L'Ami Louis

Some rooms tell you exactly what to order the moment you sit down. L'Ami Louis, in Paris, is one of them.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: soot-darkened bistro Mitterrand loved. 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 single chuleta of cured pork to set the mood, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a glass of port to finish, and then another, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: côte de boeuf, the dish that puts L'Ami Louis 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 — the foie gras the size of a phone book — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for buttered haricots verts and grilled radicchio with anchovy butter. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was vanilla ice cream with a shot of espresso poured over, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

Some places earn their reputation. L'Ami Louis earns it twice over.