The Best Places in France

Land & Monkeys is a vegan bakery-cafe with the gilded lettering and storefront of a proper Parisian boulangerie, minus the butter. The croissant comes out burnished and crackly, with a pretzel-like savor, which is a neat trick for something that never met a dairy cow. The quiche is eggless and the sandwiches are hamless, and most locations have tables, so you can sit down and eat it all without hurry.

A cheesemonger's counter on the top floor of the Printemps department store, where the croque skips the usual béchamel blanket and lets the cheese do the talking, on thin brioche. It's casual, priced like a department-store lunch, and fine to eat in your shopping-bag posture. The terrace looks over the Opéra Garnier, with the Eiffel Tower in the distance. The Infatuation ranked it among the best sandwiches in Paris.

This is a bakery in the Butte-aux-Cailles, where the croissant arrives with a crunch loud enough to turn heads on the sidewalk. The flaky shell sheds crumbs like it's being paid per flake, while the pale, airy inside stays light enough that you won't need a lie-down afterward. Japanese touches show up across the pastry case, and it's a stand-up, grab-a-bag, eat-it-walking kind of stop.

Le Boulanger De La Tour is a neighborhood bakery in the Latin Quarter, and its croissants are puffed up like the Michelin man, minus the hot air. The crust tastes of buttered toast with a faint bitter edge, and the apple chausson is long enough to need its own seat, filled with compote caramelized to roughly the color of the Eiffel Tower. It's a pastry-and-pavement breakfast, cheap and quick, with the Seine nearby.

Le Cèdre is a Lebanese counter on rue Mouffetard, a street where crêpes and kebabs usually take turns disappointing students and tourists. The falafel comes out faintly green from all the herbs packed inside, and the chicken shawarma gets a thick swipe of garlic sauce. It's cheap and fast, so most people eat on the edge of the Place de la Contrescarpe fountain, though there's a small dining room behind the counter. The Infatuation put it on its Best Sandwiches In Paris list.

This is a Syrian falafel counter on the Faubourg Saint-Denis, where the sandwich is the whole point and the whole menu. Thin flatbread gets a swipe of hummus and eggplant cooked down to near purée, then sesame-flecked falafel and pink pickled turnips for a little acid. The Infatuation put it on a Best Sandwiches In Paris list, yet you can usually stroll in without a line, a state of affairs worth keeping quiet about.

A neighborhood boulangerie in the 15th that's near enough to the Eiffel Tower to be tempting, and boring enough to be ignored by everyone holding a selfie stick. The classic croissant smells of hot butter even cold, and you can eat it on-site with a coffee. The women behind the counter are friendly, which quietly dismantles a whole genre of Paris warnings. The cinnamon roll has more cinnamon than Paris usually allows.

This is a steak-frites place with no reservations, so you join the line outside before the doors open at 6:45, and the room runs on one question from the waitresses in black dresses and white aprons: how would you like it cooked? Steak is the entire menu, and it arrives under a mustardy, butter-heavy sauce that people argue about the ingredients of. Second helpings come around on their own, which is either a perk or a dare.

Nonette is a bánh mì takeaway counter on Rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud, in a country where school lunch comes in four courses and a sandwich eaten standing up feels slightly rebellious. The house special stacks housemade charcuterie with pickles and good French butter, and the fried eggplant with chili and garlic is the vegetarian order that makes carnivores quietly reconsider. Cheap, fast, and eaten on the sidewalk.

This is a tiny Marais bakery where the croissant feels like a jet-puffed marshmallow and tastes of malty sweetness with the butter doing the talking. A trophy from the regional croissant contest sits on the counter, taking up room the shop doesn't have, since turning around inside is a team sport. The smart move is to take your pastry to the bench-lined square across the street and eat it without anyone's elbow near your eye.

The bar inside this 18th-century townhouse in the 8th comes with a lawn, stone animals grazing silently outside the windows, and the ambient feeling that you've somehow left Paris entirely. That's before you've ordered anything. It's the kind of cocktail bar that arrives pre-loaded with atmosphere, tucked inside a Michelin-starred restaurant, so the drinks program has something to prove and generally acts like it knows that.

The marble bar seats six if everyone breathes in, and the furniture throughout is so small it feels like a cocktail bar designed for an upscale dollhouse. This is a dimly lit, two-floor spot off rue Mazarine from the team behind the Experimental Cocktail Club, with a faux-vintage aesthetic that stops just short of parody and drinks that stop it entirely. The kind of place where the mise en place alone makes you want something complicated.

Bonnard is a bistro in the Marais that treats vegetarians like guests rather than an allergy, which in Paris counts as a plot twist. The room is bright, the service is easygoing, and the French cooking borrows from elsewhere without making a speech about it. The starters carry the menu, so lean toward anything creamy or stuffed, and skip the dishes that look suspiciously dry on paper.

