The Best Places to Eat and Drink in France

Kubri is a women-run Lebanese spot on the Marais edge, built for sharing small plates and ordering far too many of them. Cocktails lean on sumac, rosewater, and arak, and the dips come with bread because that's the whole point of a dip. Vegetarians eat especially well here. The playlist is pop hits, turned up as the night goes on, so bring a group that doesn't need to discuss anything over dinner.

This is a bakery on the quiet side of Montmartre that doesn't sell baguettes, which in Paris is roughly like opening a steakhouse with no beef. The loaves are dense rye and seeded wheat, each labeled with where the flour came from, for the kind of person who reads labels. The sandwich is turmeric ciabatta with kimchi tuna rillettes, and you can eat it in the little square across the street.

Olga is a cheese shop and wine bar across from Gare de Lyon, built for people who would rather eat well than eat a sad train sandwich. The sandwiches are baguette, cheese, and one spread, with no lettuce to apologize for. Think Bleu d'Auvergne with pickled cherries, or sheep's milk tomme with membrillo. A glass of natural wine and a sunny sidewalk table make the 12th feel like a vacation you didn't have to book.

Sain is an organic bakery near the Canal Saint-Martin where everything is leavened with sourdough, so nothing here is in a hurry, including you. The apple chausson holds a whole skin-on apple half under a caramelized crust, and the croissant leans country cousin, dense and tangy with a little honey. A few tables let you eat beside the pastry case, or you can carry it ten paces to the water.

This is the roomier branch of the Avant-Comptoir small-plates-and-wine bars, the one with actual chairs, which feels almost decadent after its standing-room siblings near Odeon. The tapas and pours come at snack prices, and the bartender runs the place with the patience of a man holding a train schedule, so decide what you want before you open your mouth. A bowl of whipped tarama with a slab of seeded bread suits a post-stroll lull in Saint-Germain.

Vivide is a fully vegan tasting-menu restaurant in Montmartre, where a seven-course carte blanche unfolds in a candlelit, cavernous room beside a semi-open kitchen. The chefs often walk each plate over and explain it, which helps, since a vegetable wearing this much costume is hard to identify on sight. Expect a sit-down dinner with a tasting-menu price, in a room where nobody has to ask what the vegan option is.

The bar itself was shipped plank by plank from Manhattan in 1911, which is either romantic or completely deranged depending on your mood. Hemingway, Bogart, and Coco Chanel all drank here, and the cocktail menu has been refined across rather a lot of decades since. It holds a spot on Europe's 50 Best Bars, though the crowd seems unbothered by the credentials and mostly just wants a Sidecar.

A pizza spot on the Rive Gauche where the dough gets real attention, stretched thin and light enough that a second slice feels less like a dare. The menu stays tight, the cold cuts are sliced to order, and the wine list skews Italian without overreaching. You can settle into a table or pull up at the counter, which suits the room's unhurried, modern energy. Casual enough for a weeknight, good enough to plan around.

A century-old Roquette bistro that got new tile, softer banquettes, and neon, plus a terrace where espresso people and natural-wine people hand off the same tables around six. The owners come from Candelaria and Le Mary Celeste, so the old-world look arrives with a bar-world pulse. Lunch is a self-service buffet of oeufs mayo and the like, and dinner turns moodier, with a booth by the kitchen as the move.

Behind a plain façade and wicker chairs, this natural-wine bistro in the 11th keeps its chalkboard menu seasonal and just fussy enough to feel new. The leeks skip the usual vinaigrette, the steak tartare picked up Italian habits, and mains arrive with real sides, so nobody has to fill up on bread. It's open Mondays, which explains the off-duty chefs at the next table.

Aux Deux Amis is a loud, crowded wine bar on Oberkampf where the yellow formica tables carry the stains of every glass poured before yours. Come at night and you'll refill so often that you'll announce on your socials you're moving to Paris. Lunch is calmer and brings a cheap prix fixe, though the ashtrays outside overflow either way. Nobody fusses over you here, and the wine does the talking.

Ten seats around an L-shaped oak counter make this a tasting-menu restaurant, and a quiet one, with pale stone walls and a minimalist setup that would pass for Kyoto. Everyone is served at the same moment by a solemn crew in black, and the courses lean on fire, fermentation, and plants from the chef's garden outside the city. Expect a lot of leaves, and dinner prices to match.

Bontemps is a Marais pâtisserie with a hidden tea salon in back, where velour chairs and servers in gauzy floral skirts bring the day's tarts and entremets out on a silver platter. The sablé base has a hint of fleur de sel and a generous hand with the butter. The salon marks up everything, so the lemon cake is smarter bought from the takeaway counter out front and eaten on a bench like a person with a plan.

