The Best Places to Eat and Drink in France

The pizzas here are all named after famous women, which tells you something about the room's general energy. Fimmina is a Neapolitan-style pizza spot in the 9th with one of the more serious wine lists you'll find in a pizzeria, with a wide selection available by the glass. The pairings are actively recommended rather than just listed. Italian appetizers and a limoncello baba round things out.

The ceiling ripples overhead like a frozen wooden wave, the bar curves like a boulder, and the whole room reads as a design project by someone who spent years as an artistic director before pivoting to cocktails and extreme sports. Near Canal Saint-Martin, Gravity Bar is a cocktail bar where the concept lands before you've even ordered, which is either reassuring or a challenge, depending on your mood.

Large windows onto the boulevard give La Manifattura a bright, airy feel that its rock-leaning decor quietly contradicts. It's a casual pizza spot on the Montparnasse strip where the real decision is dough: Neapolitan or thin Roman. The Italian wine list travels further than you'd expect for the price point, and service moves fast enough that nobody's waiting around. A straightforward room that doesn't overthink itself.

Panther-print sofas, a working fireplace, and chandeliers stacked like they're competing with each other set the tone in this hotel cocktail bar inside one of Paris's grand old palace hotels. The room runs unabashedly old-school, and the bartenders lean into it with serious mixing rather than nostalgia. It costs what it costs, and nobody at the deep leather sofas seems troubled by that.

A grilled cheese counter in the 2nd arrondissement hides one of Paris's more quietly confident cocktail bars behind it. At Mabel, you sit before you order, full stop, which sounds like a minor house rule until you realize it shapes the whole evening. The long bar anchors the room, the stools are comfortable, and the bartenders work like they have somewhere to be, which is here.

A pizza spot near Montmartre where the menu is short by design and the dough is the argument. Bobby keeps things bright and unfussy, the kind of place that earns its following by not trying to be everything at once. A tight selection of beers and a concise wine list round things out, and a few traditional dishes pull in regulars who'd never dream of ordering the pizza.

A pizza spot on the 7th arrondissement's main drag that manages to feel genuinely versatile without losing the thread. The pizza holds up even when the room is packed, which it usually is, so booking ahead saves you the sidewalk shuffle. Wine by the glass and a good beer list round things out. It appears on the 50 Top Pizza Europe list, which should tell you the kitchen is taking the dough seriously.

Italian music drifting from the speakers sets the tone before the pizza arrives, and the pizza tends to keep the promise. Da Valentina is a neighborhood pizzeria in the 15th that leans into the unflashy side of the form: a relaxed room, a short list of wines and beers, and a kitchen that rounds out the menu with a few other Italian dishes. The crowd comes for a straightforward meal and leaves without having made a production of it.

Neon lights, pink walls, and mirrored surfaces give this Neapolitan pizza spot in the 2nd arrondissement the energy of a disco that never quite ended. The pies are well leavened with a slightly small, soft cornicione, and the appetizers pull their weight, especially the cacio e pepe pasta meatballs. A young crowd fills it on the affordable end of the Paris pizza spectrum, and service keeps things moving.

The space was once Jean-Paul Gaultier's haute couture workshop, and the bones of that past still show across two floors overlooking the Galerie Vivienne. It's an Italian restaurant and pizzeria, with a short Neapolitan-style pizza menu that leans gourmet rather than classic, plus solid pasta and appetizers. The connected cocktail bar, Danico, draws its own crowd. Dress like you know the neighborhood exists.

The name is a nod to the beech wood that fires the oven, which about sums up the philosophy at this Neapolitan-style pizzeria near the foot of Montmartre. The dough is soft and pillowy, the toppings lean organic and seasonal, and the wine list runs to natural Italian and French bottles. A shared kitchen with the neighboring restaurant next door means the appetizer spread runs longer than most. The crowd tends to know what they're ordering before they sit down.