Bouillon Pigalle is a 300-seat, two-story French canteen where servers in black vests and white aprons deliver egg mayo for €2.50 and wine by the liter. It's loud enough that conversation is mostly a rumor, which is part of the charm. The lines are famous, but the kitchen runs continuously from noon to midnight, so showing up mid-afternoon gets you a red leather banquette and a bourguignon without the wait.

A neo-bistro on the cobbled Cour du Commerce Saint-André, where a chunk of Paris's medieval wall stands in the dining room like a very old, very unbothered host. The menu takes French classics and nudges them sideways, with a croque monsieur at lunch that demands a fried egg on top. The servers can run aloof, but the place is loud, young, and relaxed enough for big groups and kids who don't whisper.

Brasserie Lipp is a Left Bank brasserie of the white-aproned, dark-wood, sauerkraut-and-sausage variety, where the waiters move with the confidence of men who have seen several presidents get the same table. It's a proper sit-down meal, so dress like you're being observed, because you are. The Infatuation lists it among the better restaurants in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, which is a neighborhood that keeps score.

Breizh Café is a crêperie in the Marais built around buckwheat galettes from Brittany, the savory kind with ham and comté, plus sweet crêpes for the end. The roll-ups arrive folded into a cylinder and sliced like sushi, which is a bold move for a pancake. It's cheap, easy, and light, but this location is tiny, so book a table. The other branches around Paris have more room and terraces.

A classic Marais bistro with wooden tables, a translated menu, and enough American accents to make you suspect a trap, though the kitchen has other ideas. The beef bourguignon spends five hours getting tender, and the sauce is rich without sending you home for a nap. Service has a certain aloofness that passes for charm, so bring patience. It earned a spot on The Infatuation's list of the best restaurants in the Marais.

Chez Marcel is a Lyonnais-style bouchon in Saint-Germain, where the manager plays piccolo for birthdays and waltzes with the waitresses before service gets going. Gingham tablecloths, shoulder-to-shoulder tables, and a free plate of saucisson sec sliced thin enough to read through set the tone. Expect rich pork-heavy classics, a gravy with real structural ambitions, and a cheese board that needs its own zip code.

Didon is a small Saint-Germain restaurant where nearly everything passes over coal, including the cheese, which gets griddled and handed an apple and some calvados as a chaperone. The open kitchen sends out polished plates with a world-tour streak, many built for sharing, so a date will see you at your messiest. The weekday prix fixe lunch is easy on the wallet, and every wine comes by the glass.

Double is a twelve-seat Italian-Japanese tasting counter in Montmartre where one chef cooks an eight-course prix fixe while half the room watches from the open kitchen. The small plates are built for splitting, but the pastas are not, so bring someone you trust with a fork. It's a date-night kind of spot, the sort of dinner where you book ahead and everyone else's elbow is part of the experience.

This is a grand old French dining room on the Seine, a maze of staircases and little private salons where Hugo and Zola once ate, and where their portraits now watch you hunt for your table. The windows frame the river and the Louvre, a pianist plays, and the prices have drifted well past what a working novelist could manage. Order the steak au poivre, then the namesake layered cake, and let the truffle and caviar pass.

Le 21 is a candlelit, white-tablecloth French dinner on Rue Mazarine, where each table gets its own spotlight, as if the butter needed lighting. Meals open with a parade of amuse-bouches and move through lobster thermidor and rolls soaked in more butter, a nod to the chef's American roots. Antique utensils turn up for the tableware nerds, and desserts run light and fruity, which your liver will appreciate.

This Moroccan restaurant in the Marais keeps its lamps lit so dimly that the jewel-toned Berber chairs are mostly rumor, even at lunch. The guembri on the soundtrack makes a drab Tuesday feel like a birthday, and tagines are the house specialty, nine of them, with flatbread baked to order for the broth. Groups can share mezze and couscous bowls, while the three-course lunch is a calmer, cheaper way to sit in the dark.

Le Mansart is a neighborhood French café with a copper bar, leather stools, and a sidewalk terrace where the locals sit so the tourists can wander off to Amélie's old haunt. Lunch runs on a two-course prix fixe that costs less than most sandwiches in the 9th. By evening it turns into a wine bar where getting a drink involves some light elbowing, and the natural wines are priced like it's a dare.

Le Procope is a sit-down French restaurant under crystal chandeliers, with marble tables, big mirrors, and the faint sense that Benjamin Franklin might still be waiting on his check. Philosophers and revolutionaries once argued here, and now tourists photograph the woodwork between bites. The servers are cheerful, the mains outshine the starters, and the profiteroles come with homemade ice cream.

A warm, wood-lined Vietnamese restaurant in Saint-Germain where the chairs and booths are real furniture, not stools, a detail the reservation-chasing crowd seems to appreciate. The menu leans regional, with dishes like a Cambodian bánh sung that you won't find at the usual Paris addresses. The spring rolls shatter loudly, and the phở tends to sell out by second service in winter, so book early. The Infatuation lists it among Saint-Germain's best.

