Nights – and wines – to remember in Paris

Some friends claim to be making marks on the wall to count the days until liberation. Ah, the forgotten delights of restaurants and foreign travel. In one long nostalgic phone call, we kept present discontents at bay by discussing Paris. Although I have partaken of three-rosette meals in the capital of gastronomy and was never disappointed, a different experience came to mind. This restaurant has never received Michelin’s highest accolade, not that it would care. It believes itself entitled to at least four rosettes.

Its name is Chez l’Ami Louis, in the Troisième, not far from the Marais. I was introduced to it by Rémy and Mathilde, a couple who knew their Paris. The husband could explain every nuance in Proust and the wife was not far behind. At a glance, they would vet a new acquaintance’s claim to social standing, delicately and ruthlessly. Only in a republic could snobbery become such an art form.

The Ami Louis clientele looked grand enough to me. This was in the early 1980s and old Antoine Magnin was still in charge; he had won the Légion d’Honneur for his chicken. Several of his male customers were sporting their boutonnières. As for the ladies, haute couture danced a gavotte with haute cuisine. But the high style was sometimes deceptive. ‘See that girl,’ Rémy said, discreetly pointing to the most elegant female in the room. ‘Shot her first husband. The lawyer who got her off promptly doubled his fees — and what do you make of her?’ He had picked out a splendidly self-assured creature, who looked like a walking definition of refinement. ‘Madame Claude’s favourite girl until that Marquis took her home.’ Her fellow diner looked much less distinguished. (The Madame in question presided over the haut monde’s favourite bordello.)

‘I daren’t let Rémy come here on his own,’ proclaimed Mathilde.