i'm not (always) fussy: le rubis, 75001

I work in the 1er arrondissement. It's a short commute for me, and a great place to work, particularly if you enjoy watching tourists in cargo shorts film, actually film, the jewelry in the Chanel window displays. (I for one cannot get over this. Do they expect the jewelry to wave?) For lunch, however, options are slim. You have a lot of places selling over-conceptualized, instant-pasta-in-a-box-type concepts, ideal for people who would prefer to dispense with meals entirely and just take futuristic pills. You also have a lot of decent Japanese restaurants nearby on the rue Saint Anne; I don't mention them much, because they serve no potable wine to speak of, and because I moved here from LA, where the Japanese food is immeasurably better, so I'm kind of unmoved by the neutered undersalted Frenchy version. This leaves the native cuisine, and it's really a testament to the greatness of this country that, even in a tourist-infested business district, there are places I can recommend wholeheartedly. Two, in fact. One is: Le Rubis. (The other I'll post later.)

Calling Le Rubis a bistro would be sort of overstating things. It's more just a timeless unambitious wine bar that serves rustic sausages and a few small plates. The menu has not, to anyone's recollection, ever changed. It's an institution. For the longest time, I'd only ever go for cheese plates and splashes of wine after work, primarily because they don't accept my company-sponsored restaurant tickets. (I know. I have to be frugal somewhere.) Yesterday curiosity got the best of thrift, though, and I had lunch there with some colleagues. I won't go into a blow-by-blow, since the place has already been covered like a Christo in most blogs and journals. Just a few observations:

oof, mayonnaise: le rubis, 75001

This is a good lunch to have if you don't have any pressing business whatsoever on a Monday afternoon. I'll post some more notes on Le Rubis (75001) later. In the meantime I'll just say that while eggs are notoriously difficult to pair with, an anonymous glass of Chiroubles (presumably 2009) is not a bad way to go. Gamay in general: the ebullient fruit and near-zero tannicity seems to jive with the rich silkiness of a hard boiled egg.

miss kaefferkopf 2009

Image swiped from http://www.kaefferkopf.net/

A picture I turned up in the course of some web research for the last post. (I research! Mostly in the hopes of finding things like this.)

I grew up outside of Philadelphia, PA, in historic Revolutionary War country, and frequently I'd see weeners in full re-enactment get up buying hoagies at a Wawa, or leading tour groups. Presumably this is sort of the Alsatian vigneron version. From what I understand, Kaefferkopf received official recognition as a Grand Cru in just 2006, so perhaps they're overcompensating.

first or second impression: quedubon, 75019

Image swiped from paris-bistro.com.

Rather than devoting weeks of careful thought to My First Post, I figure I might as well just serve up whatever's freshest in mind. At the moment it's the restaurant / cave à vin Quedubon, in the 19eme, where I dined on Friday night in the trusty company of my Native Companion (a Parisian). Since the dinner in question predates the founding of this blog, and I'm no good with forethought, the pictures above are not my own. I filched them. (RESOLUTION: In future posts I'll try to come up with original photographic content.)

Anyway, Quedubon's been on my radar for a while, but this was my first proper meal there. A month or two ago I'd popped by for a wine tasting and was sufficiently impressed with the depth of the blackboard-scrawled wine list that I resolved to return for a full meal, despite the restaurant's unbelievably stupid name. (Surely I'm not the only person who has pointed this out. Imagine an organic restaurant in, say, San Francisco calling itself "Nothing But Good." Diners would choke.) Then some weeks later Quedubon came up in conversation with my friend Guy from Le Dirigeable (a future post...), and he confirmed that, indeed, many of his restaurateur friends had been talking the place up.  All that was left was to await a suitable occasion, which duly arrived when I began to feel guilty for all the help my Native Companion had donated during the course of a challenging catsitting gig earlier this month. (Not worth going into.) 

The verdict?