Aux Crus de Bourgogne — Restaurant in Paris

Summary: Black Comedy 👯‍♀️요건 그냥 패스하세요… yazhou men bie lai zhe canting Pate & Snail appetizers super - pity their taste quickly left our memory when the WC doors start swinging next to us. It was a half-empty Sunday evening so we moved tables after the waitress went to talk to a very reluctant (and veryy passive aggressive ) manager for five minutes. But we are optimists and hoped the mains would fix the evening….

Sadly the famed beef bourginon was stringy tough and sour - basically overcooked (i hope not recooked mon dieu) and without a balanced sauce. Maybe my expectation was too high due to great local spots my french friends took me to recently. I’m frankly confused by the high rating french reviews for this place. The place is 50% Americans (who are usually okay with tipping for mediocrity no offense) and maybe 10% French - maybe was a Sunday thing...

The young waiters are kind and attentive but they are clearly not given enough autonomy to provide quality service. They literally check everything with the manager who is loudly throwing his ego around in full earshot of guests (i came for dinner, not to be reminded of my toxic work manager🥹) By the end of the evening we realized the manager’s iron-hand seating plan was to place all the Asians (not just all non-french) in a line running from the door to WC next to the main corridor. Very subtle..bless your heart 🥰

The experience was very different from the kind and professional service we experienced at less touristy gems around Paris mingling with amazing Parisiens. To top it off, the bill at the end was 130eur for two - incl. two glasses of wine and a 9 eur water) it was more expensive than our hotel’s Michelin restaurant even tho we escaped before dessert. Hands down the best tourist trap I’ve experienced in a while🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️🙇🏻‍♀️

A small update: my poor fiance (who is not french, he never spoke french if you can recall) had a bad stomachache that lasted until the following afternoon, I barely touched my main and I was fine.

The other korean reviews I found say she was placed right by the door for her ‘reserved’ seat and waiters constantly kicked her chair without...

There are meals that nourish, and then there are meals that seduce — that linger in memory like the last pages of a cherished novel, half-remembered but forever felt. Aux Crus de Bourgogne offers the latter: a dinner not merely eaten but lived.

We began, comme il faut, with the pâté en croûte, a regal entrée, firm and fragrant, like something the Duc de Guermantes might’ve sliced into at a candlelit supper in Proust’s forgotten salons. Each bite whispered of old recipes and older secrets — a perfect prelude.

Then came a pas de deux of mains: the noix d’entrecôte, marbled and generous, cooked à point, and the steak au poivre, whose sauce clung to the meat like a jealous lover. Rich, unapologetic, and shamelessly good. But it was the pithiviers de gibier that stole the show — an opulent, golden envelope that cracked open like a promise. Beneath the crisp folds: wild game, deep and dark, the kind of dish that makes you lean back in your chair, close your eyes, and murmur mon Dieu. It was, in every sense, la petite mort of the meal.

And then, there was Aurélie Z. Our waitress — no, our muse du soir. Gracious, quick-witted, and radiant with the kind of beauty that makes conversation feel like flirtation and wine feel like foreplay. She guided us with a poet’s ease, weaving charm into every course. If Colette had waited tables, she’d have done so like Aurélie.

In a world of overhyped brasseries and Instagram façades, Aux Crus de Bourgogne remains defiantly true to its terroir — unbothered, elegant, and deeply Parisian. The kind of place where time pauses, wine flows, and language becomes food.

We left, as all lovers of good things do, a little drunk, a little full, and already...

I visited in June of 2019 on a two-day excursion and eventually gave into my dumb American desire to stereotype French cuisine because of course I did.

My journey lead me to peruse París for a restaurant that serves no other than the elusive escargot. Elusive because escargot is not a staple of French cuisine, rather a doe-eyed fantasy sprinkled into American imagination like a gentle snowfall on a December's eve.

What do I stumble upon other than a romantic restaurant painted gently among the cobblestone of Rue Bachaumont, the lamplight dancing feverishly through the gentle mist of rain that fell upon us.

We sat outside and enjoyed a glass of red before my dish had arrived.

There it was. A beautiful array of shells decorated a plate, each one brimming with veridian brine FILLING my nostrils with that familiar and oh-so-voluptuous scent of garlic. I had one goal.... it was to assault my taste buds.

Had I not had the grace of Earth's gravity to hold me down, I would have joined the stars right then and there because with my first sip, nay, INHALATION, of the escargot, my whole entire body erupted! The flavours wove through me like a falcon scouting the land for its next kill. My skin rose and crashed with the might of 7 oceans.

In the blink of an eye. It was done. I had fulfilled my foolish American adventure and solidified my experience of eating Parisian escargot. But foolish or not, this sparkling trophy of a memory shall last me lifetimes.

Service was amazing as well! Please do stop by...