Paris. Le Marais, Enthralled me, Captivated me, Fed Me and Brought Me To A Gastronomical Nirvana.

As the last sounds of the Parisian night faded, I knew that this was not a goodbye, but a promise of another rendezvous

Paris, the city of love, the city of art and of course, the city of food. On this wet, chilly, fall evening I wandered the bustling Parisian streets taking in the sights, the sounds, the aromas and the flavors of this remarkable and unforgettable city. Paris, with its moving, vibrant crowds of people, its cafes casting streams of light along the sidewalks, and the smells of a city with a plethora of culinary choices all tempting my taste buds at every turn. I wandered through the labyrinthine streets of Le Marais enjoying the sun’s departure as it began to dip languidly below the horizon, painting the Parisian sky with hues of gold and crimson. This was a neighborhood that has defied the grand boulevards and geometric precision that typified Baron Haussmann's Paris. Clinging fiercely to its medieval roots, its narrow, winding streets whispering tales of the not-to-distant past — of nobles and paupers, revolutionaries and artisans, and writers and artists. This is a place where every cobblestone under your feet felt like a piece of history, as every step pulsed vibrantly with the beat of the modern city.

The golden light of the setting sun ricocheted off the elegant façades, illuminating the worn-out stone and the charmingly weathered wooden shutters. It caught in the glass windows of the patisseries, where a cornucopia of pastries, delicate and decadent, sat waiting for the right passerby to stop, smell, step in and indulge. The aroma of fresh bread, the sweet scent of caramelized pastries, and the earthy fragrance of seasoned meat and cheese from the local charcuteries drifted out onto the street, searching for victims and seduced everyone. It was as if the neighborhood itself was whispering recipes, quietly inviting weary locals and tourists to stop, savor, taste, and lose themselves in the flavors and history of the city.

There was an undeniable energy that is Le Marais, a certain joie de vivre that fills the air around you no matter where you stepped. I strolled past fashionable boutiques and quirky art galleries enjoying the neighborhood's diverse populace coming to life. It was like reading a living book, a cliche come-to-life and wrapping itself through the streets around me. Young lovers stealing kisses in hidden courtyards, old men playing boules in the park, chic Parisians stealing moments of the evening and savoring a glass of wine outside a trendy café, immigrants haggling in the vibrant Jewish Quarter — all coexisting in a harmonious ballet of everyday life that painted a portrait of life in Paris on any given day.

Walking through these old, winding, stone covered streets felt like I was strolling through a living museum. The old-world architecture and quaint boutiques gave the area a charm that made it difficult to not stare at every angle, impossible to resist every artful nuance. The narrow alleys were lined with restaurants, artisanal cheese shops and bakeries that exuded tantalizing aromas of fresh cooked meat, aged cheeses, fresh baked croissants and baguettes. I walked along the narrow sidewalks feeling the rich history of the neighborhood seeping through the cobblestones under my feet with every step, every connection. As I passed by each of these age-old establishments, I felt a deep sense of belonging in this city of love and light. It was like being part of a timeless story that had been unfolding for centuries and winding secrets through alleys that are hidden, lying in wait to be discovered, and experienced.

I zipped up my jacket capturing a semblance of warmth around my shoulders and pushed my hands deeper into my shallow pockets, balling my fists. The sun descended further behind the rising buildings taking its warmth with it as the streets began to glow under the soft light of the antique lampposts which stood vigilant both day and night. The lively chatter from a nearby bistro carried over cobblestones and bounced between the stone walls of the alleys catching my attention. It was a symphony of clinking glasses, cutlery and laughter, conversations in French that were all as relaxed as the evening’s dinner, the quintessential soundtrack of a typical Parisian evening — indulged, enjoyed and completely removed from the burden of time.

I made my way through the snaking back alleys and side streets dodging crowds and compact French automobiles, my feet carving a staccato path through the city. My destination this evening — a small bistro hidden away in a charming cobblestone alley; Robert et Louise. I approached the entrance, the ancient wooden door creaking open, as I was instantly greeted by the intoxicating aroma of sizzling meats and the warm glow of the open hearth. This was a place where time stood still. Where the art of rustic French cooking was revered and worshiped like a religion. I stepped inside and was transported back in time. It was like entering a different era, where the hustle and bustle of modern life just instantly faded away, melting from view. The restaurant was discerningly old school and was a place that you would rarely discover in this amazing city. The atmosphere was intimate and cozy with soft light illuminating the charming rustic decor. The hostess, a tall French woman with long brown hair and a gorgeous smile, greeted me, nodded towards a direction inside and guided me through the intimate, dimly lit dining room to my seat near the crackling fire. I shrugged off my coat, feeling the weight of the day lifting instantly from my shoulders, and sunk into the sturdy wooden chair. The ambiance was a symphony of clinking glasses, hushed conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter, all harmonizing with the comforting sounds of the busy kitchen. I took a long, deep pause, letting the rich, smoky scent fill me completely, envelop me and allowed myself to fully relax.

