A Race for the Best Meal in Paris
One birthday, one itinerary, two trains...what could possibly go wrong?
On the corner of Rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine and Rue des Boulets in the 11th arrondissement of Paris, Mémère Louise looks like any other French bistro: it’s cozy, dark, and quaint, filled with live banter from a mix of locals and tourists. Its yellow and black striped awning was welcoming, giving off the kind of vibe that you’d get when you enter your favorite grandma’s house. The four of us settled in, only slightly exhausted, but clean and dressed in our best dining out attire. It was a warm evening in Paris, filled with a gentle breeze.
I ordered grilled chicken while my husband ordered (his very first!) steak tartare. As the sun settled on the horizon behind us, we sipped our wine; he offered us all a piece of his tartare. My son, the ever-so-picky eater, declined, but my daughter and I were game—the raw meat was a perfect pink, tender and well-seasoned, better than I expected.
It was one of those simple moments when everything seemed to fall into place.
While this sounds utterly delightful, the journey to have this meal in Paris took a while.
May 19th was my husband’s birthday, and Day Four of our two-week jaunt across Europe as a family. Our plan was to have our last breakfast at our hotel in Germany1 before heading to the train station (aka hauptbahnhof) to go to Paris. By 10:00 a.m. we were checked out and five minutes later, arrived at the train station. While waiting for our 11:30 train, we had a pleasant chat with an American woman on her way to Amsterdam.
There were no signs that things were about to go awry until 11:15, when we realized that our train was nowhere in sight. Suddenly, through the overhead speakers, we were informed that our train was now boarding on Platform 3. We were on Platform 162.
So we ran 13 platforms and made it in time. Then we had to transfer in Cologne for another train bound for Paris. Except there were two problems: 1) we didn’t know which platform the Paris train was supposed to be on, and 2) we only had eight minutes from the time our train arrived in Cologne to board the train to Paris.
I was still certain we’d make it. How naive I was.
Trains in Europe are very efficient, I’ve learned, but they’re also prone to last-minute changes (see above) and platforms are not as straightforward. To get from 9 to 10, for example, you have to weave in and out amongst hundreds of people, past several flights of stairs, follow the signs (thankfully, there was English), and somehow, the maze will end. And you had to do this while carrying your luggage.
After realizing that the train employee we’d ask information from had given us the wrong directions, my husband and I separated. In our rush to make the train, he took off with the kids. I finally arrived at the correct platform, drenched in sweat, and didn’t see him anywhere. I started to panic.
There was a train waiting, which I’m certain was ours, and I briefly considered getting on that train. Maybe we’ll catch up at some point, I thought. But I decided against it because 1) I didn’t have my passport on me (he carried all of our documents), and 2) neither of our phones worked, so we couldn’t call or text each other.
I stood there, frozen in fear, crying and calling out for my husband. I must’ve looked like a hot mess. Finally, a woman next to me said, “I think he’s down there.” I looked in her direction and sure enough, there they were—on the opposite end of the train…which, by the way, had departed without us.
So we went downstairs to the train’s main office, took a number and waited almost 45 minutes to book the next train. In a quick manner, the agent told us that one was departing in seven minutes. We also had to transfer in Brussels, she added.
But the thing that no one tells you (and I can’t blame the agent for not doing so, because we were all in a hurry) is that Brussels had two train stations with practically the same name—Brussels-Midi and Brussels-Zuid. Not knowing the difference, we got off at…you guessed it…the wrong station.
Once we realized that our Paris train wasn’t coming, my husband left us on the platform and went downstairs to ask for directions. Ten minutes later he came back and told us to run, without stating a reason why.
I groaned. “Ugh, not again.” We’d done this twice already.
Basically we had to retrace our steps: take a city train back to our original location, which would allow us to get on the correct train to take us to the correct station.
We got off at the correct station this time, but we still had to find the correct platform. This is the train that would take us to Paris. Our ticket said “Platform 4” but by now, we were pretty leery. So we decided to compare our tickets with the passengers standing next to us.
“That is definitely not the same ticket as ours,” I told my husband. So he headed toward a station employee to ask questions. Fortunately, this one gave us correct information. He pointed to Platform 5, where the train was leaving in about 20 minutes. We were currently standing on Platform 4.
Now, as we all know, it’s not so easy to hop one number to the next in Europe. So we made our way past the maze-like station again…the same exact thing we did in Cologne.
Five trains, six hours, and a lot of running later, we arrived in Paris, took an Uber to our hotel, showered, got dressed in our best “going out” outfit, and enjoyed one of the most delightful meals ever.
The best reward? Perfect weather.
There’s something different about dining in France. It’s simple, yet elegant. Nobody seems to be in a hurry. You can sit there and smoke and drink wine for hours if you want to. A restaurant is a place to simply be. It reminds me of this quote by food writer Ligaya Mishan, who wrote about her time dining in Paris.
“I like to think I learned something from them. How to be at ease with the present; to drink wine just for its lightness on the tongue; to linger over an ordinary, unfussy meal; to not want, want, want without end.”
I guess the IKEA effect does ring true after all—that the harder you work at something, the more likely you are to enjoy it.
For more photos of Paris, be sure to check out my Instagram. Thanks, friends!
In a future post, I’ll share what it’s like to travel internationally with kids and some tips on keeping yourself sane.
In the meantime, if you enjoyed this post, then you know what to do.
This hotel had the best breakfast, hands down, but terrible beds. If you ever want to come to Frankfurt, consider your tolerance for hard beds vs. a handsome breakfast every morning.
In case you’re wondering—yes, we did check the display boards before sitting down, and it stated the same platform as our tickets.
Loved this post! I've just returned from Portugal and Spain and we had a few stressful moments, but nothing like yours. Well done for keeping it together (and staying married). You certainly deserved your dinner.
A delightful post that vicariously reminded me of how much I love Paris (especially the frites but the steak tartar not so much!). Your tale of running for trains and missed connections reminded me of a misadventure we had in Italy in late August 2001 just days before the the Sept. 11 attacks. It's a long story that I may save for a post sometime, but suffice it to say I ended up on one train heading for Milan (en route to a connecting train to Paris for a flight back to the U.S.) without a ticket or money while my husband and teenage son were on another--no cellphones. I imagined disappearing forever without a trace, but through several strokes of fortune we reconnected in Paris, having somehow ended up on the same overnight train in different compartments! I was going to write about this, but 9/11 happened and I never did. Train travel in Europe is a miracle compared to some parts of the U.S. (like Los Angeles!), but it can also lead to some pretty hair-raising and funny stories! Thanks for yours--and the cool pictures of your very cute family!