Le Montagnard

It’s 8:30 on a brisk Saturday night when my mother refuses to take another step. It is her last evening in Paris. "Don’t worry," say I, being the heroic type, "It’s here and I’ll find it, if it’s the last thing I do!" And, at a trot, off I go, up the Rue Lepic*, one of those charming, winding streets in one of Paris’ most charming, winding areas–Montmartre. We had left my apartment in Belleville early that afternoon and had strolled along the Canal Ourq, which somewhere along the way quietly transforms itself into the Canal St. Martin. At Stalingrad we had hopped on the Line 2 to finish up with some last-minute souvenir shopping on Rue Steinkerque amidst throngs of other tourists doing much the same. This accomplished, I was determined to reward my mother’s marathon endurance with a most unforgettable final meal. Yes, in this meal she’d find all the charm the city had to offer; the experience would satisfy all the senses. Somewhere, nestled amongst the innumerable brasseries and restaurants, we’d find ours and spend a poignant evening that would forever in our memories live. Yes, it would be perfect. Now there was only one tiny problem…which one? Leaving my mother standing on a corner, I weave my way through the slow-moving couples linked arm in arm that are, like myself, peering into windows and squinting at menus. Disheartened, fearing both my mother’s reproach at having "made her climb all those stairs"** and the idea of the evening terminating in a meal at McDonald’s on the Boulevard Clichy, I begin to sweat. And destiny intervenes: Le Montagnard, a French restaurant I’d passed countless times in my years living in Montmartre. I suddenly recall the envy I’d often had of those on the other side of those large, inviting windows. I enter and am swiftly greeted by a handsome waiter in full waiter regalia – bowtie and all. It is what can be described as quintessential: piano music, golden warmth, soft light, a roomful of contented faces laughing, smiling, and engaged. The waiter, who I later found out is also chef and owner, senses my distress and asks me if I’m looking for someone. I tell him that I’m looking for something…namely a table. "Alone?" he asks. I remember I’ve left my mother down the street and tell him the two of us will be dining together. "C’est tres beau!" he says, and points to the only empty table: a table for two. From start to finish, the experience was exquisite. In the service you will find finesse at a level which cannot be improvised or faked, the type that comes naturally chez those who care about their clientele – earnest and effortless. One comes to have a great appreciation for service of this quality after having worked in restaurants (and having dined in many a Parisian restaurant!). The two servers were always gracious, and handled the floor like a small army rather than a pair. My mother and I both chose the "menu fixe," the set menu at 16 € which includes a main dish with an appetizer or dessert, and for each course there is a choice of four dishes. For the entrée, she selected the cocotte d’oeuf, an unusually light dish, subtle in flavor, delicate in texture. I had the soupe à l’oignon, frankly the best I’ve ever had. Just the right proportion of cheese, bread, and broth. It could not have been tastier – nearly substantial enough to be a meal of its own. For the plat principal, my mother had steak; a thin cut cooked à point, medium rare (which is how the French believe meat should be cooked. They’re good at getting it right, too.) And here was no exception. Throughout the duration of the steak, my mother did not cease to roll her eyes and moan. The meat was tender, succulent and without a gram of fat, as it is the owner, after all, who himself hand-picks all of the cuts. The steak was accompanied by savory hand cut fries and a crisp salad. I had the crispy-skin salmon, which was accompanied by a vegetable cake and a flavorful chive sauce. The cut was thick and, again cooked to perfection; moist and firm. The vegetable cake went along nicely, not detracting from the main event. Other selections include confit de canard aux cepes, a choice of several Châteaubriands (fine filets of beef with various dressings), foie gras maison (homemade goose liver pâté), three types of fondue, coq au vin, and on Thursdays a unique couscous prepared with fresh butter made by the owner’s own mother. Although we did not have room for dessert this time, I vowed to myself that I would be back to try one of the ten options on then menu, ranging from classics like crème brulée to apricot mousse topped with an exotic fruit purée. We did find space, however, for a digestif – a superb cognac offered to us by the owner. He even took the time to explain the origins and history of cognac, and why it is that you will never find its bottling date. All this and musical accompaniment by an excellent jazz pianist who played everything from "Misty" to Jacques Brel and probably knew just about anything else you’d ever want to hear. This particular evening there was also a singer, a rather extraordinary personage who looked as though he belonged to Montmartre as…