Pétrelle

Paris holds its secrets dear, celebrating its best behind private clubs and through word-of-mouth. Velvet curtains are common – as to keep the light – and prying eyes away from its storefronts. An empty street or blacked out window often hosts the liveliest guests – those who know are welcome, but most do not even know to ask.

For 18 years Pétrelle has been hidden in plain sight. Making no illusions to shield itself from whatever fanfare that may come its way, it simply takes its name from its street, a short narrow route between Pigalle and Gare du Nord in the 9th arrondissement. With a reservation secured, you find yourself greeted by a still life of vegetables, to suggest the best of the day’s markets: bulbs of blood red beets, piles of spinach and greens. Pétrelle is a bohemian den, brimming with French style with baroque undertones, but in the hodgepodge messy chic of an elegant grandmother that has gone eccentric. Mismatched everything – chairs, tables, wallpaper – with two cats holding court among the flea market finds, puzzles and coffee table books, it would all seem chaotic if it weren’t detailed with such quirky charm. A passionately handwritten menu highlights the day’s suggestions: homestyle French, farm-fresh, generous, buttery and comforting, straight out of the open kitchen. The wine list is all from auction, buried with expensive treasures and some well-priced finds. Just when you least expect it – a bowl of meringues appears in front of you, all you can eat, but you still order a sinful rich dessert after since everything has been delicious so far – it does not disappoint.

One chef, one waiter, one nightly seating, tiny Pétrelle is dearly exclusive. French Presidents bring their mistresses here, burlesque star Dita von Teese might be seated at the table next to you – the French elite and celebrity use it as their go-to haunt when they want a very intimate meal. Go to celebrate a special occasion.