“Look,” said John, “here is a little inn. Is it not time we rested and ate something?” CS Lewis, The Pilgrim’s Regress
Last evening we ate at a family-owned French bistro in the Rue Clare neighbourhood. Named Au Petit Tonneau – and promising “une cuisine de femme,” – unique and intuitive kitchen, was just what we were after our first night in the city. Red checker-clothed tables touch along their edges to accommodate the tiny space, and heavy oak-framed coat hangers line the far-side wall. Au Petit Tonneau is still offering sustenance to hungry Parisienne’s from same spot for over 80 years. The newish owners of 6 years serve up the gentle comfort of peasant’s best to local and international clientele, a crowd of whom we are happy to be a part.
The fare is “simply” French: a few slices of charcuterie and pickles to start, petit radishes just washed from the garden, pea mousse with mint, escargot, duck comfit, roasted rosemary potatoes (or au gratin as my man chose), and chocolate mousse to finish. While the rain fell hard against the wood-framed windows, the red awning flapped with the gusty winds, the candles lit and wine poured, by early evening the place had swelled by twos and threes and we lingered over espresso feeling quite at home.