This is a family-run bistro on Boulevard Raspail that quietly leads a double life: ordinary bistro fare most days, then couscous on Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays, with refills of semolina until you wave a white flag. There are no reservations and nobody gets seated until the whole party shows up, so latecomers are on their own. Lines form early, and they come for the lamb shank, not the croque-monsieur.

An open kitchen tucked into the back of Paris's oldest covered market, Les Enfants du Marché is the kind of place where the chef next to you on a stool might have a Michelin star of their own. The team sources from the same small producers as half the serious restaurants in the city, and the Japanese chef turns that market haul into food that has no business being this precise at a market counter.

Les Philosophes is a corner café on the busy Rue Vieille du Temple that serves homemade bistro food all day, at prices that stay out of eye-watering territory. The onion soup is made with chicken stock, which makes it lighter than the usual brooding bowl, and the quiches come in bacon or vegetable. The croissants arrive from a good bakery up the road, with no surcharge for dunking one in your coffee. The terrace is where people linger and watch the street.

Loyo is a casual Ivorian restaurant in Montmartre that looks more like a nightclub than a dining room, which the regulars have clearly decided to ignore. They treat it like their living room and chat with the easygoing staff while portions arrive at a size that suggests nobody here has heard of restraint. Expect coal-roasted chicken under a hill of onion-tomato salad, spicy cod accras, and house-infused rum to start.

Miznon is a fast-casual Israeli counter on rue des Ecouffes where the whole roasted cauliflower is the signature, and vegetarians are treated as guests rather than a problem to be solved. Everything gets stuffed into a warm, fluffy pita, and you dunk what you like in tahini from a self-serve sauce bar. The dining room is bare bones, with a farmer's sink in the back, so expect to eat with your hands. It closes for Shabbat.

Shinjuku Pigalle is a Japanese izakaya-style spot where Kurosawa posters cover the walls and a neon sign over the bar promises sex, money, and power, which is a lot to ask of a place that also sells takoyaki. The menu runs to homestyle plates and street food meant for sharing, so ordering for the table is the move. The bathroom is decorated more freely than the rest, so consider yourself warned.

A tiny counter-service burger joint just off the Saint-Germain drag, doing smashburgers on potato buns that arrive in a state of structural collapse. You'll go through a pile of napkins and call it a fair trade. Cheese is American, the sauce leans pickle and mustard, and the one other option is a portobello that doesn't feel like a consolation prize. Order the housemade ketchup, which tastes faintly of apples, and the fries.

A tiny Sichuan noodle shop in the Marais where you perch on a wooden stool, elbow to elbow with strangers, and wait your turn for the privilege. Spice runs from one to five, and three already has people dabbing their foreheads, which is a lot to ask of a country that treats black pepper as an extreme sport. The dan dan noodles are the signature, and the vegetarian mapo tofu version comes crowned with a golden egg yolk.

Paint tins and old Coke crates serve as stools, which tells you most of what you need to know about this bar's energy before you've ordered a drink. Tucked into a courtyard off a street full of Chinese restaurants in the Marais, Andy Wahloo mixes graffiti, Pierre et Gilles kitsch, and geometric tiles under a French electro-house soundtrack. The crowd dresses accordingly. It's a bar that commits fully to its own absurd logic, and somehow it works.

Tequila ambassador Tomas Estes planted this corner bar at the edge of the Marais with the same DNA as his London outposts: fading photographs, wooden furniture, bric-a-brac on the walls, and a mirrored back-bar doing most of the decorating. The agave list is the reason you're here, and Notre Dame is close enough that you can pretend you're being cultural about it.

Chandeliers and moulded ceilings make Le 47 feel more drawing room than hotel bar, which is more or less the point given the Arc de Triomphe is a short walk away. You enter straight off the street through a corner door, stepping behind the back-bar into a room of fabric armchairs and geometric backlit shelving, with marble and quiet money everywhere. The kind of place where you don't rush your drink because the chair won't let you.

A cocktail bar tucked at the back of the Park Hyatt Vendôme, past a lounge with deep chairs and a working fireplace. Bronze figures appear at the entrance and again throughout the hotel, which turns into a small game if you're paying attention. The bar itself overlooks a courtyard full of sculpture, so the view does some of the heavy lifting. Guests in good suits fill the room by evening, and the whole thing is quieter and less theatrical than you'd expect for the Rue de la Paix.

The bar inside this Philippe Starck-designed hotel in the 20th looks completely unremarkable from the street, then you walk in and find chandeliers made of children's rubber swim rings and curtains printed with naked bodies. Chalk graffiti covers every wall and the ceiling. Staff wear dungarees off one shoulder. It's the kind of maximalist chaos that somehow holds together, and it draws the kind of crowd that enjoys explaining Starck to people who already know.

The terrace hangs over the Mediterranean close enough that you feel slightly implicated in it. This is the bar at the Maybourne Riviera, a minimalist perch where the sea does most of the decorating and the drinks follow suit, leaning into the coastal setting rather than competing with it. Floor-to-ceiling windows mean the inside table isn't much of a consolation prize. The kind of bar where the view sets the pace and nobody seems to mind.