A Neapolitan-style pizza shop tucked into a side street a short walk from the Eiffel Tower, Fratelli Castellano runs on a dough that regulars treat as non-negotiable. The room is small, the tables are communal, and no one is pretending otherwise. Classics are the point here, not riffs on them. Dine in or take away, 50 Top Pizza Europe has noted it among its excellent pizzerias on the continent.

A wood-fired Neapolitan-style pizzeria in Boulogne-Billancourt that doubles as a full Italian restaurant, so you can bookend your pizza with antipasti and gelato if the mood strikes. The dough is soft and properly leavened, the toppings generous, and the menu moves between classic red and white pies and richer options. Regulars have clearly staked their corners. Named among the 50 Top Pizza Europe Excellent Pizzerias.

A small Neapolitan pizza spot tucked into a quieter corner of the 15th, where the buffalo mozzarella goes on after the bake to keep it cold and fresh, which tells you everything about how seriously they take this. The menu runs from straightforward classics to more composed pies, and the staff will walk you through the options if you ask. Book ahead; the room fills up fast and there isn't much of it.

Neapolitan pizza near the Louvre, with a second, quieter room near the Opéra Garnier that leans polished enough for a business lunch. The dough is soft and light, the toppings careful, and the menu runs from faithful classics to a few personal riffs. Pedone gelato closes things out, a French institution with Italian roots. The service moves at your pace without nudging you toward the door.

Near the old port, La Casa di Mario is a Neapolitan pizza joint dressed up like a Sorrento fever dream, all moody lighting and a wood-fired oven front and center so you know exactly what you're here for. The pizza leans crowd-pleasing, built for recognizability as much as tradition. The truffle pie is the one that tends to hold together best. Service is young and loose, the kind that doesn't hover.

A few tables, an open oven, and a work station you can watch from your seat: La Chamade Lab is a pocket-sized Neapolitan-leaning pizza spot just outside Monaco in Beausoleil. The dough skews contemporary, with frequent off-menu combinations keeping regulars guessing, and a fried pizza selection that earns its place on the menu. Meter-long pizzas are available for the table or to take away, which is either impractical or perfect depending on your evening.

The open oven is the first thing you see, planted dead center inside Montpellier's Halles Plaza market and impossible to ignore. This Neapolitan pizza counter does the classics, including a solid Margherita and a montanara, fried then baked, finished with a pesto that leans noticeably sweet. High tables face the work area, prices stay modest, and the whole thing moves at market pace: quick, friendly, and easy.

Mauro Colagreco's pizzeria sits on the waterfront at Menton, where the Esplanade des Sablettes keeps things decidedly un-austere. The pizza is modern Neapolitan, meant to be eaten with your hands, and the kitchen leans hard into local, seasonal, and organic sourcing. Slow-leavened dough, a wood-fired Neapolitan oven, and toppings kept deliberately spare. The bill runs above what you'd expect from a pizza place, but the view is doing some of the work.

A Neapolitan pizzeria in the Marais run by a mother and her two sons, which means the kitchen has a domestic authority that most pizza spots in Paris are simply pretending to have. Mamma Vittoria's ragù and meatballs end up on the pizza as often as on a plate, the fried starters come out fast, and the babà is not an afterthought. It's the kind of family operation where the family is the point.

A wood-fired slice shop in the 5th where the dough leans closer to bread than to cracker, well leavened and cooked with the kind of attention usually reserved for a proper boulangerie. Pizza Viva has spread to three Paris locations on the strength of that base and careful sourcing for the toppings. Slices come pre-cut and served on paper, which is the correct answer to the question of how hungry people should eat pizza.

A Neapolitan pizza spot on a lively stretch of the 17th, where the rooster-shaped water jugs set the tone before the food arrives. The dough follows classic rules, but the toppings go their own way, and a calzone stuffed boldly enough to earn a proper nickname sits alongside a Margherita that still gets a personal touch. The ceramic dishes are colorful, the staff are warm, and the lunch prix-fixe comes in under twenty euros.

