Roseval - No Rosebud

I always gagged on the silver spoon. 
- Charles Foster Kane

Although Roseval apparently signifies some sort of potato, given that there wasn't a single potato on the menu, I'd prefer the allusion to Citizen Kane's 'rosebud' as the lead-in to this review of the new neo-bistrot in a quaint courtyard of the Menilmontant section of Paris.  With the damp stones glistening in the mid-October evening and the church of Notre-Dame-de-la-Croix looming just across from the pretentiously unpretentious facade of Roseval, who could resist?  A two-week wait for a reservation offered little impediment to Co. & I snagging a back corner table in the 20-seater platformed dining room. Once past the bar, we once again found ourselves initiating the evening as the first-to-arrive.  As we passed the bar, with waitstaff lingering, all eyes were on us - the welcome seemed genuinely friendly enough.

Rosebud . . . the symbol of the lost innocence of youth, and if anything, I couldn't get that reference out of mind during dinner at Roseval.  By the time our second dish had been served, the room was largely filled, with two two-seaters conspicuously standing unoccupied.  The procession of 20-somethings, each warmly welcomed like old buds, cheek-kissed, and greeted by the tag team chefs, Michael Greenwold and Simone Tondo, who both looking positively 20-something themselves, despite their pedigree of having served in the kitchens of the usual suspects, aka Chateaubriand, Rino, and Caffe dei Chioppi, all previously and copiously reviewed here.  Anyway, those 20-something patrons all looked so unlike anything I could remember of my youth, when neither myself nor my peers would go out for a casual dinner on a Friday evening and drop the equivalent of 40€ for a 4-course meal (already upped from July's 35€), or 47€ with cheese, or 65€ or 77€ accompanied by chef-selected glasses of wines, at one of the  aspiring trendier venues in the big city.  And given the no-choice fixed menu (see below), it's not like they could enact a 'why don't we take one plate and one dessert and share' policy.  No sled-riding for these young comers, probably sent off to the Alps by their well-heeled parents for indulgent ski vacations.

Given the lack of choice for food, I had extra time to peruse the wine list, and as I began my perusal, it was all Greek to me - actually, it was Italian, but you know what I mean.  At least the first four choices were Italian, and given our very satisfactory bottle last weekend at Vilia, Co. and I decided to continue with a good thing.  No Sardinian offerings this time, Roseval's Italian reds were from the Piedmont region and once again, I had no clue.  That's where our bouncy waitress, another exuberant Le Chateaubriand refugee, began to give advice, droning on in French to the point at which my addled brain was saying 'flip a coin.'  I was mildly admonished for leaning toward the two more reasonably-priced 'classical' bottles - whatever the hell that's supposed to mean - and not the heavily pushed 60€ bottle that seemed to be the bee's knees according to the waitress.  When the dust cleared, I ordered the 38€ 'classical' Langhe Nebbiolo 2010 (Babaresco), much to her apparent chagrin.  It was fine, but didn't turn out to reach the heights of Vilia's Sardinian.

The meal got off to a great start, albeit lacking a mise en bouche.  One of our neighbors, waiting for her gentleman companion, was brought a small plate of little white tidbits, likely some cheese, but perhaps some cubes of sugar that were never offered with my end of meal cafe, so if you want a mise en bouche at Roseval, tell your companion to circle the neighborhood for about a half hour before parking and you'll probably get one.  The great start was the dish of casserons (pulpe), poireau, and an egg yolk.  My photo is somewhat blurry, but this inky dish was terrific, with each ingredient making perfect sense in enhancing its overall Gestalt.  We greedily lopped up the vestigial ink with some very good country bread.

 

Talk about coming back to earth with a thud.  The cepes (enveloped in a single ravioli circle) - moelle - cresson follow-up didn't do much for me.  Served cold and very green, this one brought more pleasure to look at than to eat.

