Mieux
“You probably don't hear it when it happens.”
The famous words of Bobby Bacala that come back to haunt Tony Soprano as he sat in Holsten’s diner chewing on some onion rings. The gunman in the Member’s Only jacket approaches him from 3 o'clock and, we assume, spreads Tony’s last thoughts all over the plastic table.
“This would never happen to me,” you say, “I’m not even a mob boss!” But how could you know for sure? The point is you wouldn’t hear it coming.
Fortunately, there’s nobody wearing a Member’s Only jacket in Mieux, a chic little bistro in the 9th arrondissement. The place looks like the kind of kitchen I’d like to have if I could ever afford to buy a house: nice black and white tiles on the floor, decorative copper pans hanging from the warmly painted walls, rustic but smart at the same time. I can feel the buzz of a busy Saturday afternoon all around me, with a sprinkle of Christmas energy in there for good measure.
My date wants to order the smoked trout starter. I’m not usually a fan of trout but since I made her wait for nearly half an hour I don’t want to argue. Besides, there is saucisses aux lentilles in the main courses, a dish I love but rarely make at home. This is the perfect place and the ideal weather for a bowl of steaming hot stew. A bottle of bourgogne aligoté and we are off.
The trout turns out to be absolutely delicious. It’s served alongside winter radish, capers and some dill, with a zesty sauce that perfectly balances the smokiness of the fish. I make a mental note to try to recreate it myself over the holidays but I’m already fantasizing about this sausage. We are in mid discussion about why I was so late for lunch when my dining partner pauses and makes a face that I can only describe as pity. The words she says are “Look out…” but her tone is one of sheer resignation. There is no way of preventing what is about to go down.
I suddenly feel a warmth all over my body. It seems to occur in slow motion, and by the time I hear the plate smash I’ve pretty much figured it out. The waiter has dropped the entire lentil stew all over me. On my irish lambswool sweater, on my jeans, on my hair, on my hands, on my shoes, somehow even IN my shoes. So this is how it happens…
The poor guy apologises about a hundred times as he rushes about trying to clean the mess. He looks mortified. I can see the staff in the kitchen giggling. The strange thing is, despite smelling like a very well seasoned pig, I too find the whole thing hilarious. I’ve seen this happen in films and TV but never in real life. Bowl of pork stew on the head. Splat. An absolute classic.
Naturally, the waiter brought me a fresh plate which tasted far better than it made my socks smell and then offered to take the main courses off the bill, which meant that I could guiltlessly spend that money on dessert, coffee and cognac. It wasn’t the lunch I was expecting, but all in all I can say, with complete honesty, it couldn’t have been mieux.
Mieux - 21 rue Saint-Lazare, 75009 - Paris