A Neapolitan-style pizza spot near the Nice waterfront, where a local artist's work lines the walls and the indoor room pulls well ahead of the sidewalk tables. The dough is light and easy, the toppings chosen with actual conviction, and the appetizers hold their own before the main event. Named among 50 Top Pizza Europe's Excellent Pizzerias, it draws a neighborhood crowd that knows not to skip dessert.

Mamiche is a boulangerie where the line out the door is part of the architecture, so bring patience and a napkin budget. The croissants run so buttery they turn the paper bag translucent before you reach the sidewalk. Babka and a cinnamon bun that perfumes half the block share the case with brioche buns and sandwiches like mackerel rillettes on grain bread. It's women-run, and cash-light cheap.

Le Bon Georges is a Pigalle bistro with three dining rooms so crowded with chalkboard menus and vintage Pernod signs that it feels like a bistro as imagined by someone who only had a bistro described to them. It's best with a group and a generous friend, since the dry-aged beef is priced by the slab and the wine list could pin down a small child. Tourists fill the tables nightly, and The Infatuation counts the fries among the city's finest.

Brigat' is a bakery just off Place des Vosges, run by two Italian brothers who apparently looked at the French and decided to do the bread, the viennoiserie, and the pastry all at once. Bakeries here usually pick a lane. There are a few seats at the back, a tiramisu-flavored tart as a nod to home, and a crumble that tastes like it was caramelized by someone with a grudge. It has made The Infatuation's lists of the best bakeries and pâtisseries in Paris.

This is a bakery on the Canal Saint-Martin with a 19th-century façade that you'll have plenty of time to study from the line. The croissant dough gets rolled into pinwheel "escargots," filled with pistachio and chocolate chips or berries and cream cheese, and the croissants cost more than the neighbors' do. The Infatuation put it on its lists of the best bakeries and croissants in Paris. It's closed on weekends, so a Saturday queue is a rumor.

La Grille Montorgueil is a bistro on the cobbled market street of rue Montorgueil, with a zinc bar, red leather banquettes, and a steak au poivre that comes with enough peppery jus to require bread as a utensil. It lands on The Infatuation's lists of top Paris bistros and steak-frites. Peak hours are packed, so reserve, or show up mid-afternoon and take a terrace seat for the people-watching.

This is a Paris bakery with a café attached, best known as the birthplace of the crookie, the croissant stuffed with cookie dough and rebaked that has since colonized bakery windows from Paris to Phoenix. The croissants run skinnier than most, so you get crunch from the first bite to the last. The tables next door charge a premium for the café atmosphere, so take your pastry to go and find a sofa. The Infatuation has named it to its lists of Paris's top croissants and top bakeries.

Tapisserie is a small bakery in the 11th from the Septime crowd, where the stubby croissants vanish early and the bar for oversleeping is low. If you get one, there's a ledge out front to eat it on, and the maple syrup tart is on offer for consolation. The palmiers wear a crisp caramel coat, and the pastry case turns over with the seasons. Come early or come to terms with it.

This is a casual crêperie in Saint-Germain built around buckwheat galettes from Brittany, which means you can eat lunch or dinner here without dressing for it or booking ahead. The Odéon branch has more room than the tiny Marais original, plus a terrace for people-watching with a ham-and-comté galette. Some of the savory crêpes arrive rolled up and sliced like sushi, because Paris cannot leave a pancake alone.

Mischief is a Marais restaurant where comfort food from the chef's childhood and travels gets shuffled together, in a concrete-and-steel room that could double as a Rick Owens runway. The open kitchen is the seat to request, mostly to watch French onion soup get rolled into a spring roll. It's shareable and playful, and the pasta riff on a canned childhood staple comes in limited quantities, so order it early.

Abricot is a neighborhood cocktail bar on Rue Saint-Maur that greets you with a bartender's choice shot before you've decided whether you're staying. It leans Californian, with earthy colors and lots of daylight, which is an unexpected look for Paris. The martini is tiny, the menu is entirely vegan, and the hot dogs come with fried onions. A velvet-and-pillow alcove is where friends tend to lose an evening.