Ranked right in the middle in terms of pleasure-giving effect, the canette - betterave dish was pretty good, but absolutely smothered in betterave, both the red and white varieties.  Apparently the duo chefs knew better than we did how we prefer our meat to be cooked, because we weren't asked.  I had no complaint in that regard, but Co. was a bit disappointed the canette wasn't bloodier, although I'm not sure the dish could have gotten much redder.  The dish was half-eaten before it occurred to me that I hadn't photographed it, so here's what was left by the time the realization hit me.  If you are a long-time reader of this blog, you know I'm a big proponent of the potential wonders of cooking with betterave, but this one was a bit overwhelming.

At this juncture, our waiter brought us a freebie lead-in to the dessert, a very tasty cup of panna cotta.  I didn't mention the waiter yet, did I?  How could I forget.  This guy, albeit competent in serving, started grating on my nerves about halfway through the meal.  I don't know, there is something about a guy looking about 16 with that holier-than-thou smirk masquerading as a smile that seems to beckon 'hit me' that gets to me.  For some reason, he kept reminding me of Neil Patrick Harris's Doogie Howser, the precocious teen doctor of sit-com fame, which I guess is pretty funny.

Like frere Doogie, the dessert was competent, continuing the multitudinous sauce motif, though hardly spectacular.

With dinner done, I opted for a cafe and intoned to Co. that 'there will be no accompanying patisseries, mark my word.'  Little did I realize that there would be no accompanying sugar, either.  True, I never take sugar in my coffee - never - but how did they know that?  This just isn't done in a French restaurant.  To add insult to injury, once the credit card machine was brought to the table and I paid (total: 121€), frere Doogie brought Co.'s coat to the table and draped it over her chair.  No. 2 in things that just aren't done in French restaurants.  What is the message here?  Okay, you paid, now get the hell outta here.'  Sorry, here we pay and we linger - the French way.  It's not like there were customers waiting outside for a second serving.  I was a little taken aback when Co. beckoned the exuberant waitress to the table to point these things out, because Co. usually is pretty subdued, especially after half a bottle of wine, but the 'it happens' and 'he means well,' explanations definitely fell a bit short.

So what to make of Roseval?  Two talented chefs, no question (see Alexander Lobrano's photos of what appeared to be a more satisfying set of choices than we experienced, and from whence I borrowed the interior photo above) and a charming location, but the owners come up short with regard to customer relationship acumen.  It must be nice to pay one's dues at some successful venues in town and open up a spot where you can kibbitz with your 20-something friends, but the rest of us expect some respect.  Ultimately, you find more empty tables, like the one I don't intend to occupy again.  Rosebud, Rosebud, where art thou Rosebud?

Mr. Kane was a man who got everything he wanted and then lost it. Maybe Rosebud was something he couldn't get, or something he lost. Anyway, it wouldn't have explained anything... I don't think any word can explain a man's life. No, I guess Rosebud is just a... piece in a jigsaw puzzle... a missing piece.

          Jerry Thompson, Citizen Kane reporter 

        

ROSEVAL
1 rue D'Eupatoria
75020 Paris
tel: 09 53 56 24 14
website: www.roseval.fr

Vilia - Viva Italia

Who says timing isn't everything?  Had I seen the new Woody Allen 'Italian' movie, To Rome With Love Thursday night instead of Saturday night, I would have cancelled my Friday dinner reservation at Vilia, another new neo-Italian restaurant in Paris.  No disrespect to the Woodman, who has made some of the great films of all time (Manhattan, Annie Hall), but To Rome is not only just plain horrible, it is tortuous.  Filled with cliches, Italian stereotypes, lame jokes that die with a loud thud, bad acting, terrible casting (Ellen Page as 'sexy, weird love interest'?, Penelope Cruz as an Italian hooker?  Woody Allen as a retired avant-garde opera director? ouch) my stomach was so upset after watching that sorry excuse for entertainment - are Woody and Judy Davis the most tiresome couple in the history of cinema?) that an Italian dinner would have been the last thing on my agenda.  But as I've said, timing is everything, and so Co. and I were able to benefit from a very satisfying evening at Vilia on aforesaid Friday evening.

