Review: Ze Kitchen Galeria
A last-minute booking made the day before, chosen from a list of the Most Affordable Michelin-Starred Restaurants in Paris. I’d already been burned by Café de la Paix and wasn’t in the mood to throw another ridiculous sum at a meal that left me bitter and bloated with regret. But this place—Ze Kitchen Galerie—was just €49 for three courses. If I was going to keep up my mission of conquering more Michelin-starred spots, this one felt like a low-risk addition.
I almost cancelled. I’m so very glad I didn’t, because it turned out to be my favourite experience of the trip.
“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.”
An excerpt from my gloomy review of a pretty poor (pardon the pun) restaurant I visited on my second evening in Paris (coming soon). I was ready to cut my losses and get out of Paris without wasting any more large sums on regrets.
But then came Ze Kitchen Galerie—everything my food-fuelled despair needed to turn it all around and remind me why I adore eating out.
My rose-tinted glasses firmly back on. My glass half full. My joie de vivre restored. After that meal, I walked aglow along the Seine, humming to myself. There was a shimmer to the piss-stained streets. An accordion played something heartbreakingly French. I languorously window-shopped, basking in the flavours and warmth and genuine hospitality I’d just experienced.
I misspoke before. They were right: Life is good.
We start with a little amuse-bouche: a Thai broth with veal.
I love when they bring out a little something-something that isn’t on the menu — it makes me feel so looked after. Already, we’re off to an excellent start.
Lemongrass, umami, and delightful little morsels of veal waiting at the bottom. You can either sip it straight from the cup or spoon it up with the tiny silver spoon provided. Take a gulp, and the lemongrass hits you first — bright and assertive. Use the spoon, and you get more of the deep, meaty base. Both ways are a joy.
The wine — server’s pick, of course. To go with my chosen three courses, he brought over a glass of Clos de la Piuppe. Pale, with an almost absinthe-green hue, it offered up notes of pineapple and had something of a natural wine character — earthy, slightly wild, with visible sediment swirling at the bottom.
Sticking with the Thai theme: Thai mushroom broth.
An array of vegetables — broad beans, artichoke, peas. Each one tasted impossibly fresh, the peas especially throwing me back to days spent helping out on the community allotment, where I first discovered that peas straight from the pod are bigger, sweeter, and more flavourful than I’d ever imagined.
When this course was served, it came dry and the server explained it as they poured over the creamy sauce— none of which was wasted, as it was sopped up by the bread provided.
The dish came garnished with two distinct leaves. One was clearly basil-esque, which I recognised immediately. But the other had a bright, lemony zing that I just couldn’t place.
As it turns out, the couple dining next to me — from Texas, and looking for recommendations for Porto — were wondering the same thing. I asked our server, who happily explained that it was either Thai basil or Vietnamese coriander.
Then, with the kind of thoughtful flourish I adore, he asked if I’d like to try the leaf on its own. Naturally, I said yes. Soon after, he returned with a tiny plate, charmingly arranged: both the Thai basil and the Vietnamese coriander, neatly cut into three, placed side by side like a miniature tasting flight of herbs.
The three of us — me and the lovely Texans — delighted in this small but generous gesture.
Main: Porc Kintoa (Kintoa Pork)
Pork belly, papaya-ginger vierge
One of the evening’s specials — and a standout. The pork belly arrived with gloriously crispy skin and delicate, just-cooked radishes that still had excellent bite.
The meat itself had more chew than expected — not unpleasantly so, just enough to make you slow down and savour. Scattered across the top was a breadcrumb mixture delivering concentrated hits of herby zing that cut beautifully through the richness of the pork.
Fragments of crispy skin were tucked among slices of artichoke, all artfully arranged and swimming in a bright, sharp sauce. It was perfectly balanced: rich but not heavy, playful but precise.
Dessert: Glace chocolat blanc–wasabi
White chocolate & wasabi ice cream, strawberries, pistachios, kefir
The white chocolate and wasabi ice cream was… interesting. It had that faint, nasal heat so characteristic of wasabi, which unfortunately drowned out any trace of white chocolate. Not unpleasant, just not quite worth the risk. If you’re going to put wasabi in ice cream, it ought to feel like a revelation, and this perhaps didn’t.
The strawberries, however, were phenomenal. Not usually my fruit of choice — largely because most strawberries taste grassy and vaguely bitter — but these were so intensely flavourful it was as though someone had injected them with the purest, most distilled essence of strawberry imaginable.
They came paired with nutty dollops of pistachio cream, candied nuts, and delicate biscuit shards — a delightful range of textures and flavours: sweet, tart, nutty, and creamy; smooth, sticky, dry, and crunchy.
On my way out, I asked how they got their strawberries to taste so much like strawberries. The answer? Simply:
“Fresh and seasonal.”
Touché.
I mustn’t forget to mention that the dessert came with its own drink: a miniature strawberry milkshake, made with what tasted like the same sauce used in the dish, blended with kefir. Perhaps a little unnecessary — but fun, nonetheless.
I think I quite like a ‘does-what-it-says-on-the-tin’ restaurant name. We live in a world — London — of mysterious, maddeningly minimalist restaurant names. No sign on the door, no title on the menu. The waiters are fabulously aloof. Everyone else seems to be in on the joke. And there you are, clueless, wondering if it would be a complete act of social suicide to ask:
Where am I? Who are you? What are you trying to feed me?
Ze Kitchen Galerie is anything but.
(By the way — a hilarious name to try and sincerely describe to friends over the phone when they ask where I’m eating in Paris. I was accused of putting on a terrible accent and made a complete laughing stock.)
Ze Kitchen Galerie (or The Kitchen Gallery, in English) is, I imagine, a cheeky play on words. Both a nod to the classic kitchen gallery layout — long and narrow — and a reference to the design of the space itself. The main seating area is arranged so that a large window into the kitchen sits perfectly framed on the far wall, like a living artwork. It balances beautifully with the bold, colourful modern art hung across the other walls — a kind of silent theatre, in motion, that I was lucky enough to be perfectly positioned to watch as I ate.
Ze Kitchen Galerie reminded me why I chase these meals in the first place. Thoughtful food, warm service, and that rare feeling of quiet joy that lingers long after the meal is completed. It was a welcome reminder that not all gambles end in regret, and I highly recommend a visit if you find yourself in Paris.
