George and I had lunch at Table d’Eugene the day after we arrived in Paris. All the seats inside the restaurant were taken, but luckily, a small table outside in front was empty. We took it. On a warm, sunny spring day dining al fresco is no hardship.
Table d”Eugene is a featured dining stop on my weeklong culinary tour in Montmartre. I could have reserved by phone, it’s true, but this time I was eager to deliver an article from last Sunday’s NYTimes Travel Section in which Mark Bittman, the Times food editor and Opinion writer, had raved about the lunch he’d shared at Table d’Eugene with cookbook author Patricia Wells. Evidently Bittman was not expecting sophisticated dining in a part of Paris beneath his gastronomic radar. (Patricia Wells praised the meal in her blog soon after their visit.) All this attention is bound to increase tourist traffic to this tiny
restaurant. As they say, there goes the neighborhood!
And who is Eugene? He's the man for whom the street was named, Eugene Sue, a writer of pulp fiction serialized in magazines and banned by the government for its socialist slant. (Montmartre often honors its out-spoken reformers.)
Chef Maillard’s cuisine is simple, in its reverence for common ingredients, yet refined in his treatment of them. George’s starter course was a perfectly poached egg on a bed of braised leek and mushrooms sauteed in bacon fat. A crisp slice of bacon gave this dish of humble origins a stylish finish.
His main course, a mammoth pork chop, was accompanied by a side of creamy ‘risotto’ made of tiny pasta shells and enriched with truffle juice. My choice was an impeccable slice of salmon, cured in smoked salt and then seared. A rich sauce made from fish bones cooked in red wine enhanced the salmons flavor and tempered its richness. A mixture of braised lentils, diced root vegetables and bacon - spooned unexpectedly into a martini glass - was served on the side. The chef recommended I try a glass of Muscadet sur lie. It was unlike any I had ever tasted: full of fruit and unctuous rather than dry. The particulates descending in the golden liquid, indicated it was a natural, unfiltered wine preferred by the ‘fooding’ chefs. 
Excellent service in a small restaurant packed with diners requires almost military precision. Only two people can work the room successfully. I was surprised to see chef Geoffroy taking orders himself, and his mother serving with the same efficiency I’d come to expect from the usual young wait staff. Madame didn’t miss a beat and smiled warmly as she placed my plate on the table. Moments like these make dining in Paris so memorable.
