KEY POINTS:
Only the French could begin a revolution by saying, "Let them eat cake."
Or so we would all like to think. Perhaps, as another July 14 dawns, thousands of Parisiens are toddling up and down Boulevard St Germain, scratching their pates and murmuring, in that inscrutable yet philosophical way that Maigret had, "Only les Neo Zelandais could live in a country where the best restaurant is called the French Cafe, mais la cuisine est ..."
Where to find good French cuisine in Auckland for Bastille Day? In Auckland? Merde, as we used to say in Mr Clayton's third form French class.
The French love a good argument and there are three to be starting with. There is no such thing as "French cuisine". There is Gascon and there is Lyonnaise and there is Norman and there are a whole lot more cuisines. I was going to say diets but the French don't do diets. French women don't get fat and the Mediterranean diet isn't French or a diet.
And, of course, it's not Bastille Day. We Francophiles prefer to call it the Fete Nationale (pretentious, nous?)
Anyway, if you're still looking for my advice, you're probably too late.
You should have booked. There are not enough decent French-ish restaurants in Auckland for there to be an empty table on July 14.
Where do you go to, my lovelies?
You will know of Bouchon, which looks the part better than any. It could be in any dusty, dirty lane in the back of the 5th arondissement.
Sorry - the conceit was always better than the food, and since it has passed out of Alex Roux's hands, the French connection is limited to the decor and the menu.
Across the road, Tabou offers similar bistro dishes from a consciously better kitchen and an altogether better experience.
In Parnell, Jean-Christophe and Simone Varnier lay a decent table and respect the terroir with their wines at St Tropez. Some French acquaintances talk of a Southern Hemisphere pastiche rather than a genuine taste of l'Hexagone, possibly due to his New Caledonian origins.
For fun - yes, the French do fun, you only have to watch 'Allo'Allo to grasp their unique sense of humour - Pastis. I talked about this with a Parisienne friend. She understands why we Kiwis love the place: it looks like all the bistros we dreamed about before we went to Paris, like all the ones in the movies (okay ... Amelie), and we've known and possibly even eaten those dishes since we saw Julia Child or (for younger readers) the Food Channel.
When we got to Paris, we searched for it and might possibly have found somewhere close to it.
Mon amie laments that Pastis does not change its menu more often, that its waiters - charmant as their accents are - do not come from Paris. Have I mentioned that she is from Paris?
So, I'd head to New North Rd - odd to celebrate the birth of the republic in Kingsland - and lash into decent rouges and cuisine de la bonne femme at the best French bar-cafe in town, the all-black Winehot.
Or Monsieur Astle's glorious temple of haute cuisine at Antoine's. I told my friend about onion soup, navarin, blanquette. "The chef -'e is English." Well, he's not, he's tout Kiwi, and he's tres marvellous.
Actually, I'd make a day of it. Sadly I cannot get a true sandwich in the city, so I'll wander down to Elliott Stables and enjoy a pancake at Torchon, the latest venture from Alex Roux, who founded Bouchon and Pastis. Or perhaps the onion soup. Or boeuf bourguignon. Though I'm rather partial to the galette forestiere, with chicken, mushrooms, cream and white-wine sauce.
Over dinner I'll tell Jude about the 80-something lady off Boulevard St Germain who greeted, poured, cooked and served the best roast chicken in the tiniest restaurant in which I've ever eaten. Or the battered rougets for Sunday lunch at the dirty and unprepossessing Bar des Marins in Marseilles. And the garlicky, roasted chanterelles, so meaty they might have been chicken breast, under an umbrella in Mende. (Pub quiz question: what is the smallest capital of a department in mainland France?)
Let them eat cake. I'll have the entrecote and the magret and the fromage and the cassoulet and the ...
