Geo, Eddie, and Gypsy Boy
You guys made me painfully nostalgic with your stories about the Brasserie de l'Isle Saint Louis.
Me too I used to live 120 meters from it across the Seine and for a long time was a regular at this marvelous place.
Allow me to share a few memories based on memories and impressions I had following a great lunch there 2 years ago that i posted on my blog French virtual Cafe, here it is.
La Brasserie de l’Isle Saint-Louis
6 weeks ago, the weather was rather grey, humid, really gloomy. On November 13, around 1:00 PM, I had a sudden craving for a good choucroute garnie to lift my spirits. But since my favorite place L’Alsaco now longer exists, I did not know where to go to find a decent one. In the past 20 years I have been disappointed so many times by the choucroute at Chez Jenny, Place de la République, or at Chez Flo, Passage des Petites Ecuries, that I did not want to get back there.
Suddenly I remembered that last February I had read a piece in the excellent and always reliable ‘’Hungry For Paris’’ blog of Alexander Lobrano about this good old Alsatian brasserie located at the end of the delightful Ile Saint Louis at 55 Quai de Bourbon in the 4th. Lots of warm memories about this place immediately came back to my mind. In the very early 60s, when I was a student at La Sorbonne, I did not have much money but I was lucky to live in a comfortable room in the apartment of a friend who lived at 11 Quai aux Fleurs, in the Ile de la Cité, just behind Notre Dame. My bedroom windows were facing the mansion of the Aga Khan and the Seine river. And just a few yards from there, there was a little ‘’passerelle’’, a mini bridge of sort, that crossed the Seine into the Ile Saint Louis. At the end of this bridge was La Brasserie de l’Isle Saint Louis, which in those days did not have the charming “terrasse” it has now.
At the time, it did not take me long to discover that I could have a pair of juicy frankfurters with a boiled potato and fragrant warm sauerkraut for a few francs if I ate ‘’au comptoir’’ in the mini bar area at the entrance of the restaurant. There was an Impressive old shiny metal percolateur (an ancestor of the coffee machine) at the end of the massive wood comptoir (bar counter, perhaps covered with Zinc or copper, I do not remember exactly), that is still there. By the way, if my memory is correct, the percolateur that was installed on the bar in 1913 when the restaurant was known as La Taverne du Pont Rouge, was still able to produce a strong coffee in 1959, the first time I went there when I was spending a week at the home of a couple, friends of my parents, who lived in Paris. The waiters in traditional ‘’serveurs’’ outfits including white shirts, black bow ties, black pants, black vest, and a white apron, would come to the bar to get their orders of draft beer, an excellent and foamy Mutzig from Alsace served in half-liter stoneware (grès) steins, called ‘’pots’’, and get their food orders from the kitchen through a hole in a door at the end of the bar. Sometimes the chef, a tall blond German guy name Otto, would exit the kitchen and sit a moment at the bar to drink a beer and smoke a cigarette. He would fix for me marvelous omelettes baveuses au lard (runny omelets with lardons). One of the most active and funny waiters was named Yvan, and he was always joking and making funny comments to attract the attention of the many American young ladies who visited the restaurant. He called his regular customers, including me, ‘’l’ami’’ (the friend). But he could get moody sometimes when things did not go the way he wanted.
There were a couple of tables in the bar, and many times when the place was packed, which has been the case since it opened, I would sit there and have quick lunch before going back home to study, usually a potato salad with a knackwurst, a piece of cheese and a stein of beer.
Everything seemed the same when I entered the restaurant last month. The ambiance with a blend of reserved traditional older Parisian customers discussing family matters or real estate deals in a soft voice, much noisier and lively out-of-town visitors, including a few American and German tourists, and some young couples, was about the same as 50 years ago. The smells reflecting the good hearty food that is slowly cooked in the kitchen every day, was the same. The photos and posters on the walls, the collections of ancient beer mugs and steins, the hunting artifacts, the arrangement of the wooden tables with their checkered red and white cloth were still there. But a few things were different: The stuffed stork is now at the back of the restaurant, there is no longer the smoke of the cigarettes and cigar permeating everything, and I could not recognize more than one waiter. Besides, I did not know the dapper young man who was standing in front of the old wooden desk near the entrance which is the command center and the billing and cash registering station of the operation. In the early days, it was Monsieur Paul, the owner, or is wife, who were sitting there.
