Chez Josephine Dumonet

117 rue du Cherche-Midi, 75006 Paris 

It’s a bitterly cold day in the Paris winter, so you come for the boeuf bourguignon. Dark, sticky, falling apart in its own wine-soaked glory, and stay for the soufflé, a cloud so ethereal it feels like you should whisper before breaking its surface. The foie gras is brazen, the cassoulet could stop time, and everything arrives the way food should: hot, heavy, and honest.

This is French cooking that hasn’t gone to rehab. The sauces still cling like a promise, the bread still matters, and the portions could feed your better angels and your worst decisions alike. The room hums with regulars and the kind of tourists who stumbled in thinking they knew Paris — and will leave realizing they didn’t, not until now.