The 10 places in Paris we will visit over and over again
From bookshops to hidden bars and legendary brasseries, these are our favourite haunts in the French capital. What are yours?
From bookshops to hidden bars and legendary brasseries, these are our favourite haunts that we long to return to in the French capital. What are yours?
Ile Saint-Louis
Christine Mccabe
The winter’s day was gloomy, even drab, when I first stepped foot on Ile Saint-Louis, crossing a swollen Seine so lost in the gloaming it was barely an Impressionist’s smudge. Yet still I was enchanted. The island has always seemed to me a village apart, at arm’s length from the hustle and bustle of the Latin Quarter, the charming early 17th century architecture mostly untouched by Haussmann. The little island’s handful of streets are lined with just enough fromageries, boulangeries, bistros and a well-stocked wine cave to sustain a very stylish Crusoe existence.
We always stay in a tiny pied-a-terre tucked into the hulking top floor oak beams of a creaking townhouse on Quai de Bourbon. There are many groaning stairs (no lift) with windows opening onto the river near the Pont Marie, one of four bridges connecting the island to both banks. Another links to the larger Ile de la Cite and Notre-Dame.
Ile Saint-Louis has been a highly desirable residence since the 17th century. Before that it was used to dry laundry and host duels. After the Revolution many of the impressive mansions were divided into apartments, perfect for artists like Baudelaire and the sculptor Camille Claudel. Art found a new medium in the 1950s when Raymond Berthillon began making his world-famous ice cream; milk and cream delivered from Normandy every morning.
Even today queues can wind around the corner and almost off the island. Something I find a teeny bit annoying as it’s very easy to become highly proprietorial about this delightful village in a city.
Le Grand Vefour
Tony Perrottet
Paris is honeycombed with historic dining palaces, but Le Grand Vefour has a special place in the saga of gastronomy. After the 1789 Revolution, the colonnaded courtyard of the Palais Royale, a stone’s throw from the Louvre in central Paris, turned into a rowdy popular amusement complex where citizens descended on coffee houses, brothels and circus sideshows.
But the Palais also debuted democratic new institutions called restaurants, where diners could choose from an array of freshly cooked dishes listed on encyclopaedic menus that ran for dozens of pages.
Only one from that volatile time survives today, tucked like a jewellery box in the Palais’ quietest corner: Le Grand Vefour was founded in 1784 as the Cafe de Chartres (an old sign still bears the name), qualifying it as the oldest continuously operating kitchen in France. By the early 1800s, Napoleon and Josephine were meeting there on romantic liaisons, establishing its chic reputation. Jean Vefour bought the eatery in 1820 and cemented it as a Parisian favourite.
Every marquee-name cultural figure in coming years dined there, from Victor Hugo in the 19th century to Colette, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir in the 20th.
Le Grand Vefour has never changed its over-the-top romantic decor, so it remains one of the most alluring and theatrical visions of Old World Paris.
After easing into expansive booths of plush crimson, patrons are dazzled by sumptuous mirrors reflecting the glittering chandeliers and classical beauties painted on floor-to-ceiling gold-framed glass panels, each carrying panniers of fruit. A small army of tuxedoed waiters discreetly hovers. But despite the formal air, the boite casts one eye back to the glory days of the Revolution at lunch time: the fixed price meal is a modest 65 ($105). Vive la France!
Sainte-Chapelle
Katrina Lobley
A beau once told me the Sainte-Chapelle was the most beautiful building he’d ever seen. As we were in England, talk of this marvel soon led to plans for a weekend in Paris. It’s a giddy experience, strolling Paris’s streets with an amour (especially one who keeps you guessing on where things are at and I don’t mean the location of the chapel). You’re practically levitating above those cobblestones. Turns out even devils know their gothic masterpieces. The Ile de la Cite royal chapel, built in the 13th century by Louis IX to house precious religious relics, features 15 soaring stained-glass windows depicting an incredible 1113 scenes from the Old and New Testaments.
To stand there, trying to take in all that glorious beauty, is a study in overwhelm. It’s like diving into a bagful of glittering jewels. You’d think people would know better than to meddle with perfection.
Instead, the chapel’s history features plenty of heartbreak. There were fires in 1630 and 1776, a turn as a flour warehouse during the Revolution and in the 19th century it was used to store archives. The stained-glass windows, those astonishing, awe-inspiring masterpieces, were dismantled or destroyed, with some dispersed on the art market.
The public, along with celebrated French Romantic writer Victor Hugo, rallied to save the chapel from destruction. Between 1840 and 1863, it was painstakingly restored and, today, two-thirds of those windows are original. This is one love story that ends well.
Poilane
Kendall Hill
The most famous bakery in Paris does not serve baguettes. Poilane, which has stood on rue du Cherche-Midi in Saint-Germain-des-Pres since 1932, instead does a brisk trade in rustic sourdough loaves known as miches or pain de campagne, country bread. Each weighs almost 2kg and is branded with a copperplate P for Poilane, but also for pain. Dark and crusty outside, satisfyingly chewy and slightly tangy inside, the loaves can be purchased by the half, quarter or slice for more modest appetites.
