La Taverne-somewhere in the 5th

  It started, like most things, with a phone call, one from London. It was an English friend saying, “I know this really, really good Brazilian restaurant there.” I had just moved to Paris, and was suffering from a side effect of relocation: ignorance of the secret, magic places to dine. “Where is it?” I nearly begged. He didn’t know or couldn’t remember, blaming the deleterious effects of the alcohol consumed there, which, he went on to say, is steeped on site and served from large jugs. “And after dinner,” he added, “the place goes mad, amazingly so. You know, live music, dancing. Good stuff.” The six weeks from that phone conversation and the time he finally made it under the channel were spent with the aching knowledge that it was somewhere, a Brazilian restaurant so hot it made a Brit excited. I walked and looked, and looked and walked, but never did I see. He arrived on a Friday evening, with his weekend bag and foggy memory. “It’s near a church, somewhere in or around the Latin Quarter.” This he was sure of. A quick count gives one 9-14 churches to choose from, depending how one defines “around.” We of course didn’t find it, ending instead in one of the many spots on rue Mouffetard, a street full of restaurants, none Brazilian. The next day another friend was called, one who knew where Brazil could be found, and reservations were made. We arrived that night at 8:30, to find ourselves seated at a table for six shared, very much in the French fashion, with another party of three. We made warm, smiling introductions—they were already on the main course—and promptly ignored each other the rest of the night, also in the French fashion. The room was small, room maybe for 30 people, with sandstone walls and arched ceilings, palm plants in each corner; the feel was authentic, or at least escapist enough to one fresh off the bitter autumn streets. On the bar were the now infamous glass jugs, containing a near rainbow of colorful liquids. On dog-eared and stained cards taped to their sides were names like Punch Estemperado, Coco Punch, and Punch Love Love. We all chose the latter. It was a bit strong, served without ice in a whiskey tumbler—a good start to the evening. We soon discovered it was in reality a Cape Verde Island restaurant. Where is this? We asked each other. Somewhere in the mid-to-South Atlantic, we concluded. In fact, the Islands are spread out 600-1000 km off the coast of Senegal. They were discovered uninhabited, then quickly colonized by those enterprising Portuguese of the 15th century. Most of its 400,000 citizens are of African or Portuguese descent, much like Brazil. They achieved independence in 1975. For the next drink, I chose Coco Punch while my companions both had Caipirinha, a mint drink popular in Brazil. This time ice was ordered. The Coco Punch was perfect: faintly sweet with just a hint of coconut. The waitress brought out the menu of five starters and four main courses written in chalk on a small, well-worn blackboard. All but one of the dishes was seafood, as might be expected from an island country with less than 10 percent of its land being arable. Soon a handsome young man with a nylon stringed guitar sat down at a microphone. All night he played and sang lithely in the Brazilian style, including a couple of Antonio Carlos Jobim classics. Good as it was, my friend wistfully reminisced about the wildness his last visit, when several musicians had the whole restaurant dancing well into the night. “You can never go back” was the next toast. The starters came: sausage, crab cake and bread filled with shrimp in white sauce. We played musical plates, sharing the tastes: the sausage was either blood or liver, lightly seasoned, very mild; the crab cake and shrimp were also simple, both with only a hint of lemon. To be sure, while not very impressive, it was a good start, a step in the right direction. And the main course did not disappoint. One of our orders was a medley of four different fish for two served with boiled manioca; the other was a fish stew with rice and plantains. The fish was tender, well seasoned and only lightly cooked. Especially good was what looked like a salmon mash held together by a wrap of a white fish, possibly eel. As often is the case in a foreign land, taste was more important than name. Our nightcap was Punch Vert, which sounds green but was blood red and cinnamon flavored. The guitar was still playing and the restaurant full when we left around midnight; most of those remaining had already been seated upon our arrival. Yes, reservations are essential if you ever find this place, which isn’t really near the Latin Quarter. And truth be told, all of Paris is near a church. La Taverne25 rue Daubenton, 75005Métro: Censier Daubentontel: 01.43.31.44.00 After graduating with a degree in Biology, Brian Thayer became a traveler. Starting in London as a security guard, he was most recently found commercial fishing in Alaska. Now he lives in Paris, but doesn’t consider it travel. He is currently at work on a book about his time spent in the Middle-East.