Astier is a proper French bistro on a street of small plates and Scandi minimalism, so the gingham napkins and banquettes feel almost like a dare. The waiters carry food in copper pots and finish it at the table, a bit of theater you'd normally pay twice as much to watch. The kitchen likes a twist, like lamb shoulder stewed with tagine spices, and the cheese basket has shrunk to a plate of five.

This Latin Quarter bistro treats a weekday lunch as a three-hour, three-bottle affair, and nobody shows up with a table-turning stopwatch to stop you. The servers will happily discuss the weather that made your Beaujolais so good, then leave you alone. Tables are small enough that neighbors become co-managers of the chalkboard menu, and the three-course lunch runs €27. Bring friends who enjoy arguing about lentils.

A small Jewish bakery in the 9th that does babka as individual rolls, which is a rare thing to find in a city that otherwise considers the baguette a complete personality. Flavors run past chocolate into halvah, cinnamon, and pistachio, and the rugelach comes in chocolate-cinnamon or maple-pecan. At lunch there are challah sandwiches with pastrami, tuna, or sabich. Bring a few euros and an appetite you're willing to defend.

Bar Joséphine is a cocktail bar tucked inside the Hotel Lutetia, with high ceilings, frescos, and the sort of Left Bank atmosphere Paris spends a lot of money on film sets to fake. Drinks arrive in beautiful glassware with garnishes that have clearly been thought about, and a pianist plays most Thursdays through Saturdays. Dress for it, since jeans and a T-shirt will look like a wrong turn.

Bluebird is a cocktail bar in the 11th that looks like the deck of a '60s cruise ship, with wood paneling, multicolored lights, and an aquarium in the back, minus the shuffleboard. The menu changes monthly and sorts drinks by savory, salty, bitter, and so on, which helps if you've forgotten what you like. There's one table and a lot of stools, so it suits a quick one after work or a nightcap after dinner.

Bouche is a small-plates and natural wine restaurant in the 11th, in a neighborhood where tiled floors and wobbly bistro chairs are practically municipal code. Here the room goes Brutalist instead, all exposed stone, dried flowers, and candlelight, closer to Berlin than Paris. The menu rotates every few weeks and wanders well beyond France, and there's a mezcal and coconut milk slushy for anyone who's tired of orange wine.

This is a no-frills organic bakery with no baguettes and no Art Deco charm, which in Paris counts as a statement. The sourdough pain de campagne has a treacly crust, and the seedy German-style loaf is a dense little brick built for Roquefort. Everything is sold by weight, so you can assemble a bread flight and carry it to the Seine a few steps away, where the pigeons will take an interest. There's a separate window for gluten-free.

A neighborhood bakery in the 11th where the baguette once took Paris's top prize and the croissant dough gets folded into flowers. Sesame turns up in nearly everything, including a charcoal-black sourdough baguette that looks great next to a candle. Weekends bring a rotating cast of stunts, like a madeleine baked inside a croissant, so check Instagram before you queue. Nothing here needs a reservation or a jacket.

Café Lomi is a coffee roaster's café in the 18th, far enough from any monument that nobody wanders in by accident. The beans they roast also supply hundreds of hotels and restaurants around France, so the cups are less a side project than the whole point. Wooden beams and exposed silver pipes give it a New York loft look, while the laptop crowd gives it the hum of a student union with better espresso.

Café Nuances is a coffee shop in the 1st arrondissement that still wears the old grocery's sign, with "beurre" and "oeufs" spelled out on a marble façade that has no butter or eggs to offer. Inside, the Art Deco marble is the main attraction, along with flat whites and pistachio lattes. It makes a tidy pause near the Louvre, and the beans come in a branded sack for taking the souvenir home.

