A plain room that keeps no secrets.
No cloth, no script.
Raw oak, bare plaster, low light, and a kitchen open to the room.
Buy well, waste little, season with restraint. The growers do the difficult part long before the produce reaches us, so the kitchen learns when to stop.
We pour wine made by hand, from growers who farm without correction, and we cook around it instead of over it. What lands on the table is short, seasonal and quietly sure of itself. Nothing here is meant to impress you. It is meant to feel like the best meal a friend with very good taste might cook, if that friend happened to run a bistro in Paris.
The same street, the same hours, the same plain idea.
Buy well
We pay growers and fishers fairly and take what is ready, not what is asked for. Good produce is most of the cooking.
Waste little
Trim becomes stock, glut becomes ferment, and the day's offcuts feed the staff meal. Very little leaves by the back door.
Stay plain
No cloth, no flourish, no script. The room is honest and the service is warm without ever performing.
Camille Aubrac cooks the way she shops, plainly and with conviction.
She trained in two stiff dining rooms before walking out to open a place with no white cloth and no tasting script. She reads the market first and writes the menu after. Her cooking leans on ferment, ash and good fat, and on knowing exactly when a dish is finished. She believes a kitchen should leave room for the wine and for the room itself.
Camille Aubrac
Chef and ownerA slow line, from twelve tables to a full book.
The room opens on a quiet street in the eleventh, with twelve tables and no printed menu.
The cellar turns fully to natural wine, poured almost entirely by the glass.
A small ferment room is built behind the pass to carry the kitchen through winter.
Still the same room, the same hours, and a book that fills the moment it opens.
The few who keep the room.
Lucien Brassart
Cellar and floorNoor El Amrani
Head of the passPull up a chair. We will pour something alive.