There’s a reason why Chez Georges is often appended by the phrase “rue du Mail.” Paris is home to no shortage of establishments bearing the same name, but those in the know know that this one in the 2nd arrondissement, which has been serving up bistro staples since 1964, is the Chez Georges on record. And I’ve finally confirmed for myself just why this bistro is so storied.
Stepping into Chez Georges is a bit like stepping back in time. (I’m sorry to rely on such a cliché, but in this case, nothing feels more true.) Service is genial in that oh-so-French way: There’s a lot of flirting, a lot of repartee. The maitre’d is chatty; the waitresses are diligent and quick-footed. There’s a bit of surliness – I witnessed one family with small kids in tow enter and be told in no uncertain terms that they were in the wrong place, no apology, à la française – but there’s also the self-assured professionalism I love so much about these old-school joints.
The menu is worthy of framing, written out in the sort of French handwriting that used to be ubiquitous. (It also reveals the one thing that has kept up with the times at Chez Georges… the prices.)
Luckily, a meal here is worth every sou.
Three starters graced our tiny table, appended with side plates our waitress offered without even having been asked. (It might seem like no big thing, but sharing is not necessarily all that common in French restaurants, and I loved that touch of customer service.) Escargots were exactly as they should be: Giant and garlicky and rich, with a basket full of excellent baguette de tradition for soaking up all that sauce.
Egg-mayo, too, was exactly as it should be, the organic eggs cooked until their yolks were just set but still jammy.
My favorite of the appetizers was, however, this monumental frisée with lardons and a poached egg, perfect for sharing. The lardons were rich and crisp, the salad perfectly dressed, and the egg runny. Who could ask for more?
Mains continued much in the same vein. Veal sweetbreads came in a rich, creamy sauce piled with morel mushrooms. No sauce was wasted, thanks to a consequential mound of fries.
Golden frites were the side of choice for the veal liver too, which was perfectly cooked to a rosy medium-rare.
(Forgive the lower quality aerial shot, but this was a real thing of beauty.)
Come dessert time, the siren song of a baba was impossible to resist. I’ve never been a rum fan, but a rum baba is another story, and this one may well knock Astier’s out of first place, with its beautiful texture combining fluffiness and a filandrous texture that pulls like the best babka.
Drizzled generously with rum – and topped generously with cream – it was the winner of the two desserts we ordered.
This isn’t to say that there was anything wrong with the chestnut purée. But the combo of a year’s ration of chestnut cream and double cream proved a nearly-too-rich finale to what had already been a consequential meal.
What else is there to say? Chez Georges, I adore you. I’ll be back for your sole meunière, your turbot, your tarte tatin. And for your old school vibe that warms the heart on frigid Parisian winter nights.
Chez Georges – 1, rue du Mail, 75002