The European Tour: Le Castiglione, Paris

Le Castiglione, Paris...A swing and a miss...

RESEARCH IS THE LIFEBLOOD of any journalist and on Day 2 the recommendations started coming in. Steve Tignor, who writes the Concrete Elbow column for Tennis.com and does terrific features for Tennis Magazine, suggested Au Moulin a Vent for a “good, bloody Chateaubriand.” At the TV compound at Roland Garros, there was talk of this joint that only served French fries and steak. No menus. You walk in, tell them how you want your steak cooked, and that, along with a homemade green spicy pesto sauce, is that.

The New York Times, obviously aware I was in town, offered a piece on the latest, greatest gastronomic craze in Paris: food trucks (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/04/world/europe/food-trucks-add-american-flavor-to-paris.html?_r=1&pagewanted=all). Yes, food trucks, like the ones from Temple University - but Temple didn't sell 10-euro cheeseburgers.

I settled for my own internet research and a highly rated choice was Le Castiglione, in the first district next to the hotel, in fact right across the street on Rue Castiglione. Castiglione, yes, yes, that name rings a bell.

Castiglione. Even in Paris, the Red Sox haunt me.

Le Castiglione (235 rue St. Honore, Paris, France) was a nice place with, like most European spots, a stylish outdoor terrace. Being directly across the street from the French-free Westin, it held promise as a late-night choice. http://www.tripadvisor.com/ rated it four of five stars (47 reviews).. Le Castiglione also had carpaccio on the menu, which is of course, a must. Was it to be, that the research would pay off, and that on consecutive nights, positive experiences would be had? Was it to be, simply, that the food in Paris was so good that you could, literally, fall out of bed and eat well?

NO...!
NO...!
NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!


Let's first say this about Le Castiglione: the bartender made one terrific mojito. He muddled the mint with so much force it shook the restaurant, and I was the better for it. The carpaccio was solid, though not as thinly sliced as it should have been - but solid.

In Paris, the restaurants have monogrammed plates. Classy or tacky? You be the judge...

The main event, however, was for the second night in a row, beef tartare. And yes, this one realized my fears. It was terrible. It was mushy and wet. The consistency was similar to that of oatmeal. Even the French fries were soft. Days later, when my oldtime pal Michelle came to visit and I told her of my experience she said, "The chefs were laughing in French that another American dummy ordered the dog's dinner."

One awful meal...

For comparison's sake, let's use the eye test....

Tartare from Bar Tuileries....Note the care and craftsmanship. There is no argument.

BUT... The mojito was really good...

Story of my life

The Paris adventure is over, but the gastronomic tale is about to begin...stay tuned....HB

CARPACCIO: THE EUROPEAN TOURS, VOL. I



Note the portion size, but the tartare was quite dense.

 THE MOOD was set early, a Sunday morning walk on a 77-degree day through the Jardin Tuileries, then along the right bank of the Seine. The iPod provided the mood music: John Coltrane, Live in Antibes, 1965 – a phenomenal performance, nearly 50 minutes of “A Love Supreme” capped by a sly finale on soprano sax by Coltrane and special Pharoah Sanders.

The housekeeping came first: the Boy wanted a photo of L’Tour Eiffel, and mission accomplished. The harder part, the underestimated part, was navigating the gastronomic brick and cobblestone streets of Paris.

If “No” is an international word, when it comes to food, the most fitting international phrase is “Can You Vouch?” I hadn’t been to Paris since November 1999, and had not cultivated a list of restaurant stalwarts. I scoured the Internet for recommendations, but was reduced to recommendation, the always dangerous, always tricky, always uncomfortable space where Friends Go on Trial.

The first day was easy. Tennis at Roland Garros rolled into the night, making it difficult for true adventure. I chose conservatively, Bar Tuileries, otherwise known as the hotel bar at the Westin Paris. The Westin represented something of a haven for English speakers. It was a French-free zone best illustrated by a late-night scene in the elevator during the trip, where reserved Parisians (and reserved foreigners) heading up were awoken by a big, booming American voice and his giggling female companion. “EVERYBODY HAVIN’ A GOOD TIME? WHO’S GOT SNACKS?”

(A point of information here: I was suffering from the severe, self-inflicted handicap of not speaking French. A general exchange for me went something like this:

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour. (whispering lower) Um, do you speak English?” (weak, helpless smile).

“Oui, monsieur. How may I help you?”

Only begging for a piece of bread would have been more embarrassing than my attempts at French).



I settled in on the beef tartare, salad and French fries. To add to the odd mix was a mojito, or perhaps it should be called an “18-euro mojito.” It wasn’t overly adventurous, but in the States, I never order beef tartare because few places do French food well. Paris was the place to make the leap.

It was a welcome score. The mixture of capers and mustard was interesting and the beef was robust instead of looking like it was headed for the dumpster until it was rescued by some idiot ordering the tartar. Things were off to a good start.

And dessert...

One scoop of bourbon vanilla ice cream with a soft lemon cookie on top, garnished with pink sugars.

The first drink...

A mojito in Paris....Bar Tuileries...

Bar Tuileries

I wound up here at the hotel bar, out of necessity. It went down like this: Air France flight 0337 left Boston Friday evening at 5:30 pm. We landed in Paris at 6 am. Arriving at the hotel at 7:13, I find, naturally, that my room wasn't ready, which forced some morning sightseeing (the Boy demanded a photo of the Eiffel Tower and by golly he go it) and walk/Metro to Roland Garros.
I arrived on the grounds at roughly 10 am and proceeded to get acclimated, an endeavor which included having Martina Navratilova, the finest, fiercest competitor of them all, sprint by, and watching Francesca Schiavone lose to newly minted American citizen Varvara Lepchenko in three sets. When Schiavone won the French Open in 2010, she was frequently compared to Navratilova (perhaps as much for her wearing her competitive emotions without the pretense of being ladylike as for her aggressive serve and volley).

Schiavone has never been as good as she was when she won, but she is still a compelling figure to watch.

By 3:30 pm (my apologies, 15:30 hrs. I am in Europe), I still hadn't checked into my room and hadn't slept since waking up Friday morning. Upon walking back to the hotel, a quick walk from the Corcorde Metro stop along Rue de Rivoli to Rue de Castiglione, it was obvious I needed a plan: I'm in the greatest food city in the world and don't have the slightest idea of where to go.

The smart move was to regroup at Bar Tuileries, enjoy a €17 mojito (damn!) To go with a delicious beef tartare. Eating the first meal in Paris at the hotel bar may not have been the most inspired choice, but it had to be done for strategic purposes - and it wasn't like I ordered a cheeseburger.