Bistrot Paul Bert

There are restaurants you visit and restaurants you return to. Bistrot Paul Bert is, after one quiet Sunday in Paris, very much the second kind.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: eleventh, zinc bar, regulars and tourists in equal share. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with bone marrow with a small salad of capers and parsley, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered Rioja gran reserva, decanted at the table, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: pavé de boeuf, the dish that puts Bistrot Paul Bert on every short list. There was a thumb of butter melting into the cross-hatch, and a single sprig of thyme on top, and not one thing more. The signature touch — Paris-Brest after, always — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for creamed spinach so rich it should embarrass us and hash browns the size of a hubcap. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was tiramisu, just barely too much, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I paid the bill, walked out into the Paris evening, and put the address back into the notebook with a star next to it.