I went to Paris, and all I got was this lousy gatekeeping

An impending deadline crunch meant I suddenly had to bring forward a trip to Paris. I had to jam it into the last few days before the Olympics, so had none of the usual leisure to organise.

I checked my hit list, then did a quick troll round social media and, of course, ran into the artillery barrage of opinion. Everybody has opinions on Paris, all maniacally held and brooking zero disagreement. Asking for recommendations is like turning up at a conference of religious zealots and politely asking who’s got the best deity.

I like a Gibson martini. Lots of icy gin, a ghost of vermouth and a pickled onion sets me right with the world and, usually, prevents me spending the rest of the evening draining bottles of wine. So when somebody said, “Have you been to Harry’s New York Bar? On rue Daunou, Opéra Metro,” I checked online. Looked pretty good. Had an interesting history . . . but then, of course, I ran headlong into the flak. Stuff along the lines of: “Saw off your own leg rather than go to Harry’s New York Bar. It’s a filthy tourist trap.”

Many people have been to Harry’s New York Bar. Evidently, once they have enjoyed an excellent Gibson there, they want to make sure nobody else ever goes, by somehow implying that their experience was blighted by a couple of loud tourists just like them and, by extension, me.

Confusing, isn’t it? And, by the way, the most assiduous pearl-clutchers are exactly the same people who would howl, “What? You haven’t been to Harry’s?” if you hadn’t.

It was 1911 when Harry’s was brought in pieces, from New York to its present location, by an American jockey. It has remained unchanged ever since. It is also, according to Google, 524km from my home in Cambridge, making it my closest authentic Gibson, the second closest being 10 times further away in New York.

Harry’s had already been there for 17 years when Hemingway met Fitzgerald at the bar, and Gershwin wrote An American in Paris on the piano in the basement, doubtless fuelled by a Gibson as matchless as the one I had. When I went, I was the only person in the bar, apart from a couple of elderly drunks and, yes, a couple of quiet Americans with CIA haircuts who were enjoying it every bit as much as me.

I’m trying to work out to do with the input of the naysayers. Should I have swerved Harry’s New York Bar because it is insufficiently authentic, or because (once they’ve been) its glory has been sullied by popularity? How does that work? If they’d gone and I hadn’t, I would surely have been the only loser.

There was another place on my Paris list that didn’t take bookings and had been continually deprioritised. So I finally got to go to the original Bouillon Chartier, where I had a cheap cut of steak and chips, and some extremely pleasant oeufs mayonnaise, and felt cold terror at the possibility that I might, once again, have bypassed the experience.

It’s “a proper meal for a modest sum” for a mixed crowd, exactly as it had been for more than a hundred years and in an almost unchanged room. If I’d worried about tourists knowing about it (which evidently they do), I’d have missed an incredible slice of Parisian restaurant history. Ignore the voices and go. The place is at least half full of Parisians, just loving it for what it is, and it’s far too noisy for you to hear any accents too embarrassingly close to your own.

Go, too, to Le Chardenoux. It’s about 200 metres from Le Paul Bert, which has long been de rigueur for Real Foodies (though you can’t get a booking because it’s too full of them). It’s one of those corner bars that whoever controlled town planning for Paris put on the corner of every block. An amazing civic amenity because it can’t be repurposed for anything other than serving drinks, a bit of food and maybe sitting outside and talking rubbish for a whole evening. No flats, no vape shop. Paris is still stuffed with them, thank God.

Le Chardenoux has been taken in hand by Cyril Lignac (Gasp! “A celebrity chef? You can’t go there!”), who has perfectly reimagined a classic corner bar, without resorting to the standard menu. Save that stuff for Chartier and have, instead, a crunchy crab galette, tiled with avocado and subtly flavoured of “Madras curry”. Maybe follow that with a generous mound of langoustine ravioli, drowned in a classic bisque. Lean back a little and you can wave at the queue outside Paul Bert. Save that for when you can spare a few days to organise a booking (phone only).

It’s fascinating to watch the Parisians reinterpreting their own traditions and how we respond. If you want to see it red in tooth and claw, nip over to the Marché des Enfants Rouges, on the edge of the Marais, which is now an effortfully hip Borough-style food market. There’s a stall there called Les Enfants du Marché serving modern takes on classic brasserie dishes. Pied de cochon croustillant, grilled octopus, tempura sardines, squid grilled on a plancha with boudin noir. Natural wine, naturally.

It’s a couple of hipster chefs doing amazing work, charging around triple the price of Chartier to sit at a counter with no reservations. Apparently it’s a great place to spot celebrities, but you’ll want to get there at 11am to watch the little klatches of hard-faced food tourists and “twitchers”, the solo online opinionists with no selfie-control, as they skulk between stalls waiting to fight for the stools as it opens at noon.

Maybe we should ask them for recommendations. “Les Enfants du Marché? Christ, don’t go there! It’s full of tourists.”

Follow Tim on Instagram @timhayward

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