I’m picky about restaurants: working in the specialty food business for thirty years exposes you to some of the tastiest (and sometimes weirdest) ingredients in the world. It’s hard for me to pay good money for uninteresting food and poor execution.
I’ve been known to research the food scene at my destination prior to traveling. It certainly doesn’t preclude random discoveries that often reveal delicious options but I usually have a list of old favorites or new go-to places in case nothing exciting turns up. No Michelin-starred establishments, more like “little holes in the wall” that prepare pristine sushi, a superlative cheesy-corny quesadilla, the lightest fish and chips, or a perfectly cooked angler steak with shallot sauce.
Then there is air travel, airline food, and airport restaurants. Ugh.
My default flight from Paris to San Francisco requires me to check in at 7 am at CDG1. I have two options. The evening before departure, I can spend the night in Paris proper and enjoy a superlative dinner just about anywhere; but that also means getting up at some ungodly hour to reach the airport on time, hoping to avoid rush hour traffic or praying the RER trains are not affected by the all-too-frequent strikes. Or, I can minimize my morning stress and stay at an airport hotel: it seriously reduces my dining choices but it makes me a more pleasant traveler the next day.
Over the years I’ve tried a few hotels around the airport but there is one particular restaurant that I particularly favor: the Novotel Café that is steps away from the RER/CDGVAL transportation hub. I would describe it as a modern brasserie where you can order a perfectly seared entrecôte, a risotto with cèpes mushrooms, or a runny chocolate lava cake. The wait staff is impeccably dressed in white shirts and black slacks or skirts. It’s not an airport cafeteria, nor a restauration rapide joint: the setting is not too casual and they aim to provide a finer dining experience than what you would expect at an airport.
During my last visit, my table was located by the glass partition that separates the dining room from a lush bamboo garden: it’s a green haven that makes you temporarily forget the ever-present concrete and uninspiring architecture of the train station (if you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about.) It was close to 8 pm. I was by myself this time, sipping a glass of Rosé and enjoying a delicious plate of salmon sashimi when my eye caught an unusual reflection in the glass wall: an explosion of flowers. I turned my head and noticed that two 40ish women were now sitting ten feet in front of me. Both were wearing mid-calf dresses that seem to be cut from the same pattern, the same black fabric, and the same floral print, albeit red for one and green for the other. Big hair and make-up. Immaculate white tennis shoes. They shared a bottle of Les Jolies Filles Côtes-de-Provence Rosé. They spoke in French. Obviously, two BFF gearing up for a trip to… Barcelona? Berlin? Marrakech?
I started to scan the room, observing my fellow diners, trying to figure out their respective destinations. The gentleman by the wall to my right was easy to peg: 50ish, jeans, white shirt, navy blue blazer hanging on the back of his chair, reading the latest Haruki Murakami’s novel. Tokyo-bound for sure. Further back, three middle-aged men, all in pale blue button-down shirts and V-neck sweaters; animated conversation; probably discussing the deal they would iron out in New York or Boston; probably flying Business class or hoping for an upgrade. The older couple a few tables in front of me was already in the dining room when I arrived. They had ordered the three-course meal with a bottle of wine and Champagne. They lingered, squeezing and enjoying every last minute of their anniversary vacation in Paris (?) before returning home to the US. As I was finishing my herbal tea, a middle-aged couple arrived; he wore a Hawaii surfing t-shirt; she asked for green vegetables instead of potatoes; their English sounded sans accent to my Californian ear. I was pretty sure they would be boarding my flight to San Francisco the next day.
Faces, places. People-watching is almost a national sport in French cafés. Perhaps they too were guessing the destination printed on my boarding pass.
Vocabulary
L’entrecôte (f): rib-eye steak
Le cèpe: porcini
La restauration rapide: fast-food
Sans accent: without accent
a french life, one perfect moment at a time