Benjamin Schmitt

 41 rue Catherine de La Rochefoucauld, 75009 Paris

Benjamin Schmitt is the sort of Paris restaurant that you hope you’ll find, but rarely do. With the onslaught of classic French country cuisine around every block, sometimes you just want to eat French that isn’t so traditional, that pushes boundaries, that gambles on a young chef, and wins. The room is calm, almost understated, but the food arrives with the authority of something that knows its lineage and intends to honor it properly.

The quenelles (seen here) are the opening argument, and a persuasive one. Light yet substantial, impossibly smooth, they sit shaped almost as a French Toast stick, in their sauce like they’ve earned the right to be there. The texture is the thing: pillowy without being insubstantial, rich without heaviness. This is classical technique executed with a steady hand and no need for flourish.

Then comes the cassoulet, which is, (thank God), not reimagined, deconstructed, or rescued from tradition, it is simply done right. Deep, sizzling, and generous, the beans have absorbed everything around them: duck, sausage, fat, and time. The fatty broth breaks reluctantly under the spoon, releasing steam and perfume in equal measure. It tastes of patience and winter and a thoughtfulness. This is food that asks you to slow down and rewards you for doing so, without any regrets. Dessert closes the meal with restraint and intelligence. Nothing flashy, nothing overwrought, just something well made and comforting, some sub-Saharan chocolate mousse or airy vanilla custard, the kind of sweet that knows when to stop. You finish satisfied rather than stunned, which feels entirely intentional. Welcome to France. The best version of it.