Bistrot Paul Bert

It rained the whole afternoon I spent at Bistrot Paul Bert, and I cannot now imagine eating there in any other weather.

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 a tomato salad heavy with red onion and oregano, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a quiet Brunello from the back of the list, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: pavé de boeuf, the dish that puts Bistrot Paul Bert on every short list. Cut through it and you found that deep, beefy, almost iron-tasting interior that only comes from time and dry air. The signature touch — Paris-Brest after, always — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for hash browns the size of a hubcap and pommes Anna. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was a wedge of chocolate cake to share, fork divided, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

I will be back. With company, next time, and a longer reservation.