A gluten-free bakery near Rue Oberkampf, which in France is roughly like opening a steakhouse for vegetarians and then winning everyone over anyway. The rice flour focaccia comes out light and moist, and the seasonal tartlets lean on lemon, apple, or pear cream. The little "chambellines" loaves are easy to tuck into a bag for a picnic at Square Gardette. Le Fooding has it in the guide, and The Infatuation lists it among Paris's bakeries.

Cadoret is a corner café in the 19th that spends the day serving coffee to people with laptops and Wordle streaks, then quietly turns into a proper bistro at mealtimes. The lunch prix fixe is cheap, the evening menu is French with a few international detours, and the open kitchen is too small to fit a pastry chef. The staff and the young neighborhood crowd are so relaxed that licking a plate is basically house style.

This bistro with the candy-cane striped awning sits across from Gare de l'Est and takes French regional cooking seriously without turning it into a museum. The plates borrow from all over the country and get a little rewired along the way, which is a relief if you've had your fill of butter served alongside ceremonial radishes. The terrace faces the station at sunset. It's no Eiffel Tower, and the locals who fill it seem fine with that.

Casa Pregonda is a Balearic restaurant in the 2nd, named for the owners' favorite Menorcan beach, which is more than most of us can say about our own favorite beach. Grab a seat at the L-shaped bar under the beamed ceiling to watch the ham get sliced and the vermouth shaken. The back room is better for dates and also louder, so plan your conversation accordingly. The Infatuation put it on its new Paris restaurants list.

Chez Marius is a neighborhood bistro in the 10th where mounted boar heads and a very cross taxidermied fox supervise your natural wine. The daily-changing menu wanders between French, Italian, and Asian ideas, and the small plates arrive in such quantity that the tables seem to be reconsidering their life choices. Mostly locals fill the room, so practice pointing at someone else's dinner and saying "comme eux."

Dreamin' Man is a tiny Japanese-leaning coffee shop on Rue Amelot that looks like a flea market stall that learned to pull espresso. There's a vintage wooden bar, brick walls, chipped-paint chairs, and shelves crowded with knick-knacks nobody is allowed to rearrange. It sits well off the tourist path, which is how you end up lingering over a pour-over, the thing to order here, and forgetting your next plan.

A Uruguayan couple runs this snug, green-toned creative tasting-menu restaurant tucked into a quiet Marais impasse. The chef came up at Astrid y Gastón and alongside Mauro Colagreco, and the menus show it: blind courses built around acidity and fermentation, spare in presentation but sharp in flavor. No printed menu, no choices, just the kitchen's current thinking, which occasionally nods toward South America. His partner designed the room, and it feels like it.

Holybelly is a Canal Saint-Martin brunch café where Paris queues for pancakes, a sentence that would have baffled the city a generation ago. Savory or sweet, they're fluffy, and the espresso drinks hold their own beside them. There are no reservations, so a 30-minute wait is the cost of admission unless you arrive at nine or after the three o'clock lull. Solo diners can slip past the line by heading straight for the bar.

A tiny bakery in the 11th with a counter and not much else, where the laminating is so thorough the apple chaussons look like ripples on a pond. The dough leans crisp rather than buttery, a fair warning if you like your croissants rich, and the fillings, vanilla applesauce and homemade gianduja, run a little too sweet. The sesame-seed sourdough is the better breakfast move, especially with soft butter.

The gabled ceiling and long communal table give this modern French restaurant in the 11th the feel of a loft someone forgot to fully convert. Sota Atsumi, who came up through Michel Troisgros and other serious kitchens, runs a market-driven set menu out of an open kitchen anchored by a wood-fired oven. The cooking is French at its bones with a quiet Japanese sensibility running underneath, the kind of thing that reads as effortless until you think about it.

A queue snaking down Rue Saint-Bernard in the 11th is usually a reliable sign you should abandon your plans and join it. Mokonuts is a small bakery-café where a Japanese-Lebanese couple blends Levantine cooking with serious pastry training, the kind that produces tahini cookies and fig tarts with black sesame that make the wait feel incidental. Lunch runs toward punchy Middle Eastern flavors, but the baked goods are why locals circle back.

Motors is a small specialty coffee shop near Les Halles, all exposed brick and a galvanized steel counter that looks like it was built to survive a car part. The beans come from around the world, and the menu runs from espresso tonics to a washed Gesha with floral notes. The pastries are made in-house, including a black sesame cinnamon roll, and it opens Sundays, when half of Paris has quietly disappeared.

Occasion is a small set-menu restaurant in the 10th where two women chefs with fine-dining training cook behind a stainless steel counter. Everything in the room is secondhand, from the Marcel Breuer cantilever chairs to flea-market silverware, so the pun on the name is fully load-bearing. The plating is precise without turning precious, and the evening ends on a buttermilk génoise, which is a sensible amount of sweet.

