An eighteenth century French social critic with the splendid name of Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de La Brède et de Montesquieu, said this about eating in Paris: “Lunch kills half of Paris, and supper kills the other half.” There is a bit of exaggeration in this statement, but only a bit. Three hundred years after Montesquieu the traditional French meal is still a digestive challenge.

The French have an international reputation for fine food, just as the British are known far and wide for the awfulness of theirs. These stereotypes are not quite as reliable as they used to be. You can eat badly in France, and superbly in Britain. But the French have traditionally cared a great deal about food, while the British have taken pride in their simple meat-and-potatoes diet, which is why the French call them Les Rosbifs. A visit to any French local market compared to its British equivalent will make the point better than any number of words, and only in France will you find a newspaper strip cartoon starring a goat cheese with a supporting cast of chestnuts. Honestly, I’m not making this up!

Good food eaten at a leisurely pace is an aspect of French life that is under threat from the modern mania for speed. Traditional French restaurants saw their business go down 15% last year even before the economic crash. Diners in a hurry are cutting down on the sacred menu, which traditionally has four or five courses. They are sharing plates, leaving out aperitifs and wine, and generally acting like apprentice Puritans. President Sarkozy is partly responsible for this, with his campaign against long lunch hours and his apparent ambition to make leisurely France into hyperactive America.

In restaurant kitchens, it is reported by those who know that culinary standards are slipping too. Chefs are under pressure to cut corners, and even the prestige of the chef is declining. Fast food has made its awful mark, seducing especially the young. In Place de la République, close to our apartment, the great central statue that symbolizes French liberty, gazes out directly at McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Buffalo Grill, with the Holiday Inn just behind her flowing skirts. There seems to be no doubt about who’s winning this culture war.

But, as the travel writers like to say, there are still secret gems to be found among the thirteen thousand restaurants of Paris. They don’t stay secret for long, or gems for that matter once their names have been published. Our “discovery” was a tiny bistro located in a dark back street and consisting of just ten plain wood tables inside a wine store with a traditional not-quite-vegetarian menu of things like tripe, pig’s cheek and blood sausage. The young proprietor chose our inexpensive wine and described it with great ceremony. There were posters with clever French puns, which it took us a while to figure out. The place was packed with boisterous young people, wearing scarves and coats against the chill of the room. We were the oldest people in the place by a margin of thirty or forty years. So all is not lost. Young people in France still love traditional food when they can find it. I would tell you the name and address of our undiscovered local bistro, but if anyone else “discovers” it, there won’t be room for us.

In Paris, this is David Bouchier

An eighteenth century French social critic with the splendid name of Charles-Louis de Secondat, baron de La Brède et de Montesquieu, said this about eating in Paris: “Lunch kills half of Paris, and supper kills the other half.” There is a bit of exaggeration in this statement, but only a bit. Three hundred years after Montesquieu the traditional French meal is still a digestive challenge.

The French have an international reputation for fine food, just as the British are known far and wide for the awfulness of theirs. These stereotypes are not quite as reliable as they used to be. You can eat badly in France, and superbly in Britain. But the French have traditionally cared a great deal about food, while the British have taken pride in their simple meat-and-potatoes diet, which is why the French call them Les Rosbifs. A visit to any French local market compared to its British equivalent will make the point better than any number of words, and only in France will you find a newspaper strip cartoon starring a goat cheese with a supporting cast of chestnuts. Honestly, I’m not making this up!

Good food eaten at a leisurely pace is an aspect of French life that is under threat from the modern mania for speed. Traditional French restaurants saw their business go down 15% last year even before the economic crash. Diners in a hurry are cutting down on the sacred menu, which traditionally has four or five courses. They are sharing plates, leaving out aperitifs and wine, and generally acting like apprentice Puritans. President Sarkozy is partly responsible for this, with his campaign against long lunch hours and his apparent ambition to make leisurely France into hyperactive America.

In restaurant kitchens, it is reported by those who know that culinary standards are slipping too. Chefs are under pressure to cut corners, and even the prestige of the chef is declining. Fast food has made its awful mark, seducing especially the young. In Place de la République, close to our apartment, the great central statue that symbolizes French liberty, gazes out directly at McDonald’s, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Buffalo Grill, with the Holiday Inn just behind her flowing skirts. There seems to be no doubt about who’s winning this culture war.

But, as the travel writers like to say, there are still secret gems to be found among the thirteen thousand restaurants of Paris. They don’t stay secret for long, or gems for that matter once their names have been published. Our “discovery” was a tiny bistro located in a dark back street and consisting of just ten plain wood tables inside a wine store with a traditional not-quite-vegetarian menu of things like tripe, pig’s cheek and blood sausage. The young proprietor chose our inexpensive wine and described it with great ceremony. There were posters with clever French puns, which it took us a while to figure out. The place was packed with boisterous young people, wearing scarves and coats against the chill of the room. We were the oldest people in the place by a margin of thirty or forty years. So all is not lost. Young people in France still love traditional food when they can find it. I would tell you the name and address of our undiscovered local bistro, but if anyone else “discovers” it, there won’t be room for us.

In Paris, this is David Bouchier