beautiful color that was likely Farrow & Ball, parquet floors, a couple of stag's heads on the walls, and draped lighting fixtures with exposed copper colored filaments that created a warm, pretty light. The welcome was charming, too, and the very brief menu--three starters, three mains, a cheese plate, and a dessert, was helpfully explained by the waiter. We ordered, and moved on to a wonderful bottle of Rui Priorat, one of my favorite Spanish wines from a really good wine list, and were chattering away when a couple sat down at the table in front of us. Since this small shared space created an automatic intimacy, I discreetly screened them out of my vision, until the gent in front of us with an attractive blonde woman greeted me by name. I hadn't seen Benedict Beauge, one of my favorite French food writers, in a longtime, and it turns out that Charles Compagnon is his cousin. Le monde est petit!
  Served with excellent bread, my first course was a clever comfort-food composition that came off as an Italianate riff on a really good breakfast, or a chunk of tender oven-roasted pork belly with a fried egg, a swirl of rich puree made with slow-baked tomatoes, a few leaves of arugula and a scattering of pickled red onion.
It was delicious, as was Judy’s white bean soup, which was intriguingly garnished with a tiny island of toasted bread topped with laser-fine slices of lardo si colonnata and a few sprigs of wild fennel.
Meanwhile, the restaurant had completely filled up with the sort of hip attractive young crowd that indicates that buck-shot style word-of-mouth is working on this address. Judy was a little puzzled by the texture of her chicken, which had been cooked at a low temperature for several hours to give it firm but creamy consistency, but served on a bed of girolles and garnished with a blanched baby radish of two and a dollop
of airy celery root puree, I thought it was excellent. My main was described as ‘pot au feu’ on the menu, but was actually a deboned osso bucco with tender chunks of braised meat and a marrow-filled bone in a rich reduced beef bouillon deepened with tomato coulis and garnished with soft carrots and crunchy slices of celery. Served in a bowl, it was deeply satisfying on a cool night, although a side of grilled polenta might have been nice. 
  If I was impressed by O’Donnell’s technically impeccable and very personal Italian accented bistro cooking, the meal tapered off with dessert, a square of brownie-like cake with hazelnuts, grilled bananas, and freshly made banana ice cream. Though perfectly pleasant, it lacked the quiet but authoritative elegance of his savory dishes. This is a terrific little restaurant, though—and also an excellent buy for the money at 27 Euros for two courses, 33 Euros for three, and as O’Donnell settles into Paris, I suspect his food will just get better and better, and that this place is going to be very popular.
  3 rue Richer, 9th, Tel. 01-47-70-67-31. Metro: Cadet or Bonne Nouvelle. Closed Saturday lunch and Sunday. Lunch menus, 19 and 24 Euros; dinner, 27 and 33 Euros.