Fortunately the waiter who was assigned to my table just behind the bar, the only one I had recognized, had been working there for more than 20 years, and he was gracious enough, besides providing good old service, to answer my questions. Unfortunately he told me than Yvan, who had been fighting in the Algerian war, and had health problems since, had passed away. Otto, who had been a cook for Marshall Rommel during the Tunisian campaign in 42-43, and had acquired the French nationality after the war, had also passed away.
The elegant young man, Paul-Emmanuel was obviously managing the restaurant the day I was there. He is one of the 2 sons of Marcel and Michèle Kappe the owners of the restaurant since the father of Madame Kappe, Paul Guépratte, whom we used to call Monsieur Paul, as I just said, when I was a regular there in the early sixties retired.
Paul Guépratte, the young man’s grand-father, purchased the restaurant in December of 1953, at the time it was called L’Oasis, from an another Alsatian man, Monsieur Lauer. Guépratte had an apartment nearby that he used when he was in Paris. This is how he learned about Lauer’s intention to sell his restaurant. As it was customary at the time, the deal was made with a handshake at the bar. Paul Guépratte, and his wife Marthe, who was often standing behind the front desk preparing checks and greeting customers, gave the restaurant its present name.
After I finished my meal I asked Paul Emmanuel Kappe a few questions and congratulated him on the quality of the choucroute garnie I had just finished. I told him that it was even better that I remembered it. I asked him if they still bought their meats from Schmid, a well-known Parisian supplier of Alsatian charcuterie, but his answer was that they had after many years changed suppliers. I believe the new one is Jund. He told me that they still cooked themselves their choucroute every day, and that they might be the last brasserie in Paris to do so. In fact all their hot dishes are home-prepared and cooked according to the old traditions of their brasserie.
Same for the excellent Mutzig beer, and their Munster fermier au cumin (a delicious creamy and slightly pungent Alsatian cheese served with caraway seeds),which are both as good as ever.
They still serve the delicious sorbets from Berthillon, an internationally famous family-owned maker of ice cream and fruits sorbets established in1954 and located a couple of blocks away.
When I discovered the place in 1963, they were still I believe selling charcoal bags in the store.
The choucroute garnie I ate in November was one of the best I had in years. It is served on a pretty porcelain plate engraved with the name of the brasserie. The white cabbage was cooked to perfection, aromatic with just the needed touch of acidity. It was at the same time moist and still a bit crisp. There were plenty of juniper berries and enough peppercorn left in the cabbage.
Now, the best part was the incredible quality of the generous sample of pork and charcuterie. I will try to remember its components but my memory is sometimes unfaithful.
One link of deliciously aromatic boudin noir (blood sausage). One link of very delicate white sausage, perhaps veal and pork based, that seemed to be flavored with small fragments of truffle. One piece of palette (lean part of the pork shoulder). One piece of pork knuckle. One frankfurter sausage. One slice of lard de poitrine (thick bacon). One piece of knackwurst. One slice of garlic sausage. And pehaps one slice of Jambon de Paris (white ham), but I am not certain about this last component.
As I said, the artisan Munster cheese was very good with its cumin (caraway) seeds on the side, and so was the sorbet.
I limited myself to one stein of beer.
Too bad the weather was not more pleasant since I would have finished that meal sitting outside on the beautiful terrace, facing Notre-Dame cathedral, drinking a cup of their excellent espresso with a tiny glass of kirshwasser.
Maybe next time since this experience was so pleasant that I cannot wait to return.