Easy to reserve (that's becoming a much underused term in the capital these days, unfortunately - as in the ever elusive Septime and the equally slippery new kid on the block, Abri) and even easier to find - rue de Cotte, we strolled into Vilia around 8 pm and, as the first patrons, had our choice of a mere handful of tables.  Seating capacity at Vilia is, by my own bleary-eyed count, 22.  We grabbed one of the few lone two-seaters - lest getting crammed along one of the 6 or 4 seat tables, against the back wall, but nonetheless in the center of the action - bar against the right wall, tiny kitchen outside of my view down a small corridor in the back.  Recipe for success - take an old shop on a hip, buzzing street in Paris, build it into a restaurant, man the kitchen with a young, charismatic, confident chef, and they will come.  And restaurant bloggers will write their glowing reviews (e.g., Heidi Ellison, me).  An old furrier shop, Vilia is centrally located on a street where I wouldn't mind having a tiny apartment.  This is the third - you can look it up - restaurant within a few square meters of the same street that I have now reviewed at this site.  The superfantastic La Gazzetta is directly across the street, and the disappointing Miel & Paprika is just next door.  And if you aren't satisfied with those options, keep walking, there are plenty more venues in the neighborhood.

Co. & I, as is our habitude, opted for the 3-course menu (36€ per person) in lieu of the cheaper 2-course option (26€).  Not much in the way of choices - 3 entrees, 3 plats, and 3 desserts (or cheese).  But let me tell you about the wine first before we get to the actual grub.  Normally, I don't talk much about the wines at this site because I, gasp, am not an expert.  I adhere to the Don Winslow school of oenology, neatly summarized in his book, Savages, as follows:

The wine world is basically divided into red and white.  (We ain't gonna go far with this -- wine types are almost as hateful as tweekers.)  Every great wine-tasting session should end with arsenic.

And we might add John Niven's observation:

If you have to stop drinking, you're a fucking loser.

Okay, so much for esoteric wine philosophy.  The wine list at Vilia is short and sweet, or moitie-moitie, half French and half Italian.  When in Rome, as they say, so I asked our waitress's advice for a good Italian red and ended up with the very satisfying Cannonau Costera (28€).  Not long after sitting down at our table, the ruggedly handsome, foulard wearing, crazy chef/owner Marco Silvetti whipped past our table to snag a couple bags of DeCecco rigatoni off the mantlepiece, commenting that it is a key ingredient to success - later, we were able to verify that first-hand.  But shortly after our Costera arrived, Marco came by again and we had a brief chat about mutual origins and Italian wines, and here is what he said about the Sardinian-based Costera:

Sardinia, where the ground is hard and the people are silent.

Cryptic enough to enhance the flavor of the wine, which was very much like a French bordeaux, but with something special.  Full-bodied and somewhat sweeter than the French wines I am used to drinking, this bottle held up well throughout the meal, though I fear it might become a bit overwhelming on multiple occasions.  As for the food to wash down, Co. fared better than I did with the entree, thoroughly satisfied with her souffle of oursins (sea urchin), which I sadly did not photograph - but it probably would have been blurry anyway (see below), me less so - having bypassed the mackerel dish for a soup of langoustine, calamar, and clams.  Not to say it wasn't good, but I had hoped for something more special.  This soup struck me as a pretty typical fish soup, no bells or whistles.  Or as Annie Hall might have intoned, 'lah di dah.'

But just a second there.  Did I mention, no I didn't, that shortly into our first dishes, Marco wheeled out into the dining room a barrel-sized block of hollowed out cheese, poured a couple pots of that DeCecco rigatoni inside, and mixed in some broken-up parmesan cheese along with, not sure here, olive oil (?).  When Co. inquired just what exactly he was up to, he responded by bringing a small bowl of the pasta melange to our table, a somewhat belated, but generously welcomed, mise-en-bouche.

Well, let me tell you, this elegantly simple preparation was, in the jargon of today's youth, awesome, dude.  The pasta was al dente - tender but firm - and the cheese al perfecto.  I would have happily scrapped the 3-course menu and devoured a couple bowls of this dish.  But, alas, that was not to be the case.  Nonetheless, I felt pretty good about having chosen the pasta plat - raviolis mozzarella et bufala - three raviolis rectangles bearing small chunks of shrimp.  Co. went with the poulpe dish with charlottes and creme.