ANTOINE--A Good Catch for Fish-lovers, B+

  "I know you're going to hate me for this," said a friend calling from Berlin, "but I'm calling for a restaurant recommendation. I checked your book and I looked on your blog, but couldn't find anything that met the difficult requirements of my parents, with whom I'll be in Paris over the weekend." Yes.... "They want to eat really good fish on Sunday night in a place with a good view of the Eiffel Tower. I told them that this was highly unlikely but I hope you don't mind my checking with you anyway." Since she's not only a close friend and my go-to source for restaurant information when I go to Berlin, I couldn't say no, especially since I really like her parents.
  Her father once owned a chain of shoe stores in Brooklyn, and the first time I met him, I was wearing a pair of loafers with a hole under my big toe in one sole. As an editorial assistant in New York City, I lived meagerly from pay check to pay check, and I was waiting for my next check to take my one pair of good shoes to the cobbler. Anyway, I trekked out to Brooklyn on a snowy day for a fantastic dinner and a night of brilliant conversation with my pal and her book-and-opera loving parents. Mrs. Schindelheim made the best pot roast I've ever eaten, with a superb homemade chicken-and-vegetable soup to start.
  A few days later, I got home from work and was vexed to find a note in my mailbox indicating that I had a package to pick up. My post office on the Upper West Side had a beautiful W.P.A. facade, but permanent lines and some of the crankiest clerks I've ever met, so I dreaded this errand and just hoped it wouldn't be an invitation to a new discotheque sent in a long paper roller, a really bad idea that prevailed in New York in the early eighties. Instead, I was surprised by a neatly wrapped kraft paper carton with no return address. When I tored it open at home, I found a pair of fleece-lined bedroom slippers and a sturdy pair of ankle-high leather boots, with a card that said, "Dear Alexander, Please keep your feet dry this winter, and get your shoes fixed! Love, Mr. and Mrs. Schindelheim."
   So I would have racked my brains to find the right place for these lovely people, but as it turns out, I didn't have to. Just a week earlier, I'd been to Antoine on the banks of the Seine not far from the Place de l'Alma and just across the river from the Eiffel Tower a week earlier on a Sunday night and had some terrific seafood. So I gave my pal the address and told her send her parents my best regards. An hour later, she called back and said that they'd be very disappointed if I didn't join them for this meal.  
  Well of course I would. So I was sitting there enjoying a glass of white wine, thinking about how much better this restaurant is now than it was when it was a pretentious and very expensive place called Le Port de l'Alma, and watching the action in the busy kitchen through a large pane window giving on to the dining room when they arrived. Both of the Schindelheim parents were wearing hats like they always did, but I got a twinge when I saw that he was walking with a cane. 
  After a round of hugs, they settled in and cooed over the view of the Eiffel Tower across the river. "I hope the view doesn't mean we're paying extra," Mr. Schindelheim wise-cracked, and I told him that if Antoine isn't cheap, it's worth it. "And in any event, good fish in Paris is a luxury," I added, setting up Mr. Schindelheim, who patted his daughter, an eye surgeon with a German husband, on the hand, and said "Sorry, darling, but we're going to spend if all before we go," he chuckled. "See Alexander, the cane doesn't mean a thing. I'm still sharp as a tack."
  So we drank Champagne--my treat, and as I knew she would, Mrs. Schindelheim remembered how her daughter and me had first met. Briefly, I was working as a temp for a secretary in the order department of the International Paper company who had been mugged when she went to the ladies room via a pantyhose sale at Lord & Taylor, and my friend, then a would-be painter with a fierce punk look, had been dispatched by the same agency to do some similarly mind-numbing job for a woman on maternity leave. "She told us that she'd met someone very nice at work when she came home for Sunday dinner," Mrs. Schindelheim said, and her husband horned in, "She's always been a bad judge of character." I translated the menu for them, and all three of them remarked on how friendly and attentive the young servers were after we'd ordered.
  "No wonder you've filled out so much, eating good food like this everyday," Mr. Schindelheim said after he tasted his fish soup, which I'd had the week before--a rich, smooth, leaf-brown potion spiked with saffron and tasting deeply of rock fish. I liked my dainty beignets of langoustines and sole wrapped in feather-light golden leaves of pastry and served with an imaginative mango dipping sauce, and my friend loved her tartare of sea bream with lemon-verbena oil--"This fish is really, really fresh," she said, surprised. "I was afraid that because it's Sunday...." she trailed off.
  Aside from the impeccable freshness of the fish, the great service, and the view, what I like most about this place is that the kitchen pratices an intelligent contemporary French seafood cookery that privileges the natural taste of their produce without overwhelming it, a perfect example being my thick and impeccably cooked chunk of sea bass from Saint Gilles Croix de Vie in the Vendee. It had been sealed inside of a glass casserole with pastry and organic baby vegetables with a little butter and a pinch of herbes de Provence and sea salt, and it was excellent. The obvious idea of this cooking method was the fish would create its own sauce, and it did.
  "This is delicious," Mrs. Schindelheim said of the sea bass grilled over sticks of wild fennel and served with an unctuous puree of ratte potatoes from Le Touquet that she shared with her husband. "I was afraid it would be all fancy and French, but it's so light and subtle." My friend liked her steamed sole with a sauce corail and squid's ink gnocci, too. All of us finished up with excellent cheeses from Quartrehomme, and when Mr. Schindelheim told the waiter that the 36 month old Comte was one of the best things he'd ever eaten, he came back with another slice on a side dish. Mr. Schindelheim ate it, too, inspite of his wife's raised eyebrows.
 "So, an eye surgeon and a food writer--you kids ended up doing okay," Mr. Schindelheim said while I walked them over to the Place de l'Alma to get a cab. "Of course, some grandchildren would have been nice, and I'm still waiting for Alexander to write a novel, but that was a very good dinner."
Antoine, 10 Avenue de New York, 16th, Tel. 01-40-70-19-28. Metro: Alma Marceau. Open daily for lunch and dinner. Average 75 Euros.

LA STRASBOURGEOISE--A Just Adequate Alsatian, C-, and Best Choucroute in Paris


  Twenty five years ago, gulp, my brother and I found ourselves moping around the Gare du Nord with two hours before our train back to London on a rainy Sunday. If this scenario was already far from ideal, it was seriously worsened by the fact that we'd had about three hours sleep and had put an alarming dent into a bottle of rot-gut duty-free Prince Hubert cognac when we'd returned to our Left Bank hotel after some bar hopping. 

