If you’ve seen Midnight in Paris, you know all about Woody Allen’s ode to a particularly American brand of nostalgia for a certain kind of Paris you’ll never see. But if there were somewhere to see it… it would undoubtedly be Chez Denise. This resolutely old-school bistro is raucous and convivial and dyed-in-the-wool. It’s a place where the landline still rings, and they still take your coat; where you can be turned away if the maitre d’ doesn’t like the cut of your gib and Tuesday is tête de veau day. It’s a place where you can still chat to your neighbors… and even share their dessert.
My first visit took place on a frigid Monday night. I walked into the bistro, encountering a long bar lining an entrance corridor leading to the boisterous dining room at the back. I’ll admit I was disappointed, at first, to be seated, instead, at a high table towards the front of the restaurant, far from the fracas. But it turned out that destiny had given us the best seats in the house.
There was already bread on the table: a perfectly fine rye with massive saucers of butter alongside full mustard jars, ready to add some piquancy to the heavy food that was to come. We shook out our red-checked cloth napkins and began catching up, barely noticing the two men who took seats at the other end of our generous table. That they were regulars soon became clear: After 15 minutes, we had yet to even be asked what we’d like to drink, but they had already begun sipping on the house special cardinal, a version of kir made with red wine, alongside a plateful of terrine. They ordered without even looking at the menu: beef rib for two with marrow and fries (79).
We, meanwhile, deliberated over the chalkboard menu of hearty specialties. (We were also given a laminated English menu, which offered the not-no translations of dishes like “roast chicken from the farm” and “guts cooked with Calvados.”)
This is definitely a place for carnivores, and luckily, I had chosen the right dining companion. We debated the benefits of calf’s liver (28) or grilled andouillette (24) and hesitated between lamb’s brain marinière (25) and the aforementioned “guts” (aka tripe [25]) before ultimately zeroing in on the latter as well as the house specialty, haricot de mouton (26). Our waiter counseled us to skip the terrine (15) to let the copious mains do all the talking, acquiescing to our request to begin, at least, with a salad (12).
When the waiter had whisked our menus away, our table neighbor informed us that our choices made us “level four” orderers; if we’d ordered the brain, he added, we’d have been “level five.” His gregarious smile and open manner – and the fact that we were stuck with him – made it easy to lean into the conversation, and he quickly informed us that we were being observed. As two relatively slim, young, English-speaking women, we had been targeted as tourists, and everyone, he said, was assuming we’d be ordering the dishes that had joined the menu when the restaurant changed hands in 2019: roast chicken or duck confit. That we’d ordered time-tested stalwarts of the menu since the spot opened in 1966 endeared him to us, perhaps, for he introduced himself as Pierre and spent most of his dinner sharing the way this bistro works, starting with its history.
Les Halles, he explained to us, was once the market district of Paris, and boisterous bistros like this were once the canteens of the Forts des Halles, the strong men who would unload the truckloads of food coming in from the countryside for sale. (My dining companion almost blew my cover as a culinary journalist, food tour guide, professor, and general French food history nerd. I think I kicked her under the table.) He revealed some more pieces of the neighborhood’s history that I didn’t know: that this, for example, was the beef sector of the market, which is why the menu here is dominated by veal, beef, and tripe. (My Les Halles tour takes place in the former oyster sector, now known predominantly for exquisite pastries.)
While the bistro was indeed sold seven years ago, Pierre continued, little has changed, save slightly scaled-down portions and the aforementioned “tourist” dishes joining the menu. Our waiter, for example, had been on the floor for 28 years.
They had not yet finished their terrine before our salad arrived, though not with the menu’s promised bacon. (Frankly, I didn’t mind, given the copious meat-driven dishes that awaited us.) That the eggs were a bit overcooked was more of a shame, but those crunchy croutons were a lovely touch.
It paled in comparison to the mains, which arrived in an earthenware bowl and a copper pan, each of which was big enough to serve a family of six.
The tripe was lovely, gelatinous and rich and studded with bits of cabbage and carrot and precisely two potatoes. The cider lent it a welcome hint of acidity to balance out all that richness. I wish only that the branded plates were slightly more bowl-like shape – and that I’d been given my own spoon so that I could have drunk a bit more of the rich broth.
The lamb, however, is justifiably this menu’s star. Chunks of slow-cooked lamb and big white beans swim in a rich, tomatoey sauce that’s topped with breadcrumbs for a bit of a crust. It’s got slight cassoulet vibes but is very much its own thing.
We made a valiant effort, but by the time we were full, we’d barely made a dent in each. Apparently, you can bring leftovers home, and perhaps we would have had it not been for Pierre who, I believe, would have had something to say about such a newfangled norm.
Desserts are classic and homey, not given on a menu but recited: chocolate mousse, raspberry charlotte (yes, even in November), crème brulée. Apparently they sometimes have a millefeuille. Our neighbors ordered the baba au rhum, which is light and very yeasted, creating even more caverns to soak with rum. It’s scattered with raisins and dressed with pillows of cloud-like whipped cream. They offered us a taste, and while it was delicious, one was enough to ensure I didn’t walk home sideways.
Chez Denise is a bistro à part, something that feels resolutely of another age. Like Le Quincy, it seems to me to be the last bastion of the true old-guard bistros, and I hope it never disappears.
Chez Denise – 5 Rue des Prouvaires, 75001