On a grey Paris day there are few things more comforting than pushing open the Poilane door with its wheat-sheaf handle and inhaling the warm aroma of baking breads. Staff in oatmeal aprons ferry trays from wood-fired ovens below and arrange the produce – including delicacies such as apple tart and pain au chocolat – on window shelves to tempt passers-by. Behind the shopfront lies another room lined with paintings offered by struggling Left Bank artists in exchange for bread.
And, suspended from the ceiling, a working chandelier crafted from dough by the late Lionel Poilane for Salvador Dali, who wanted an entire suite of baked furniture for his room at Le Meurice (the chandelier is a replica of the original, replaced each year). The bakery is also famous for its “punitions” (punishments), small round shortbread prepared from butter, eggs, flour and sugar. Buy them by the bag or, if you’re lucky, staff will offer you one from the basket on the counter as you leave.
Jardin des Plantes
Louise Goldsbury
Paris provides plenty of peaceful parks for a breather, but some go beyond trees and flowers. Jardin des Plantes, the city’s oldest botanical garden, is home to four greenhouses, a tiny zoo and museums. Built in 1635 under the orders of King Louis XIII’s doctor to grow medicinal herbs, it was opened to the public after the French Revolution and developed into a wider cultural attraction. The 18th century National Museum of Natural History houses the Grande Galerie de I’Evolution with 7000 stuffed animals.
Revivre is its new experience, bringing extinct species back to life via 3D holograms. Wearing augmented-reality glasses, you can meet a full-size sabre-toothed tiger, dodo, elephant-bird and Tasmanian tiger. For real-life creatures in outdoor spaces and historic buildings, La Menagerie is the world’s second oldest zoo.
It participates in breeding and conservation programs for endangered species; among those reintroduced into the wild are the French little bustard, the Arabian oryx and Brazil’s golden marmoset. Smaller exhibits have more specific themes, such as the Gallery of Paleontology and Comparative Anatomy. More than 600 fossils from 500 million years ago include those of dinosaurs, ancient alligators and a whale. Next door, the Gallery of Mineralogy and Geology displays a huge collection of crystals and rare meteorites. The rest of the grounds are thriving with centuries-old trees, the rose garden’s 170 varieties and the Alpine Garden’s 2000 plants. On the Left Bank of the Seine, opposite Gare d’Austerlitz train station, it’s conveniently located for tourists.
Le Bon Marche
Susan Kurosawa
While shopping in the French capital typically involves couture and accessories, there are visitors, like me, who are just as fascinated by the packaging and promise of everyday items. And even better if such objects are comestible. Alors!
My first stop is always Le Bon Marche, the storied Left Bank department store on rue de Sevres. Ignoring wardrobe acquisitions and homewares from the upper levels, my quest is always to do with the pantry. In its La Grand Epicerie food hall, the groceries, food and veg and, especially, gorgeously packaged larder items, shine as reassuringly as any Dior or Chanel bauble.
Let’s tick premium Mariage Freres teas (go for yuzu-scented, or blends of rose and lavender, jasmine and mandarin) in stylish canisters, crystallised violet bonbons, boxes of Calissons d’Aix, Francois Pralus chocolate bars, salted butter caramels from the Brittany region, and soft nougat studded with Flanders almonds.
Such comestibles are not just for me, but intended as gifts. It’s as much about the packaging as the contents, from decorative bags of truffle crisps or Dijon mustard in cute little buckets to jars of La Trinquelinette chunky framboise confiture.
Spending or not, it’s a treat to trawl this cavernous pile, founded in 1838, and revamped in 1852 by Aristide Boucicaut, a fabric merchant who claimed this “cathedral of commerce” as the first modern department store. A second, smaller branch on rue de Passy in the 16th arrondissement features four offshoots of the mother store’s restaurants, including a Petrossian caviar bar and Spanish-style bodega.
La Palette
Nikki Wallman
About 10 years ago, I was pregnant with my first child after a long, gruelling time. I was the happiest I’d ever been, even before landing in Paris. My husband and I stayed in a flowery, heavy-beamed little hug of a hotel in Saint-Germain-des-Pres.
Our first morning, we happened upon La Palette: a quintessential brasserie perched under elegant emerald-and-cream awnings on the corner of rue Jacques-Callot and rue de Seine, its elbow-bumping terrace perfect for people-watching. It’s said to have been favoured by luminaries from Picasso to Hemingway; a proudly unpolished gem, all burnished mirrors and banged-up tables, crowded walls humming with history.
Forget what people say about haughty Parisian waiters, especially at institutions like this: our new friend made mornings a gentle joy. My first-time-pregnancy nerves about eating safely – which I’d feared Parisians would airily dismiss while foisting beef tartare upon me – were soothed when I tentatively asked for my fried eggs to be “kind of more cooked, please”. Monsieur’s brow furrowed. I braced for impact.
