Atlantica - 01.10.2006, Page 41

pears and delicate spices inside. There is plenty of
cumin-flecked bread on the side to mop up extra
sauce. Colorfully painted dishes of couscous are
on the tables to my side, served with extra bowls
of chickpeas and harissa sauce.
My after-dinner mint tea is served in the gold
painted glasses, and my side-burned friend pours
it from the traditionally elevated position. “Don’t
forget to mention me in your story!” He winks at
me and dashes off.
The next day, I take a stroll along boulevard
Saint Marcel where people in fashionable suits dis-
cuss fashionable subjects on their mobile phones.
A dreadlocked backpacker overloaded with two
rucksacks and dirty clothes gazes down the bou-
levard in the direction of the Gare d’Austerlitz,
the heat of the mid-day July sun beating down
on her.
At a nearby café, a group of three ladies in
their 60s order tall glasses of sparkling kir royale
at 11.30am, cigarettes dangling from their mani-
cured fingers. Is this their defense against the
unrelenting summer heat, I wonder? I imagine
Monsieur Wally would tell them to try a pigeon
pastille and some mint tea instead. a
ing in the desert we will feed him and clothe him
and shelter him. We will even offer him a wife.”
He shrugs his shoulders in what is perhaps an
adopted Gallic mannerism. “But of course if that
does not seem to interest him, we could also offer
him a man – it happens, you know.”
WHERE PEOPLE WATCH PEOPLE
WATCH PEOPLE
Monsieur Wally’s traditional Saharan couscous
and unflinching menu are a contrast to another
stop on my culinary tour. Deep in the trendy
Marais district, identifiable only by a discreet
red flag outside the entrance, is the incredibly
atmospheric 404, billed by my Time Out Eating &
Drinking guide as a place to spot celebrities.
To get there, it’s a far walk along rue des
Gravilliers, past the multi-colored Vespas parked
on the sidewalk, past countless tall flats over-
looking the street with narrow wrought iron
balconies, and past Jean Claude Groussain’s patis-
serie (the one with the pains au chocolat in the
window).
Inside the darkened restaurant, the tables are
already filling up with patrons, even though, at
7pm, it’s still early to be heading out to dinner.
Fortunately I have made a reservation and am
seated extraordinarily quickly by a waiter with
very long sideburns. He presents the menu only
after I have I convinced him that I am indeed eat-
ing alone and not waiting for anyone to join me.
The 404 menu waxes lyrical on the romance
of North African cuisine, saying it is created in
the image of North Africans: “It is spicy and soft,
simultaneously co-existing, sugar and salt, spices
and honey... It warms and it refreshes. It can
enchant and delight, and even cure.”
Dining out in Paris feels more like a pastime
than a necessity. On this night, 404 has attracted
a dynamic crowd of young and old, couples and
friends, and several Japanese tourists. Nimble
waiters are bustling around like the young fellows
who are shaking ice for the restaurant’s signature
aperitif, the 404, their vodka-based twist on a
caipirinha.
The menu is crammed with Moroccan classics
– pastilla with pigeon, tabbouleh, various tagines,
and of course couscous. I start with crispy skinned
sardines stuffed with lemon, cumin, garlic and
coriander. For the next course, the waiter presents
my tagine and removes the cone shaped lid with a
great flourish, revealing the flaky chicken, slices of
SEVILLA a
Icelandair flies nine times a week to Paris from Keflavík.
AT L A N T I CA 39
Dining out in Paris feels more
like a pastime than
a necessity.
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