Ten seats around a U-shaped counter make this a tiny Japanese lunch canteen, run by the people behind the Dreamin' Man coffee shop a few doors down. The menu is four teishoku set meals and a couple of donburi, each tray arriving with miso soup, rice, and pickles. No reservations and no dinner, so arrive early and be prepared to get to know your neighbor's elbow. It made The Infatuation's list of best new Paris restaurants.

An open fire in the kitchen is the engine of this Tel Aviv-style sharing restaurant in the 2nd, where the chef's team grills and chars vegetables with the kind of focus usually reserved for meat. The menu leans heavily vegetarian, built around Levantine flavors and Middle Eastern spices, and the room leans into the ceremony its name promises. The waitstaff move with choreographed precision, which sounds exhausting but lands as theater.

This is the Rue du Cherche-Midi outpost of a coffee shop that helped teach Paris to care about flat whites, back when espresso here meant a thimble of regret. It's a bakery-café with natural wood, white walls, and almost nowhere to sit, so laptop people should come off-peak and everyone else should plan to stand. Cake slices, baguette sandwiches, and savory pies cover lunch, and the bread gets its own following.

This is a bakery-cafe whose sourdough has quietly replaced the baguette on the tables of restaurants around town, which is a bold career move in Paris. The loaf has a treacly crust and an airy middle, and it turns up in a smoky bacon-cheddar toastie alongside a flat white. This high-ceilinged 11th arrondissement outpost is the roomiest of the three, with a back terrace most people walk right past.

This is the bakery on rue du Nil, a cobbled alley where the butcher, fishmonger, cheesemonger, and greengrocer all sit shoulder to shoulder, so picnic provisioning is basically a single-block errand. The loaves are dense sourdoughs with a close crumb, and the kouign amann is buttery enough to soak through its paper bag before you've made it ten steps. Cheap, cozy, and small enough that you'll be eating on the sidewalk.

Toy is a small ramen bar near Bastille that skips the tonkotsu most of Paris defaults to and builds its bowls on a double broth with smoked eel dashi, plus a cold bowl for the heat-averse. The noodles are made by hand each day, and the menu is short enough to read in one breath. Bowls run about €20, which is Paris for noodles. The sharing plates exist, but the bowls are filling enough that you can ignore them.

Trâmette is a pocket-sized lunch counter that turns into a wine bar after dark, two doors down from its bigger sibling, Trâm 130. The lacquered wood and strategic mirrors work hard to make the room feel larger than it is. Midday means a bar stool and one of two baguette sandwiches, while evenings tilt toward French-Vietnamese small plates and the Basque cheesecake that made the older sibling's name.

The name translates to "corner café," and Paris has about ten thousand of those, but the chalkboard menu here changes daily and the kitchen takes it seriously. This all-day café in the bobo 11th turns out dishes like pizzettes and caillette alongside the usual rounds of coffee, at prices that don't require a moment's hesitation. The crowd is neighborhood-loyal in the way that makes you slightly envious of anyone who lives nearby.

A waxed-concrete bistro on a quiet tree-lined square in the 20th, Dandelion is the kind of neighborhood spot that makes you wish you lived two blocks away. The chef came up through Septime and brings that precision to a short menu that wanders confidently across influences, pairing raw prawns with kimchi and ginger without breaking a sweat. The room is relaxed and the service matches it. Le Fooding has taken notice.

A Scottish wine merchant opened this wine bar and bistro near the Palais-Royal decades ago, and his daughter runs it now with her French partner in the kitchen, which feels like the ideal handoff. The menu follows the seasons, the wine list is the point, and you can usually get a table without planning your life around it, which in Paris is its own kind of miracle. Cozy, unpretentious, and thoroughly in on the joke of being a Franco-Scottish institution.

The retro clock above the magazine rack has been keeping time here since the '50s, and the new owners were smart enough to leave it alone. L'Escale is a classic Parisian café-bistro on the Île Saint-Louis, overlooking the Seine, with a corner bar, tiled floors, and a chalkboard menu that changes by shift. Lunch runs toward Gallic comfort food; dinner goes family-style. On weekends, the roast chicken with frites disappears fast.

A century-old bistro at the foot of Montmartre that a young chef has quietly taken over and made his own. The short menu rotates often, leans modern, and always leaves room for a few vegetarian plates. The wine list is similarly edited, with prices that don't punish you for ordering a second glass. Regulars have clearly already figured out what the neighborhood is just catching on to.

Exposed brick, terrazzo tables, and industrial lamps give Pristine the feel of a New York coffee shop that got lost and ended up in the 9th, which is exactly what the owner intended. It's a plant-forward bistro where the kitchen chases the deep, umami-laden flavors of classic French cooking using mushrooms, grains, and vegetables rather than the usual suspects. A little meat and fish still appear on the menu, for the unconvinced.

