Le Menu à Onze

The humble culinary underclass of the café lunch and the jug of wine is what makes the true francophile’s heart beat the fastest. Say non to the Michelin star and the TV chef, and oui to the institution of the menu à onze.

The menu à onze is just that: an €11 lunch. Last I checked, eleven euros buys you an espresso in the Paris Ritz, but in most provincial French villages it entitles you to an entrée and a plat, a dessert or a plate of cheese, a little basket of crunchy baguette, and if you’ve really scored, a jug of red on the side.

Variations on a theme abound. Sometimes the house apperitif is thrown in. On some heady occasions it’s fromage ET dessert. In fine establishments, you may be able to opt for a supplément to get your steak à cheval (with an egg on top) or a glass of sauternes with your foie gras. I’m not trying to say they’re all the same. But what is consistent is the the little jar of Amora mustard on every table; the unwavering middle-of-the-road quality: nothing spectacular, rarely disappointing; and the unshakable feeling that you are finally doing what all the tourist brochures talked about: eating where the locals eat.

Every French town with more than 3.7 inhabitants has a café, and in my experience roughly half of them serve a decent lunch. That makes for (statistically speaking) several tens of millions of local cafés to choose from. So you can leave your guidebooks behind and follow your nose. Find a busy terrace, order a jug of cuvée du patron, extract €11 from your wallet, and enjoy.

Jack Dancy is patiently waiting for summer (and all the al fresco meals that come with it) along with the rest of the staff at Trufflepig.