Eating Well in Paris: A Night to Remember at Chez Tante Alice

In a city where every corner whispers culinary poetry and every alley hides a tale, there is always another door to push open, another table to sit at, and another heart to feed. After a luminous evening at Chez Georges — which had already elevated my idea of Parisian dining — I wondered if anything could match the memory. But Paris, in her quiet generosity, gave me another story to tell.

It began with an invitation. Two companions, Angelo and Vinni, whose friendship I trust like a compass in this city of wonders, called me with mischief in their voices: "To Tantalis!"

Not Tantalis — But Tante Alice

I misheard them at first. "Tantalis?" I repeated, skeptical. It sounded like a word born in a marketing meeting — something edgy, modern, and lacking soul. Nouvelle Cuisine came to mind: dainty plates, inflated prices, and flavors that vanish before they arrive.

But I was wrong. What they meant was not Tantalis, but Tante Alice. Aunt Alice. The name evoked something older, gentler. A memory in gingham and soft laughter. A woman with rough hands who once made jam from wild berries and served it on thick slices of bread as the sun slipped behind the hills.

In the heart of Paris's 10th arrondissement, just ten minutes from Place de la République, we found her door. And through it, another world.

A Taste of Home in the Heart of the City

The façade was modest and warm. A burgundy sign, elegant in its simplicity, stood above a wooden entrance. Inside, light pooled over Vichy tablecloths and walls trimmed in soft wood — the kind of place where stories are shared more often than selfies. There was a bar greeting guests at the front, and a second room upstairs, usually filled with the midday crowd from nearby offices.

At 7:30 in the evening, the main room was nearly full but not loud. The distance between tables allowed secrets to remain secrets, and glances to be exchanged without intrusion. We were welcomed by one of the owners — a woman whose presence felt like a thread holding the whole room together — and quickly guided to our table.

Beginning the Evening: A Kir and a Smile

Menus arrived like invitations to memory. The offerings were few, precise, and rooted in the French countryside. No frills, just truth.

She asked if we wanted an apéritif. I nodded, ordering a Kir Royal — crème de cassis kissed with champagne. Vinni chose their house creation, a mint cocktail that sparkled like spring in a glass. We lingered in the moment, letting conversation slow to a rhythm more suitable for taste.

The Appetizer: Earth in a Pan

I chose a plate of pan-seared cèpes, boletus mushrooms known for their earthy fragrance. The moment the dish arrived, scent and sight held hands. The aroma — deep and grounding — was the first to speak. My eyes followed: a generous portion, browned perfectly, kissed with the blackened edges of a hot pan.

And then the first bite: a mouthful of forest and fire. Juicy, tender, and rich with the depth that only something born of soil can carry. Each bite, softened with sips of Chinon — a light red from Touraine — lingered like a page from a book I didn't want to finish.

The Main Dish: Duck Liver, Soft as a Thought

The next dish was one of reverence: a pan-fried steak of duck liver, prepared with such gentleness that it dissolved on the tongue. The technique was traditional — a quick sear in flour-dusted oil, followed by a reduction of vinegar and butter, draped delicately across the liver like silk.

It was served with light sides: sweet, subtle, respectful of the star. Apple slices, perhaps, or artichokes. I didn't write them down. I was too busy feeling it melt. This was not just eating — this was remembrance. A quiet moment that reminded me I was alive, and grateful to be.

Wines and Conversations

We drank slowly. The Chinon, while the most expensive on the list, was gently recommended against by the chef herself — a gesture so rare it must be applauded. She cared less about margin than match. We insisted. It matched, indeed.

She was both chef and server that night. And something about that felt right. A woman who puts her name on the plate should place it herself. She was gracious, calm, and precise in her recommendations. Her voice was an ingredient in the evening.

Dessert and Closure

For dessert, I ordered three scoops of house-made ice cream: vanilla and coffee. The descriptions in the menu had already done their work — my curiosity was promised something it would remember. It was rewarded.

The vanilla tasted like it had been scraped from real pods. The coffee — rich, warm, and not too sweet — danced somewhere between espresso and earth. I added an actual espresso to finish, and leaned back in my chair, full but not heavy, content but not dulled.

The bill arrived quietly: €35 per person. For an evening like this? A gift.

In the Heart of Paris, a Gentle Refuge

Chez Tante Alice isn't trying to be anything. It simply is. Warm, honest, and human. It does not dazzle with flash, but with depth. It speaks not to the camera, but to the heart. And sometimes, that's exactly what a traveler needs — a place that reminds you that not everything beautiful demands attention.

Sometimes, it’s not the food or the wine — it’s the feeling of being remembered by a place you’ve never been.

So if you ever find yourself in Paris, weary or wondering, follow the quiet streets to the 10th. Look for the red sign. Step inside. And let Aunt Alice feed your heart back to you, one plate at a time.