This is a takeaway-only rotisserie on Rue Mouffetard, so there's no table and no waiting for one, just a counter where mustard-glazed chickens turn above their own drippings. You'll be carrying your lunch to a park bench or a rented flat like a pigeon with a plan. Nothing goes to waste, which is how leftovers become rillettes and a baguette sandwich stuffed past the point of manners. Cheap, quick, and hard on napkins.

Chanceux Galande is a small coffee-and-toastie shop tucked behind an antique wood-and-glass facade a few steps from Notre Dame, which is a lot of old Paris for a place that mostly sells grilled sandwiches. The mushroom melt on rye is the one people write home about, and The Infatuation put it on a Paris sandwich list. The high backless stools and bright lights make a park bench in Square René Viviani the smarter seat.

La Bourse et la Vie is fine dining wearing a bistro's trenchcoat, and the dinner prices know it. Lunch is the workaround, when the hanger steak au poivre costs a fraction of the evening tab. It comes under a pepper sauce thick with whole green peppercorns, in a portion that is dainty even by Parisian standards. The fries are plentiful and pale. Do not ask for ketchup, because they will simply look at you.

Chantoiseau is a modern French restaurant on rue Lepic, partway up the Montmartre hill where the tourists thin out and the dinner reservations get serious. The à la carte menu runs fine-dining, but the weekday lunch is a fixed three courses with no choosing, which suits anyone who finds decisions tiring. The pork comes with green beans so rich nobody would be told to eat them. Neat shirt, no tie.

Chez Eugène is a Montmartre bistro on Place du Tertre, where caricature artists are sketching tourists a few feet from your table. The covered terrace is the seat to take, since the dining room runs a little gloomy. The wine list leans natural, favors the northern Rhône, and turns over weekly. The kitchen does best with the classics: onion soup, egg mayo, a steak frites roughly the size of a hubcap.

Le Coyote is a queer saloon in the Marais with five tiny tables, a central bar, and a decor you could fairly call tastefully tasselled. By day it runs as a laid-back café where people cowork over coffee and homemade cookies. By night the same room pours dirty martinis for a mostly WLW crowd, and the kitchen turns out barbecue ribs and cornbread griddled to order under spiced cowgirl butter. Mind the dessert spoon rests.

Tucked inside Lafayette Anticipations, the Rem Koolhaas-designed art foundation in the Marais, this creative share-plates restaurant has the bones to match: exposed concrete, asymmetrical tables, a glass-fronted kitchen. The chef pulls from Turkish, Southeast Asian, and French traditions without making a fuss about it. The crowd skews young and gallery-adjacent, the playlist is deliberate, and lunch here has a way of running longer than planned.

Trouble is a natural wine bar in the 9th where the kitchen has bigger ambitions than the wine list, which is saying something. Expect oysters paired with calf's caul, tempura green beans on taramasalata, and a sandwich that turns vitello tonnato into a cheesesteak. They don't take reservations, so people line up when the doors open at 5pm for terrace seats, though the dining room has an open kitchen to watch.

A former carpenter's workshop in a red-brick courtyard of old Lille, with parquet floors, glass ceilings, and dried flowers setting a pleasingly odd stage for a modern restaurant that takes northern French ingredients seriously. Trout meets grilled apricots; pollock turns up with buckwheat and malt. The cooking is big and a little wild, the service is easy, and you book online because there's no phone, which feels on-brand.

A shelf of natural wines to take away, a crate of organic vegetables from the family farm, and a short menu that changes with whatever came in that morning: Sain is a café, canteen, and grocery rolled into one. The cooking is unfussy and direct, the kind that makes you wonder why more places don't just do this. Laid-back service keeps the room unhurried, even when it's full.

Black and white floor tiles lead to a stainless steel counter overlooking an open kitchen, which is exactly where you want to sit. This creative bistro in the 1er is Pierre Touitou's latest project, and he's the chef who helped define the new Parisian bistronomy wave. The cooking leans into North African and Mediterranean flavors with a light touch, and natural wines fill the list without apology.

A country inn perched above a gorge where the Chéran River runs far below, which sets a dramatic tone before you've even looked at a menu. The chef cooks modern French with a strong lean toward vegetables and foraged things, and if you've been out hunting mushrooms yourself, he'll apparently take a look at what you found. A discovery menu runs in the evenings and weekends; lunch is a tidier, more affordable affair.

A zellige-tiled wall and a terrace on a quiet pedestrian street frame this modern bistro in the old port quarter of La Rochelle. The cooking is French and seafood-leaning, with the chef handling the savory side and his partner running desserts, some of which are quietly dedicated to her grandmother, Annette, whose name the place carries. A Franco-British couple who met in Amsterdam then moved here: the origin story alone is worth the table conversation.