 

Once again, the pasta won out, though both dishes, as we swapped to verify, were rated 'tasty' on the tasty scale, perhaps with Co. a tad underwhelmed by her calamar.  The dessert choices didn't send shivers up my spine, and given Co.'s predilection for the tartelette with yougurt and strawberries, I took the waitress's advice and went with the creme brulee romarin et citronnelle, after she downgraded to no. 3 the third possibility, a panna cotta.  Not much of a creme brullee enthusiast, I did appreciate the sweet concoction that appeared before me.  Co. went euphroric over her hands-on, non-imposing to the naked eye tartellette, now bearing chocolate, as a late-night replacement for the yogurt - how does one run out of yogurt?

So, in sum, a satisfying, laid-back night.  Italian, yet not totally, which I am sure will keep Vilia as an interesting option, especially when you can't get reservations at La Gazzetta or Caffe dei Chioppi.

Arrivederci, baby.

VILIA

26, rue de Cotte

75012 Paris

tel. 09 80 44 20 15

no website

Tour de Tapas

Fearlessly, I've been busy, even as the mid-August tumbleweeds roll past the better establishments of a (finally) sun-drenched French capital.  Oh wait a minute, it's now cloudy.  Whatever.  As suggested by this post's pithy title, my recent incursions into the Parisian restaurant scene - more accurately carried out just prior to the mass restaurant closings of the French vacation period - center on the tapas circuit, more or less.  Once again this is going to be a quick summary-type post, rather than an indepth review of any particular establishment.  Overall, I have four dinners to discuss, and I am happy to report that each left me with a smile and a thumbs up.



AU PASSAGE
I know, I know, been there done that.  My full review from last February here.  This time, an extended meal/conversation with the Moose.  Back in town and big need to catch up, so the tapas motif served our needs well.  A last minute reservation got us two stools at the bar, which was fine with us.  Halfway through, we were kindly offered a table by one of the waitstaff, but we were fine where we were.  Our selections were each satisfying, and in fact, there's nothing really significantly different to report from my first visit's impressions.  Maybe I enjoyed the food more this time, or maybe it was just that I selected better.  Moose concurs.  The carte (click on image to view) on offer for our particular late July visit and some photos follow.

 

I started off with a refreshing and satisfying brandade de lieu jaune and Moose commenced with a refreshing and satisfying bowl of cresson soup.

 

 Next up, feeling very Irish despite his Canadian/British/Filipino pedigree, Moose stuck with the green (cucumber poutargue), whereas I've never seen a rouget dish that I couldn't say 'yes' to.

 

Finishing up, we got meaty, me with the magret and moose with the (no image) agneau.  I'd have to say my magret outshined the similar dish I had during the February visit - the grilled vegetables a very nice counterpoint to the lightly cooked magret.

Why we didn't order dessert I'm not sure, but it could be we had drunk ourselves under the bar by that point.  Too bad I didn't save the bill and I could have told you what wine we washed this all down with, but it was a tasty blackboard special - and of course, red.  Still the place to go if you are half my age - plenty of bright youthful faces at the tables - with friends, for an extended evening of wining and dining.  On this summer evening, Au Passage was a perfect choice.  We lingered outside for a while after the meal, chatting up some locals, including a disgruntled 20-something who was bemoaning her inability to snag a table that evening at Chateaubriand, and a couple enterprising young filmmakers.

AU PASSAGE
1 bis Passage Saint Sebastien
75011 Paris
tel: 01 43 55 07 52

AGUA LIMON

Much chagrined at having been left to her own devices in the kitchen while I was off gallivanting with the Moose, Co. and I followed up with our first excursion to a decidedly Spainish-oriented tapas joint, Agua Limon, situated in the 12th - and how I am starting to love this area between the Aligre market and Bastille.  Start at metro Faidherbe-Chaligny as the hub and you can walk from there to any number of terrific little restaurants.  Agua Limon itself is just a short walk from the Ledru Rollin metro, another good port of call.  

I haven't had much luck with Spanish tapas in the capital, but Agua Limon is a spot I definitely will be returning to; nothing spectacular, but pleasant, pleasing, and pretty authentic - the 3 Ps of something or another.  The open facade gave us a feeling of dining outside while inside the small front room; behind the bar runs another set of tables in a train car space.  A pleasant and helpful server guided us efficiently, but leisurely, through our tapas choices, some of which are pictured below.

