The Best Places to Eat in France

The pinball machine next to the zinc bar tells you everything about Le Cornichon's priorities. This corner bistro in the 11th runs terrazzo floors, sea-green banquettes, and newspapers on wooden sticks through the full checklist of the neighborhood hangout that Paris has mostly lost to rent hikes and renovation. The chef came up through haute-cuisine kitchens and is now cooking affordable comfort food for a room that has no interest in being impressed.

A snug neighborhood restaurant in the 9th where bare wooden tables and white walls give it the calm of a Scandinavian country inn. The short menu shifts with the seasons, and the pâté en croûte alone is reason enough to book. Save room for the caramel-glazed choux filled with whipped cream and chocolate sauce, which is the kind of dessert that makes you reconsider your flight home.

A converted cafe in the 11th that has settled comfortably into modern bistro life, with a menu that changes often enough to keep regulars genuinely curious. The kitchen swings between French instinct and wider influences without making a fuss about it, and the natural wine list is taken as seriously as the food. The kind of room where creative young Parisians eat on a Tuesday night like it's not a big deal, because here it isn't.

Cosi is a casual Saint-Germain sandwich spot built around thin focaccia baked to order in a wood-fired oven, which comes out hot enough that you'll burn your fingers and say nothing. The menu runs long enough to cover two weeks without a repeat, and it has actual tables and a bathroom, a rarity for sandwiches in Paris. Expect regulars and tourists sharing the room, both pretending they're not here for the same reason.

Gemüse is a Berlin-style kebab shop in Montmartre, and the name is German for "vegetables," which turns out to be the whole plan. The spit-roasted chicken plays backup to a pile of roasted and raw carrots, peppers, zucchini, and slaw, all stuffed into sesame bread that holds together under the sauces. The line wraps around the corner, but it moves quickly, so you'll be eating on the sidewalk before your patience runs out.

This is a falafel stand on rue des Rosiers with a bright green storefront and a line that wraps the sidewalk. You pay while you wait, so by the window the transaction is mostly choreography. The pita comes stuffed with herby falafel, cabbage, cucumber, and fried eggplant, and it's a two-handed affair. Eat it in the nearby park, or join the shorter indoor line, which costs a little extra and buys you a bathroom.

A Marais bistro with exposed beams, gingham curtains, and a gruff owner posted at the bar like the room's unofficial bouncer, so it looks like a movie set and somehow isn't one. The upstairs dining room hums over a live woodfire, where a meat-heavy menu gets grilled, and the steak arrives sauceless with a wooden pepper grinder on every table. It lands on The Infatuation's list of Paris's best steak-frites.

A glass-fronted butcher counter that doubles as a restaurant, tucked inside Paris' oldest covered market, where you pick a dry-aged cut from the case or just name a budget and let the bearded butcher improvise. The steak arrives sliced on a board for sharing, with a bright, herby sauce and char-grilled vegetables standing in for the fries. It's a casual, market-stall sort of meal, and The Infatuation lists it among the best steak-frites in Paris.

The mosaic floors and mirrored ceilings are original to the former butcher's shop, which is a good start for an Argentine steakhouse in the Marais. Mauro Colagreco and his partner in beef bring cuts from four continents through a high-heat broiler, and chimichurri arrives like it means it. The room runs on Latin warmth and Parisian cool in roughly equal measure, and the Malbec list keeps pace. It holds a spot on the World's Best Steak Restaurants list.

Brasserie Bellanger is a new-wave Paris brasserie where the wallpaper, deco chandeliers, and red velvet chairs all seem to be competing for your attention. The half roast chicken comes with a mountain of frites built for dragging through the jus, and even the leek vinaigrette shows up charred and piled with bitter greens. It's a proper sit-down dinner, and plenty of those velvet chairs are held for walk-ins.

L'Ami Louis is a tiny, dark-paneled bistro in the 3rd where the roast chicken for two is shown to you whole before it disappears to be carved. It returns in two acts, breast first, then the dark meat, a ten-minute intermission that the shoestring fries fill nicely. Bring a card with room on it, since even the green salad is priced like a minor investment. It's a Paris classic, and it knows it.

