Café de la Paix: A €200 Lesson in Disappointment
Café de la Paix was the kind of experience that makes me question why I even bother with all this food nonsense.
That €200 could have gone anywhere else—to a cause, to a train ticket, to a stranger with more imagination.
Instead, it bought me mediocrity disguised in opulence. Maybe I’m too sensitive, or just not in touch with my emotions, but a bad restaurant—especially an expensive one—can send me into a full existential spiral.
I find myself brooding: maybe they were wrong, maybe this whole life malarkey isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Dramatic, yes. But usually it’s after the unfortunate meal, and I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine by that point, so the melodrama feels entirely appropriate. By morning, I feel, at most, a bit foolish for having trusted Google reviews once again.
Let me set the scene: I’m in Paris. I’ve spent the day at Versailles, surrounded by lavish architecture and pure luxury—grandeur that’s hard to fathom now, let alone in the 18th century (the irony that this inspired the evening that followed is not lost on me). I’ve hit 30,000 steps, and after arriving back in the city from my short train ride, I’m ready to extend the indulgence. I want a big, classic French dining experience. Something ceremonial. A little excessive. The kind of meal that feels like a reward.
I should note—normally when I go to Paris (or any other city, for that matter), I am a rigorous planner. I’m talking carefully curated itineraries, colour-coded restaurant charts with links, menus, prices, photos—the lot.
But work had completely swallowed me whole. I simply hadn’t had the time for my favourite pre-travel ritual.
So, to summarise: I was in a touristy city, no reservation and drunk off the splendour of royalty.
I was begging for a disaster.
The online reviews boasted inviting statements like ‘The best snails I’ve ever had’ and ‘We wanted a true French experience and that is exactly what we got’. I read ‘You pay more for a slice of history that imbues this place’ and I was sold.
(Whilst researching the reviews to write this article, I can’t believe how many comments with the dreaded ‘tourist trap’ I apparantly missed… what was I thinking?)
I decide to walk the 30 minutes it takes to the restaurant from my hotel, with the sun beaming as it sets, I don’t need a jacket and I feel fabulous as I glide down the gorgeous Parisian streets in my little kitten heels.
I arrive and the place is a sight to behold. The exact sort of grandeur I was hoping for. I’m taken to my seat by the host, breezing past the immaculately dressed bartender shaking cocktails behind an impressive bar and the other diners enjoying (at least, it looked that way) their meals. I’m sat in the perfect spot in the back and presented the fairly extensive menu.
My server is very personable, if a little intense, to begin with, making jokes and asking questions. But, I get it, you’ve gotta make those tips, and it didn’t feel so forced that it was off-putting. I chalked it up to me being a bit averse to intense conversation with new people. We’ve got off to a pretty good start.
Wine for the evening. I asked to take a picture of the label (the only way I’m going to remember what I had), and my server forgot to take it off the table again. Looking back, I should have helped myself to another glass to at least try and recover some of the money I overpaid… I evenutally was able to let him know as he darted around schmoozing to the larger table next to me, and it was finally removed.
I’d opted for the tasting menu with wine pairings, coming in at €180.
Don’t say anything. I feel bad enough already.
The first thing I’m handed is some bread and butter. It’s a herby, croissant-adjacent thing and, as you can probably tell from the picture, dry as hell. I remember looking around and spotting a rather well-to-do couple across from me, already much further along in their meal. Their own overgrown croutons sat abandoned on the side of the table, untouched. A silent protest I would soon understand.
Next up: a trio of little tarts—smoked salmon with avocado, a pâté en croûte, and a cucumber-asparagus situation. The last one was probably the best, and even then, that’s being generous. All three were mostly flavourless, with the distinct air of something pulled straight from the freezer.
I could see it in my mind’s eye: a back room with a flickering florescent light, lined with trays of these sad little things, pre-plated and waiting to be dragged into the dining room and down the gullet of some poor sod like myself. These tarts did not enjoy their existence, and there was no pleasure in their end. A grim end to a grim life.
At this point, I’m accumulating a lot of drinks. With previous wine pairings to a tasting menu, I’ve been used to maybe a backup of perhaps two (I’m not the fastest drinker), but this was ridiculous. I was starting to run out of room on the table.
It felt very much like I was getting a menu that had been created years ago and was just being churned out to me. Uninspired, lacklustre and served with a tiredness that seeps into you, no matter how hard you try and stay chipper.
French onion soup was passable! Pretty tasty, good amount of cheese and good enough flavour.
This course was an insult. I’m almost ashamed to post the photograph.
I’m not a trained critic—I don’t claim to be an expert in presentation—but surely even the most casual restaurant-goer could see that this was... ridiculous.
A lifeless slab of foie gras. An upside-down flower. A streak of apple purée that looked alarmingly like a faecal smear, topped with what I can only describe as a haphazard Jenga tower of uneven apple sticks. That’s what stared back at me from my plate. We looked at each other in silent perplexity, both confused as to how we ended up in this situation.
And to accompany this sad little scene? One singular—singular!—cold, hard shard of toast. A few errant flakes of salt had been dashed across the plate, as if to trick me into thinking someone in the kitchen still cared.
Even the server seemed to share my dismay. A new face—different from the one who had been guiding me through the earlier dishes—appeared, dropped the plate unceremoniously in front of me, and disappeared just as quickly. No introduction, no explanation. Perhaps he was embarrassed. Rightly so.
And to serve something as controversial as foie gras—a dish already steeped in ethical debate—and do it this poorly? It feels boldly insulting.
Any remaining pretence that this might be a meal prepared with care completely dissolved when my main arrived: a sad, overcooked piece of salmon slumped atop a mound of sautéed peas, onion, and pancetta.
A handful of lettuce—limp, lifeless—looked as if it had been hurled across the kitchen in a last-minute panic, landing on the plate just as the waiter exited through the front-of-house doors. A true Indiana Jones moment. How impressive!
Everything was swimming in butter. Limp. Tepid. Greasy. It was less a composed dish, more a culinary cry for help.
Desserts were up. Could they turn this whole disaster around? A Herculean task, and, you guessed it, they did not. Not awful, but everything was very sweet, clearly not so fresh, and I hate edible logos. Unless the food is good, then I can forgive. But make the dish worth putting your name on!
Speaking of Herculean tasks—keeping up with the copious amount of drinks being plied upon me was one I ultimately failed. An espresso. A bottle of sparkling water. Red wine. White wine. Champagne. All lined up before me, each with just a few sips taken, lonely and lost on my busy table.
I think I sat there for at least an hour after the meal ended, determined to finish every last drop. And by God, I did it.
As a final gesture, they brought over a small pebble masquerading as a madeleine. I didn’t realise Brighton Beach had started supplying pastries.
Consider this my initiation. I’ve paid the price—quite literally—and I will never again (fingers crossed) let myself be burned by a tourist trap. If nothing else, it’s tested my palate, my patience, and my ability to spot the difference between truly good food… and whatever this was.
I would not recommend Cafe de la Paix, unless you’ve ever wondered what it must feel like to be a rich person with absolutely no taste.
