Eating Ethnic in France

Ethnic – horrors, I don’t do ethnic in France.  Oh sure, if I’m in France for over a few months, I do sneak out and have some sushi, pizza or Pad Thai.  But day in and day out, why?  Which is not to say it’s not a good idea, because as I found out from eating out alone one year when Colette abandoned me for a few days to go to the States to do something like take care of children and grandchildren – I found that, say, our local Thai restaurant, using French product, made food infinitely better than I ever had in the US or dare I say it, in Thailand?  

But as I say, day in and day out, I eat French-French food; I don’t count the risotto/polenta/pasta creep or nems/tapas/croustillants as amuse bouches.  Now, I’m leaving to the side Magrebian food, couscous or tagines, etc., because they’re French, right?  I’m talking about avoiding my female buddy’s favorite Shandong place or my only pal’s schwarma joint or the Greek guy down the street who my Greek friends tell me is really a Cretan (I don’t think that came out right, oh right, it’s cretin.) 

In any case, back to my point.  You’ve had a lunch (I only eat lunch out remember) of rillettes, foie gras and cheese.  It’s now 7, 8, 9, 10 PM.  What do I want, confit de canard with sarlardaise potatoes?  Nope. 

And so it is that I back-slide, back-slip, whatever.   

Back-story.  When I was a callow youth, as opposed to a wizened geezer, I came to Paris to ha-ha study, and around the Sorbonne were these wonderful tasty, cheap Viet Namese restaurants.  One could eat and eat and fill up and go home happy, even without that scarf-wearing, hair-flipping, thin-as-a-willow, Gauloise-smoking French girl one really came for.   

Time passed, the march against Communism progressed and one found oneself in deep dodo, aka Viet Nam (yes it’s two words not one, hey, you gotta problem with that? After all, we say Beijing now not Peking and Don Quickz-ote not Don Qui-hotee.)  Anyway in Viet Nam, I belonged to a rare bunch of lawyers, doctors and reporters (and a few spies) who loved food, or what passed for it in 1967.  My wonderful wife, Colette, sent me as much cheese, salami and smoked oysters from Zabar’s each week as the C-30’s could carry and my Dad faithfully clipped the New York Times daily, which is why the reporters cottoned to me – they read it first in my hootch before they got their copies.  So I was pretty happy.  Until I realized there was food out there; fish from the Mekong and China Sea, fresh vegetables from Dalat and dog from, well, you don’t want to know.  So I tasted the real stuff; first by venturing out of the armed compound to visit and teach at the local mental hospital and University; then to restaurants along the rivers; and finally to the big time – Sai Gon (two words) – with the big boys, who at various times included both before me – RW (Johnnie) Apple and David Halberstam and in my time, Daniel Sutherland and Tom Corpora.  I name them not just to drop names, which of course I love to do, but to establish (1) that there was a real eating community there in those horrible days and (2) that we’re now dropping like flies.   

At one point, my commanding officer, who never left his air-conditioned trailer except to fly to Japan on “research missions,” asked me what he could do to reward me for going around and doing all the things he should have been doing himself and I was too foolish to know might have gotten me killed dead and I said – send me to Sai Gon.  OK.  Great idea; back to the willowy French girl with a cellar full of 1907 Lafite-Rothchild’s.  (To get the full version, buy my forth-coming book.)  But then “Tet” struck and I was stuck in my “villa”, that’s what they called crummy houses near the hospital. Man, oh man.  But guess what, we had a great Chinese chef who went  every day to the local and Commissary markets, and served up divine food.  Oh boy, did I suddenly have friends.  So, back to the point Dad, as they say. 

I’ve been looking for genuine Viet Namese cuisine ever since. I lived in New York City for 25 years and Paris off and on for 17 and every time someone says; “there’s this great Viet Namese place” in San Francisco, Alexandria or Belleville, “my Viet Namese born doctor eats there all the time”  go.  Nope.  Nul, blank, doesn’t do it. 

So last night I break my “never eat out at night” and “never eat ethnic” rules and go to Le Dan Bau in my nabe.  OK.  I’ve hyped it far too much.  But this is real authentic stuff.  It’s located on a “happening” street, La Famille ring a bell?  It’s just away from tourist central on Montmartre, has only got 27 covers and has surprisingly terrific wall-art.  The menu (carte) looks not much different from any other Viet place in Paris; but the food, the food?  I started with the pork nems and couldn’t have been happier- crisp, great mint and lettuce leaves, too hot in temperature, but hey.  Then I had the Pho, my sustaining breakfast in Viet Nam; bland but perfectly undercooked (e.g., raw) beef (albeit a poor cut) and noodles and interesting lemon grass, etc, but wait, what’s that beside it; what my culinary guiding Father-Son Team (we invest them with the names of Kim Il-Sung and Kim Jong-il) call “Big Red,” except that in Viet Nam there are legions of such sauces.  That was it!  With wine my bill was 20 €.  I challenge you on that.  And they were turning people away.  Thank you Richard Nahem at Parisist. 

Le Dan Bau

18, rue des Trois Freres, 18^th, (Metro : Abesses)

T :01.42.62.45.59

Never closed

A la carte – who knows? Not much. 

©2007 John A. Talbott