This is a neighborhood pâtisserie on rue Censier that's easy to mistake for a jeweler's, with pastries set out like they've been insured. The cakes lean classic, with a violet-scented Saint-Honoré made for the founder's florist wife as the one real flight of fancy. Expect a short line of locals buying a single éclair and treating it like a major purchase. Pick two things, because you'll want six.

This is an old Les Halles bistro with gingham tablecloths, exposed beams, and a cash register that predates your parents. It once fed the market workers who unloaded produce all night, and the menu still leans on slow stews, tripe, and mutton with beans, served in copper pans. Tables sit shoulder to shoulder, so you'll know your neighbor's order by dessert. The Infatuation counts it among Paris's best bistros.

This is an old-school Parisian bistro in the 2nd, where the menu is handwritten in looping script nobody has been taught since the sixties. The waiters deliver efficiency, practiced scorn, and a little flirtation, all included. There's a big salade lyonnaise, veal liver, and a pile of shoestring frites. The Burgundy list runs pricey, so regulars skip to the cheaper bottles squeezed into the menu margins.

Cinq-Mars is a dimly lit Paris bistro near the Musée d'Orsay, all dark wood and low light, to the point that you may be guessing at your own dinner. The portions run large, with a veal blanquette and a chocolate mousse that arrives in something closer to a fruit bowl than a ramekin. Vegetarians get real options here, from plain French omelets to leek vinaigrette, which is not a given in a bistro.

Big front windows and light wood panelling set CopperBay apart from the usual Paris cocktail bar, which tends to treat darkness as a personality. This cocktail bar in the 10th keeps pastis and classics on the menu alongside original creations that earn some genuine attention. The 50 gave it a Discovery nod, which tracks for a place that reads as both grown-up and quietly confident without making a production of either.

Cypsèle is a tasting-menu restaurant in the Marais, set among restored 17th-century apothecary shelves, with a neon sign that looks borrowed from the tabac down the street. The open kitchen at the back turns out seven courses of seasonal French cooking with a Sweden-to-Japan accent, and the menu changes daily. It's a splurge for people who read menus like novels. The Infatuation named it one of the best new restaurants in Paris.

Diamande is a small Algerian pâtisserie in the 11th where the cookies come in colors you'd normally associate with highlighters. The classic shapes stay put, but the flavors wander: pear and ginger in one, blackcurrant and lime in another, and a chile-shaped almond-hazelnut number with a slow peppery burn. The staff will steer you if you freeze at the counter, and a few tiny tables mean you can sit, though not for long.

Dirty Dick is a tiki bar in Pigalle, where the daiquiri arrives shaken and balanced instead of out of a slush machine. The menu runs on rum, punches, and the occasional flame, and the bartenders do a fair amount of shouting, so conversation is more of a suggestion. Bring a group and a Hawaiian shirt you've been meaning to retire, and order the Flamingos on Acid bowl. It sits on The Infatuation's list of the best bars in Paris.

Ethanol is a wine bar and bistro tucked into a former cobbler's shop, the more casual sibling of a tasting-menu restaurant down the road. The playlist runs ninety-nineties and early-2000s rap from the first pour at 5:30, so the natural wine arrives with a soundtrack. Come early for charcuterie and housemade tarama, stay for the French classics, and order the ham and comté croissant, which Parisians treat as a minor scandal.

Fitzgerald is a restaurant by day, serving entrecote and risotto to the Tour Maubourg lunch crowd, and a speakeasy by night, reached through padded doors at the back and down into an Art Deco room of velvet chairs and leather booths. Expect classic cocktails, a weekend DJ, and servers with sparklers, for people who've retired from clubbing in theory only. The Infatuation put it on its list of Paris bars.

It's a pastry shop on Rue Montorgueil that works like a group show, with cakes from a rotating cast of famous bakers, several of them holders of the Meilleur Ouvrier de France title that bakeries like to frame in the window. The case changes often, so you're ordering from whatever the guest chefs left behind, which is a nice excuse to stop in more than once. It's a grab-a-box, eat-it-on-a-bench kind of place.