To start, friture eperlans (9.30€). and poivrons grilles (5€).

Followed by friture calmars (9.30€) ...

Salicon pulpo (a highlight) (12€) ...

and poulet paprka (a bit too watery for my taste, but still pretty good, and a frequent choice among other diners) (7€).

Based on a small sample size, I'd say go with the seafood options, but you know what you like.  As I've never come across a Rioja I couldn't say yes to, we went with the Rioja Torres (25€) and were not disappointed; with coffee, the meal totaled out at 73.60€, so you can't beat the price for decent sized servings.

Agua Limon is small and informal, another great little summer venue in Paris, especially if your tastes lead you down the tapas route and you're nostalgic for those little dining sessions you remember so fondly from your last visit to Barcelona.

AGUA LIMON

12, rue Theophile-Roussel

tel. 01 43 44 92 24

website: http://www.restaurant-agualimon.com

 CAFFE DEI CIOPPI

Another new try, and admittedly, a much more challenging venue for snagging a table.  Yours truly failed in that regard on several occasions before getting a wobbly, tiny square of a table on the so-called terrace in the alley off Rue du Faubourg St. Antoine one Friday evening shortly before summer shutdown.  Close your eyes and you are off a little piazza in Milano, but when the food arrives, open your eyes and you are off a little piazza in Milano.  From Spain to Italy, a couple metro stops away.  CDC is an apparent favorite on the local celeb front, at least judging by LeFooding's postings, so of course I had to check this out because I like to be where the in-crowd crowds.

As soon as you hit CDC it hits you back as to why it's difficult to reserve - the food is very good - everything prepared in house, from the mozarella to the pastas and sauces - and it is reasonably priced.  It is inaccurate to call CDC a tapas restaurant, but I don't know why, it had the atmosphere of one.  Here's the menu du jour upon our arrival:

And our choices, beginning with the soup (not pictured) and truly, truly mozarella  ...

moving on to the linguine and filet de maigre, equally outstanding and thus we swapped halfway ...

... and finishing up with fondant chocolat and sbrisolona, the latter of which was particularly outstanding (and again, we couldn't resist swapping mid-course).

 

 

Despite their blur, I hope the photos speak for themselves.  Beverage-wise, a decent Rosso di Montefalco (20€), bringing the total (sans cafe) to 95.50€.  

I'm not a repository of recommendations for Italian dining in Paris, but you can't go wrong on that front at Caffe Dei Cioppi.  I'm looking forward to a return visit during the winter, but I'm afraid that once you take away those ten or so tables in the alley, one's chances of capturing a reservation inside this spatially-challenged venue is going to be a mighty tough 'get.'

CAFFE DEI CIOPPI

159, rue du Faubourg St Antoine

tel: 01 43 46 10 14

no website

LES MAGNOLIAS

As you no doubt know if you've been to this site before, Les Magnolias is a perennial venue for Mortstiff & Co., so I won't belabor the point (see my previous 2008 reviews here and here).  After a several month hiatus, we returned to Jean Chauvel's Michelin-starred establishment in the Paris banlieue of Le Perreux, after getting the distinct impression that M. Chauvel's magic was waning after his multiple rethinks of standard dishes.  Well, with our return during July, I have to say, resoundingly, that Les Magnolias is back.  New sauces, new ingredients, new structures, new conceptions, this was one fantastic meal, from start to finish.  Enough said.

 The carte (click to enlarge):

And some of our choices:

 

 

 

LES MAGNOLIAS 

48, avenue de Bry  

94 Le Perreux-sur-Marne

tel : 01 48 72 47 43

website: http://www.lesmagnolias.com

So there you have it - another Parisian summer almost gotten through.  August may be bleak and hopeless for restaurants in the capital, but we do what we can to survive.  That's going to do it here until the much-awaited rentree in September.  By then, I hope for a diversion along the lines of a recap of some highlights from our trip to the US southwest.  From tapas to tacos, the beat goes on.