Cul de Poule is the cheeky name of a cheekily decorated restaurant (is schoolhouse retro formica chic a recognized style?) on rue des Martyrs. It means “hen’s ass”, which may or may not make you want to eat there. It is also the name of a kind of bowl used to mix up mayonnaise. On this particular night, it could have served as a nickname for the waiter who greeted us. Luckily, our serveuse was perfectly charming.
The menu is pedigreed, peppered with names of farmers and sources, and the preference for small and organic carries over to the wine list. There is a vins naturels bandwagon riding through Paris these days, and Cul de Poule is on it. We had a young, unfiltered côtes du Rhone from the Vignerons d’Estézargues, a coop, er, co-op near Avignon that decided to go natural about ten years ago.
Given the quality of ingredients, this is probably a good place to eat your vegetables, and I briefly regretted not ordering le grand aioli when I saw (and smelled) the plates piled with an end-of-summer bounty go by. But we took the carnivorous route. Honestly, the small barnyard of animals that came across our table left me baffled by the fact that I was once a vegetarian. It was a long time ago, and didn’t last long as a phase, but still: What was I thinking?
There were many things to love about this meal, three of them being the ventrèche, jambon de Bayonne, and filet mignon that made up the plate of Basque charcuterie we started with. The bavarois de petits pois, really more like a thick soup, was good if a bit too creamy (I know, words you thought I’d never udder utter), but it was the pig who walked away with the first round, no question.
As for main courses, the tender lamb with olives and tomatoes reminded us of ratatouille or perhaps something more Italian, but the quail made our eyes roll back into our heads. It was perfectly crisp on the outside, stuffed with figs and foie gras, and served with a fig and endive “tatin” (the Hen’s quotes, not mine). Hooray for autumn.
With a little bit left in the bottle it seemed only appropriate to call the cows home and have some cheese, in this case Fourme d’Ambert, one of my favorite blues. My friend went sweet and had a milk chocolate mousse which wasn’t very mousse-like at all, though this was not cause for complaint: The dense, silky texture was reminiscent of a certain chocolate hazelnut spread that shall remain nameless, and we liked it.
Finally, at 26 euros for starter, main, and dessert, there’s no need to sell the farm for a meal at Cul de Poule. That’s something worth raising a glass to.
A glass of vin naturel, of course.
Cul de Poule, 53 rue des Martyrs, 75009 Paris, +33 (0)1 53 16 13 07