“You mean, uh, like, er, ze ‘flippy-flip’?” he replied, hands making a smooth back-and-forth motion in the air. “Oui, merci. Flippy-flip.”
He brought me perfectly cooked eggs; extra baguettes with lashings of butter; croissants and glossy cherry preserves, pulpy orange juice and coffee. We came back the next day, and the next. He remembered my “flippy-flip” order each time. I was even more alive to the beauty of Paris after these golden mornings; it felt personal, as though the city loved me as much as I had loved it over the years. We still recall our “flippy-flip” friend on lazy, fried-egg mornings back home, with the kids.
Pere-Lachaise Cemetery
Penny Hunter
For a wide-eyed 19-year-old on my first visit to Paris, in the late 1980s, the grave of Doors frontman Jim Morrison was high on my list of must-sees. My brother and I tracked him down in Pere-Lachaise Cemetery, giving short shrift – I’m ashamed to say – to the tombs of Chopin, Edith Piaf and Oscar Wilde. The final resting place of the Lizard King, whose voice had soundtracked our early university years, was covered in graffiti and booze, and topped by a bust that would later be stolen. For us, it was a place of sombre reverence. Thirty years on, I returned to Paris with my teenage children, who were keen to see the catacombs. The queue for entry was so long we headed instead to nearby Montparnasse cemetery. In the spring sunshine, we paused at the grave of singer Serge Gainsbourg, covered in everything from flowers and metro tickets to packets of condoms, and the shared plot of philosophy power couple.
Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. There were elaborate winged statues, imposing mausoleums, and trinkets left as proof of adoration. To wander through Paris’s cemeteries is to traverse the history of this wonderful city, and to feel the impact of the extraordinary people who have lived here. On my next trip to the city, I fancy strolling around Montmartre cemetery, where artist Edgar Degas, writer Alexandre Dumas, Michel Foucault, of pendulum fame, and actor Jeanne Moreau were laid to rest. As the late Jane Birkin sang to Serge: “Je t’aime.”
Bar Hemingway
Milanda Rout
The Ritz Paris is legendary and to walk through its red-carpeted entrance on Place Vendome into the lobby with its grand staircase and sumptuous interiors is almost enough. But if you keep going through the ornate salons, past the courtyard and through the winding wood-panelled gallery of shops, you will find the best bit of all: Bar Hemingway.
This tiny 25-seater venue is tucked at the back of the hotel on rue Cambon, opposite Chanel, where Coco was known to cross in the evenings to her suite a few floors up. But this bar was the realm of the legendary writer who based himself there in the 1920s.
It has since become known for more than its famous regulars; its cocktails are some of the world’s best thanks to barman Colin Field, who was at the helm for 30 years, and now Anne-Sophie Prestail. My friend and I somehow managed to fluke a table when we visited on a chilly spring night in 2019 and it did not disappoint (you cannot book). The oak-panelled room has green leather chairs and is full of books.
The intimacy of the space, the service and the thought of the conversations past (and witnessing those in the present) made it an unforgettable evening. Cocktails were not inexpensive but the bar snacks proved generous and so civilised; a three-tiered silver stand holding almonds, plump green olives and perfectly crisp potato chips was delivered by our white tuxedo-dressed waiter and refilled multiple times.
This meant that, although the cocktail cost the same as dinner, by the time we left we didn’t need anything else. History, dinner and a drink in one.
Shakespeare and Company
Christine McCabe
My first ever day in Paris, I made a beeline for Shakespeare and Company, the famous English-language bookshop, steps from the Seine opposite Notre-Dame. To find something to read so I might look pale and interesting while sipping coffee in Les Deux Magots. It’s still my first port of call.
The original store was at 12 rue de l’Odeon, run by American expat Sylvia Beach and haunt for Hemingway, Fitzgerald and all their Lost Generation mates.
This iteration, named in her memory, was opened in 1951 in a former 17th century monastery by another American, George Whitman. And it could not be more perfect. Mote-flecked air crackling with the energy of a million brilliant conversations, crowded bookcases, reading nooks, even little benches-cum-beds so visiting writers may sleep among the groaning shelves.
If you’re up for some serious browsing, arrive for opening as the summer crowds can be overwhelming. Early birds also get to nab an outdoor table at the tiny bookshop café for wonderful views across to Notre-Dame.
I always buy something instructional about Paris. Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast taught me to view art on an empty stomach.I once found a book on women flaneurs. Latest purchase, Gertrude Stein’s The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, is stuffed with highbrow gossip. Picasso’s muse Fernande Olivier, on preparing for a visit to Spain, bought a hat, dress and portable cooking stove. “All French women in those days when they went from one country to another took along a French oil stove to cook on,” explains Stein. I’ll settle for a book.
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