Jah Jah started life as a vegan hot dog tricycle and has since settled into a proper Afro-Caribbean canteen, complete with Bob Marley portraits, Jamaican flags, and a reggae soundtrack that never gets a day off. The all-vegan menu runs to tempeh skewers, barbecue cauliflower wings, and bowls built on yams and acheke. Order the bissap or ginger juice, because the skewers bring more heat than the tricycle ever did.

Jones is a French restaurant in the 11th that reinvented itself under new owners, and the menu now tracks Paris as it actually eats, with a vocab list at the back to decode the Paname slang and the cross-continental plates. Think taleggio-stuffed arepas, grilled fish, and shaoxing emulsions, plus natural wine and kombucha for the abstainers. It's built for a crowd and gets loud and lively by dinner.

Kissproof is a Belleville cocktail bar that leans dive more than lounge, with a shelf of absinthe taking the place of the usual pretense. The menu runs from a proper sazerac to sparkling sake and cider, plus a few glasses of wine so France doesn't feel snubbed. A double-patty cheeseburger sits ready to cushion the damage, and the house cocktail with a pickled mushroom is named for exactly that damage.

La Joie is a Sri Lankan restaurant in a former butcher's shop in the 11th, which spares Parisians a train to London for a proper egg hopper. The menu mixes island greatest hits with the chef's childhood favorites, and the hopper arrives with a dollop of sambol begging to be rolled up like a cigar. The furniture suggests a French school canteen, so it suits a quick lunch or a solo dinner better than a long evening.

This is a neighborhood bakery in the 14th that leans Alsatian, which in Paris means soft salted pretzels and a strudel with more cinnamon than the locals strictly approve of. There are also sourdough loaves the size of a toddler, tiny cream puffs, and quiches with nut-brown crusts. A line of regulars forms at the counter, and the women running it keep it moving without losing their good humor.

Le 7 is a small cocktail bar tucked inside a hotel near the Tuileries, with four high stools at a marble bar and a velvet banquette that makes you feel like you've wandered into a wealthy stranger's living room. The dirty martini comes out clear as water, since they use olive distillate instead of brine. A small plate of nuts and chips arrives with every drink, and there's a short list of meats and cheeses.

Le Grand Café is a big, high-ceilinged brasserie tucked into the renovated Grand Palais, with 300 seats, a lot of marble, and a terrace facing the Petit Palais. Lunch skews fashion and well-fitted suits, dinner skews people thrilled to have an excuse to dress up. Expect brasserie classics at brasserie-plus prices, shellfish towers delivered with ceremony by servers in white vests, and a banana split that costs real money.

This is a coffee shop that doubles as a cycling clubhouse, which explains the lycra-adjacent clientele clipping in before a ride up to Versailles. It sits in the Marais a few steps from the Seine, serving coffee, waffles, and juice, with bike tours on the side. English and French get shuffled together at the tables, and solo travelers rarely stay solo past the first espresso, whether or not they own a bike.

This South Pigalle restaurant has been doing vegan and gluten-free since before it was fashionable, and it's built around wellness, with a menu that goes easy on salt, sugar, and oil. The cooking still feels indulgent anyway, thanks to things like chickpea crêpes and a spelt risotto thick with mushrooms. Sunday brunch is a fixed menu of two savory plates, two sweet ones, and drinks, so nobody has to make a decision.

A jazz kissa is a Japanese listening bar where the whole premise is sitting down, shutting up, and actually hearing the record. Mesures transplants that tradition to the Haut Marais, with a minimalist, vintage room that quietly discourages multitasking. Cocktails run three ways: year-round signatures mixing Japanese and French ingredients, rotating seasonal drinks built around Asian flavors, and a solid set of classics for anyone who just wants a Negroni.

Mille Et Un is a small Franco-Korean bakery in the 6th, where French technique takes on sesame, matcha, and ginger. The Paris-Seoul is a Paris-Brest with a black sesame paste hiding inside, and the flans have a crisp puff pastry shell and a middle set just firmly enough to count as solid. A few tables let you sit down with a ginger tea, and the baguette is a straight-ahead French one, which feels almost rebellious here.