A neighborhood café in Belleville where the lunchtime regulars know the move: roast chicken with frites and a puddle of herby jus, for under seven euros, which feels like a clerical error nobody plans to correct. The owner polices the clean plate with the zeal of a school principal, so skip the starters and don't leave anything behind. The lemon pie lives in a cupboard wedged between the bar and the bathroom.

Le Coq et Fils is a French bistro on Rue Lepic built around chicken with a resume, from Gascon roosters to Bresse hens bred for presidential tables. Couples in the industrial-chic dining room split whole birds that arrive on a pedestal, as if the bird were the one being honored. The quarter chicken skips the three-digit price and still gets poached, roasted, and set in jus, with sourdough for the confit garlic.

Saint Père is a cheap, counter-service Ivorian spot on the stretch of Boulevard de Strasbourg where every other storefront sells fish or chicken, and the awning outside says l'Espérance, which helps nobody. The poulet braisé comes off the coals heavy with garlic and chile, over rice cooked in its own drippings. The ginger juice is sweet enough to count as dessert, and the line out the door has opinions about all of it.

This is a steakhouse in the old-school sense, where the dining room still has its golden hat racks and Art Déco light fixtures, and portraits of shaggy cows watch you order. There are a dozen cuts of dry-aged French beef, and the big ones arrive whole at the table for inspection before being sliced. Puffed potatoes come alongside, plus a pepper sauce that skips the cream. Dress code is whatever you'd wear to meet a very large rib.

This is a proper neighborhood boulangerie on a Montmartre corner, the kind where you point, pay a few euros, and leave with a paper bag. The croissant is the quiet type: lighter than the butter-slick showpieces built for photos, faintly honeyed, and it sheds flakes down your front the second you bite in. It also leaves you fit enough to climb the butte afterward, which is the whole plan.

Blé Sucré is a neighborhood bakery in the 12th, a short walk from the Marché Beauvau, and it has recently added a few seats so you no longer have to eat your pastry on the sidewalk like a raccoon. The croissants are buttery and a touch sweet, with a shell that crackles like a kettle chip. The pain au chocolat leans closer to dessert, which is fine before nine, and The Infatuation put the croissants on its Paris list.

A neighborhood boulangerie in the 5th that you may recognize from a certain Netflix show, which explains the selfie line and the branded shopping bags. The croissant is shatteringly flaky with a browned-butter edge and a light, airy middle, and it's been written up by The Infatuation among the city's top croissants. The apple tart, slow-cooked compote under thin caramelized slices, is the other thing people order. Pay at the counter, eat on the sidewalk.

Chez Ibo is a cozy kebab counter near the Canal Saint-Martin that still does lamb and veal on the spit, in a city where most of its peers quietly switched to turkey. The meat gets hand-sliced and crisped on the griddle, then tucked into a sandwich with sumac onions that are doing more work than their size suggests. The Turkish bread is fine, but the move is the baguette from the bakery across the street.

A bakery-pâtisserie on boulevard Pasteur where the croissant crunches on the outside and tastes closer to brioche inside, which is a strong opinion for a pastry to have. They open at 10am and sell out anyway, so sleeping in is a plan with consequences. The pastry case is arranged like a jeweler's window, and the seasonal chausson, almond cream with rhubarb or lemon curd, is easy to miss while staring at it.

Faste is a croque monsieur specialist near Gare de l'Est, which means the sandwiches here are built from thick slices of bread and so much cheese sauce that cutlery and possibly a bib come into play. There's a mushroom and tarragon version for the vegetarians, and a tasting platter if you can't commit to one. The room is small and airy, with a few tables outside, and it's an easy lunch stop before or after a train.

La Maison d'Isabelle is an open-plan bakery on the corner of Place Maubert, where the croissant is the whole argument and it's the color of old mahogany. It shatters on contact and leaves a snowfall of flakes on your jacket, so dress accordingly. The line moves fast, and on market mornings it fills with people who know to ask when the next warm batch is coming out. A palmier helps the waiting.

La Renommée is a mahogany-paneled French dining room on Rue Saint-Honoré where the reservation book fills about a month ahead, mostly with Americans soaking up old-world Paris. Expect exorbitant prices and a dry-aged strip steak with a funk you'll either love or discuss. Peas arrive swimming in bacon and butter, which undoes any virtue, and the tarte tatin comes with a gravy boat of raw cream, so nobody's dieting here anyway.

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.

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.