I lived in Paris for several years in the 1970s. Things were cheaper then–five francs to the dollar–but gourmet dining in fine restaurants was out of my reach. I usually ate at North African restaurants, or enjoyed the humble, bland faire at the Cité Universitaire. I nevertheless had vicarious methods of enjoying la haute cuisine Française.
(Photo: Gotfryd, Bernard, photographer, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)
I once read an article about food writer Craig Claiborne winning a big sweepstakes. The grand prize was a ticket for two, courtesy of American Express, to dine at any restaurant in the world. The restaurant chosen was Chez Denis, in the upper-crust right bank area, not far from the Champs-Elysée.
So when I had to move out of a friend’s flat where I’d been crashing on the couch, I landed at the Hotel Flaubert, right across the street from Chez Denis both because of its proximity as well as the fact that I loved reading Flaubert. From my room I could see the fortunate ones going in and out of the place. One day I went in and they let me see the day’s menu—all hand-written. Even better, I got to go down to the cave à vin to see the 1850 madeiras and haut-brions and margaux, some of them going back to the 19th century.
I once read an article about food writer Craig Claiborne winning a big sweepstakes. The grand prize was a ticket for two, courtesy of American Express, to dine at any restaurant in the world. The restaurant chosen was Chez Denis, in the upper-crust right bank area, not far from the Champs-Elysée.
My father had a Stanford University chum who’d set up a law practice in the posh area of Île Saint-Louis. As a student living in Paris, I normally ate at low-end restaurants—gros sandwich Tunisiens and couscous mouton. The only place on the Île Saint-Louis I could afford was the famous ice cream place, and even that stretched my wallet. So my father’s attorney friend took me along with his family to a nearby high-end restaurant on the famous island, just across from the flying buttresses that shore up the hind quarters of Notre Dame cathedral.
At this small restaurant I gorged myself and drank great wine. I’d never eaten French food so good. I couldn’t finish my dinner, so I asked the garçon for a doggie bag. “Un petit sac pour le chien, s’il vous plait?” The waiter stiffened and said tautly, “ça ne se fait pas ici, monsieur.” (This isn’t done here.) So much for my very American ways. That was many years ago. Now you can request a doggie bag.
In 1975, when I had left the Ph.D program at UCLA and returned to Paris, I found a job teaching American-style English at a French school. My friend Stacie Widdifield, a friend from UCLA, was in Paris, too. One time her well-to-do grandmother visited Paris from her New Canaan, Connecticut home. She made dinner reservations at a great right-bank restaurant. The only problem was that the reservation was for 6:30 p.m. We arrived to an empty restaurant, puzzled waiters, and a few scornful looks (“dumb Americans”). It’s not nearly as bad as Spain or Argentina, where you arrive at the main course around midnight. But still, if you plan on fine dining in Paris, do not ever make a reservation before 8 p.m.
*Editor’s note: This post was edited and updated with new images and links on September 27, 2025.