Moonshiner is a whisky-leaning cocktail bar tucked behind the walk-in fridge of a pizzeria, so getting in means pushing a door that every instinct says leads to the mozzarella. Inside, there's 1920s jazz, Belle Epoque wallpaper, leather booths, and a cigar room, which feels very Prohibition for a country that never had one. Weekend evenings get standing-room-only, so arrive early or befriend a bartender.

No Entry is a cocktail bar in Pigalle, reached by walking through a refrigerator in the basement of Pink Mamma, which is the sort of entrance that makes you feel briefly like a spy and then like a person holding a drink. The room looks like a chemistry lab with a good lighting budget, demijohns of infusions lining the walls. There are no reservations, so you wander in, order the coffee-scented Boulevardier, and keep your shoes unstuck.

Noir is a coffee shop with enough locations that you're rarely far from one, which is handy after a morning of crossing bridges. The Île Saint-Louis original sits on the little island between the banks, usually with a single barista at work, so expect to wait and call it a scenic pause. Another branch has two floors and a spiral staircase that will end up in somebody's photos. Cheap, quick, and strictly a coffee stop.

Panade is a bakery out in the 15th, far enough south that making the trip counts as a personal statement for the Left-Bank-averse. The viennoiseries wander off from French tradition, including a cinnamon croissant spiced almost enough for American palates and a leftover-croissant pastry with peanuts and sweet coffee fondant that reads as an artisanal Pop-Tart. The line stays short, and one table overlooks the open kitchen.

Petite Ile is a small Franco-Taiwanese bakery in the Marais where French croissants share a counter with fluffy pineapple buns, and nobody seems to be arguing about it. The black sesame pain au chocolat is the one that sells out, and the sourdough boule keeps for days, in case you're the type to plan ahead. Everything is a few euros, and the line forms early. Named among The Infatuation's best bakeries in Paris.

This is a bakery on a Left Bank street, and it sells enormous round sourdough miches stacked in tight rows behind the counter, with a mild tang and a dense crumb that suits a grilled cheese. The branded tote bags and bread knives make it look like a souvenir stop, but people queue for the loaves. The apple chaussons look like turnovers and aren't too sweet. A bread chandelier hangs in the back, which is a lot to ask of flour.

Sample Cafe is a coffee shop with a DJ booth, and the DJ is on duty daily, spinning old-school R&B and hip-hop among records and speakers of assorted sizes. Bring a friend or a solo mood, but leave the laptop and the novel at home. The coffee is a standard espresso or latte, no riffs, because the real order here is a decent cup and a seated two-step. The Infatuation put it on a Paris coffee shop list.

The Beans On Fire is a two-level coffee shop in Montmartre that opens at 8am, which in Paris counts as an act of defiance. The cappuccinos and flat whites are the draw, with pastries as backup. Grab the window seat and watch tourists photograph the corner mini mart from Amélie, or head to the basement, where the wifi is and the sightseeing isn't. It's also a reasonable place to recover from the climb to Sacré-Coeur.

Tiger is a gin bar in Saint-Germain-des-Prés with more than 100 bottles behind it and enough gin and tonic combinations to keep you here until the Sorbonne reopens. The palm frond wallpaper and teal tiles manufacture a tropical summer no matter what Paris is doing outside. The snacks are cheese and charcuterie, and the student crowd trading up from the neighborhood's dive bars makes weekend reservations a smart idea.

Lacquered pigeon with apricot glaze alongside rice cooked with vermicelli tells you what kind of restaurant this is: a place where a classically trained French chef cooks the food he actually grew up eating. Omar Dhiab's second table in the 10th is a casual dining room, slightly spare on atmosphere but generous where it counts. The menu moves from tempura grape leaves to oeuf en cocotte with merguez ragu without breaking a sweat.