  I wasn't very hungry, and I know my brother wasn't either, but it was a cold, wet day and with a long journey ahead of us--these were the pre-Eurostar days when you still crossed the Channel on a Hovercraft that left you half-deaf for hours, I decided it would probably be a good idea to eat something, so we drifted across the street to a brasserie, the Terminus Nord. We must have looked pretty awful, because the sturdy older waiter in a black vest and long white apron chuckled as he sized us up. "C'etait la guerre hier soir?" he said, but I was much too wooly headed to understand that this was a joke. We weren't making much headway with the menu either with our ratty school-boy French, and then things turned from bad to worse when my brother registered that the noisy old woman on the banquette next to him was eating a pig's foot and turned green.

  "I hope you won't think that I'm an alcoholic," my bro said, recovering himself, "But I really need a Bloody Mary." I had my doubts about French Bloody Marys, but the waiter, much amused by our shared cardboard pallor, assured us that this was possible, and then he suggested that we order choucroute garni. He was met with two blank stares. "It iz rotten cabbage with peeg," he kindly told us in English. This sounded like a real horror story, but he insisted. "Ze Bloodys, some Riesling, choucroute with peeg, you sleep in train, feel much better. Yes?"

  Well, the nice guy turned out to be absolutely right, and brother and I loved the choucroute, which arrived as a stainless-steel tray full of delicately pickled sauerkraut, sausages--Francfort, Montbeliard, bacon, a pig's knuckle, and brined pork with neatly turned boiled potatoes. The sharp mustard stung me back to life right off the bat, and this glorious Alsatian farmer's feed became something I crave every Fall when the temperature drops.

  As I went on to discover during many years of living in Paris and traveling in Alsace, it's never as good in the capital as it is on its home turf, but it's one of those dishes I seasonally crave, so the other day, before heading off to Reims and Troyes for the weekend, it occurred to me that I might finally check out La Strasbourgeoise, a brasserie in front of the Gare de l'Est, for lunch before my train. I'd read glowing reports of this place from various French food critics, and when I looked their website, I saw they had a "formule express"--choucroute and a glass of Riesling or a beer, for 18.50 Euros and flapped out the door.

  On the way over there, I was hopeful, reasoning that if this place was right across the street from the Gare de l'Est, the Paris train station that serves Eastern France, including Alsace, the choucroute would have to be pretty good, since they're serving connoisseurs of this dish day in and day out. It was sort of a playing-hooky treat to be going out to lunch alone, so I was in a good mood when I arrived, and the welcome was very polite and the fly-in-amber dining rooms of this decidedly old-fashioned place were pleasantly sedate and quiet. 

  Glancing at the choucroute my neighbor was eating, I slightly recalibrated my expectations. It definitely wouldn't be as good as this dish once had been at a great little Alsatian restaurant, L'Alsaco, which no longer exists and where the owner taught me that choucroute/sauerkraut/fermented cabbage preserved in a light brine had been invented by the Chinese and brought to Europe by the Tartars and the Mongols, or at Chez Jenny, the big Alsatian brasserie on the Place de la Republique, or Le Bec Rouge in Montparnasse, my two current favorite places for choucroute in Paris. But hopefully it would be decent. One way or another, the service was charming--when the man next to me fumbled for an excuse to order a third beer after his choucroute and before his coffee, the waiter said "Ah, but Monsieur, it makes me happy to see someone who's taking their time." Kind and suave, in one fell swoop.

  When my choucroute arrived, I finally tasted the Riesling I'd been promptly served in a glass with a ribbed green stem, and it was surprisingly good. The black juniper berries in the hot mound of choucroute, aka sauerkraut, were a good sign, too--less reputable places skimp on or skip them. The various cuts of pork and sausage clearly weren't Slow Food caliber, but still I hoped for the best, or, as it turned out, second or maybe third best. Though there was nothing flagrantly wrong with the dish aside from a deflating mealy steam-table potato, the sauerkraut was very timid and the charcuterie was charitably commercial, more critically, industrial. Oh well, the service here was cordial and it was a pleasant to be in a restaurant where the staff so clearly take pride in their work, but what this meal really accomplished was to remind me that I had to get to Chez Jenny for one of their honey-basted rotisserie-roasted jarret de porc on a bed of choucroute as soon as I possibly can. That, or plan a weekend in Alsace sometime soon.

Le Bec Rouge, 46bis Boulevard du Montparnasse, 15th, Tel. 01-42-22-45-54. Metro: Falguière or Montparnasse. Open daily. Average 35 Euros.

Chez Jenny, 39 Boulevard du Temple, 3rd, Tel. 01-44-54-39-00, Metro: République. Open daily. Average 35 Euros.

La Strasbourgeoise, 5 rue du 8 Mai 1945, 10th, Tel. 01-42-05-20-02. Metro: Gare de l'Est. Open daily. Average 35 Euros.