The menu was written as a classic ode to the art of French cooking and skillful cuisine, featuring traditional French dishes made with locally sourced ingredients. Reading through the full list was like indulging in a racy European smut novel. My trembling fingers gripped the edges of the menu tightly as my mouth was already beginning to water at the sight of the descriptions splayed out on the page spread-eagle. Bare, heaving, sautéed vegetables pressed tightly against caramelized, sizzling meats, slathered in dripping, rich, decadent sauces and soft, wet French country butter. I glanced around the room for a moment, feeling the heat rising on my neck that very quickly creeped into my cheeks. A couple sitting across from me caught my stare and echoed my sentiment as they sat next to one another practically gushing over the intoxicating menu. This experience was promising to be completely decadent, intoxicatingly indulgent, savory, and culturally immersing. My server smiled at me, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking. Her tolerance was both desired and deeply appreciated because my French was embarrassingly deplorable. However, between her patience and my stumbling and butchering of the French language, I was able to place my order without too much embarrassment.

For my appetizer, I selected a plate of snails coated in garlicky butter and herbs that were served with crusty bread to soak up the rich, delicious sauce. Picture this if you will — you're sitting in a dimly lit bistro in the heart of Paris, a plate of glistening snails bathed in an obscene amount of garlic butter are placed before you. The aroma alone was enough to make my mouth water and my arteries nervously quiver in anticipation of being injected with such indulgent richness. If you thought that this was the only thing I was hungry for, dear reader, please pause for a moment, there's more. For this evening’s wine selection, I give you the 2016 Brane-Cantenac Margaux, a wine so goddamn good it made me question my life choices up to this point. This was a full-bodied, deep, red wine from the Bordeaux region. Its complex flavors danced on my palate with notes of blackberry, tobacco and leather all swirling together in perfect harmony. It was a Margaux fit for wine connoisseurs and aficionados alike, or at least a curious traveler seeking the ultimate vinicultural sensory experience. The oaky tannins hung in the air and complimented the wood burning stove perfectly. There was a hint of smokiness and savory spice lingering around my nostrils as I took small sips, slowly savoring this decadent vintage.

Turning my attention to my appetizer, I gently popped a snail into my mouth, the rich, earthy flavors exploded on my tongue, mingling with the buttery garlic in a dance of hedonistic pleasure that was a perfect crescendo to the evening’s indulgence. And just when I thought that it couldn’t possibly get any better, I reached for that crusty, rustic French bread that was just sitting in front of me, begging to be paired - a golden masterpiece of crispy exterior and pillowy interior. I tore off a jagged chunk, ripping the loaf haphazardly with no distinct direction, pulling it apart in a murderous tug. And like a barbarian from an uncultured and uncivilized age, I dragged the torn bread through the pool of garlic-infused butter left behind by the escargot. The bread soaked up the thick liquid gold like a starving sponge. As I slowly bite down, gently easing my teeth into the moist inner fluffy flesh and followed it up with a sip of the Margaux, I realized that this, my friends, was what life is all about. It was messy, it was indulgent, and it was simply fucking gorgeous.

For my main course I chose the ribeye steak, a dish was a thing of pure indulgence. Cooked to a perfect medium-rare over a wood fire, the juicy, tender meat was paired with a side of goose-fat seared potatoes and vegetables seasoned to utter perfection. This was the dish that lured me in from the stone covered streets outside. The dish that captured my attention the moment I strolled inside Robert et Louise. The dish I couldn’t wait to tuck into. Without any hesitation, but, waiting for my servers hands to clear the general vicinity as she gently lowered the plate in front of me, I plunged my knife into the perfectly seared crust of the ribeye. I could feel the resistance of the meat giving way, revealing the juicy and succulent interior beneath, as the steak pealed back, giving in and letting the knife push deep inside. It felt like I was cutting through a stick of soft French butter, my knife simply melted into the flesh. The aroma of charred beef and buttery decadence wafted up as I dug into my meal, tantalizing my senses and reminding me what a different experience it was cooking meat like this over an open wood fire. The textures, the flavors and all of the intoxicating aromas came together to create a moment of perfection. This ribeye was the epitome of hearty, comforting food and the Margaux complemented every bite perfectly adding depth and complexity, its smooth tannins and dark fruit notes cutting through the fatty richness of the steak, and coating the duck fat potatoes in a melange of sweetness and salty reverence.

While I tended to shy away from sweets and general desserts, I have to admit that I did get mildly coerced into finishing my meal with an order the cheese plate - a carefully crafted selection of creamy Bleu, Saint Nectaire, and Brie de Meaux. My server hand delivered the dessert menu and instantly saw my reluctance to look at it. She smiled with determination and expertly pointed at the couple sitting next to me. That same couple that co-conspired with me in the review of the decadent menu; which we deemed “inappropriate” for the underaged, were leaning into one another, carving into their own plate of cheeses. Wrapped in a vacuum of ecstasy, they savored the soft French cheeses, smearing them across their lips as they fully indulged in their selections. I raised my eyebrows, pressing my finger to my pursed lips and nodded like a 10 year old boy to my waitress, smiling broadly, letting her know that I would also love to experience a similar lactose orgasm.

Each of the cheeses that she selected for me paired beautifully with the Margaux allowing me to fully immerse myself in the experience, the interplay of different flavors and textures, and the indulgence that came with each, long, sensual bite. The creamy Bleu cheese with its deep canyons of blue veins were like a map of flavor leading my taste buds on a journey of salty, tangy, musky goodness. Paired with the Margaux, the Bleu was transformed into a sophisticated indulgence of cream and savory textures that lingered on my tongue and refused to give this wine any dominance. The semi-soft Saint Nectaire cheese from the Auvergne region of France was a revelation of craftsmanship and French mastery. The Saint Nectaire had an earthy aroma and nutty, buttery flavor was the perfect complement to the Margaux's subtle notes of blackcurrant and leather. There were small nuances. Tiny flavors, that at first bite seemed independent, suddenly came together as if they made a silent pact across my tongue in a moment of pure alchemy. However, it was the Brie de Meaux that was the show stopper of the entire trifecta. This soft creamy cheese, named aptly as it originated from the town of Meaux in the Brie region of France, was like nothing I'd ever tasted before. It paired expertly with this Margaux as the combination of flavors was so perfect, it was almost a transcendental experience. The rich velvety texture of the Brie melded with the Margaux's complex layers creating flavors that were simply a match made in gastronomical heaven. I closed my eyes for the briefest of moments, and when I opened them, time had simply stopped.

I sat back in my chair savoring the last bite of the Brie de Meaux and slowly sipped the final glass of the Margaux as I admired the empty wine bottle. I felt incredibly grateful for the chance to discover this hidden gem in the heart of Paris and Le Marais. This meal was truly a celebration of the best of French cuisine, the Parisian culinary art and the experience of dining. It was a triumph of the French kitchen, where locals became masters as they honed their craft creating dishes that bordered on real life magic. Ingredients and combinations that no other chef ever thought possible were a reality here. Here, in this little bistro, the laws of physics seemed to be irrelevant. Science seemed not to matter. The chef was the witch and the warlock, using the art of the creative mind to express pure genius on the plate and making the impossible, possible.

I paid for my meal and thanked my server profusely. I stepped out of the cozy little bistro and into the chilly Parisian night. I could still taste the remnants of the rich, savory cheeses that graced my plate just moments ago. My stomach may have been full but my senses were still buzzing with excitement from my unforgettable dining experience. I strolled leisurely back to my hotel, hands in my pockets, my warm breath leaving a trail of vapor behind me. I took in the breathtaking view that unfolded around me as I marveled at the stunning Parisian night that danced overhead. The winding streets of Le Marais typically bustling and alive with locals and tourists were quiet and peaceful in the late hours of the evening. I made my way back to my hotel still taking the time to fully appreciate the sights and sounds of the city around me, the glow of the streetlights casting a romantic aura over everything in sight. It's experiencing quiet moments like these in a city that never seemed to truly sleep was what made me fall in love with Paris time and time again. The magic of the city somehow even more potent after a meal as memorable as the one that I just experienced.

Walking through the empty streets, I found the neighborhood bathed in the soft glow of twilight. It was as though Van Gogh himself was straddling the rooftops, painting the night sky as I moved with an explosion of light, starlight, moonlight and night clouds that all swirled chaotically above me. The nocturnal side of Le Marais was awakening, the bars and clubs filling up with the night's patrons. But amongst the revelry and the carousing, there was a tranquility, a calmness that only a late night in Paris could bring. The echoes of the day's hustle and bustle seemed to grow silent, and Le Marais stood still, wrapped in a veil of serenity. As I walked back, the cobblestone streets gleaming under the moonlight. Le Marais, with its old-world charm and modern chic, with its rich history and vibrant present, had enthralled me, had captivated me, had fed me and brought me to a gastronomical nirvana. It was a neighborhood that wore its heart on its sleeve, unapologetically Parisian, and yet, so incredibly universal. I made my way upstairs to my rented flat, closing the heavy, centuries-old door to the street behind me. And as the last sounds of the Parisian night faded, I knew that this was not a goodbye, but a promise of another rendezvous.