Pastis is a thing of myth to me, like Bigfoot or Banksy or affordable skincare. It’s a restaurant name that rolls easily off the tongue. I’m unsure when I learned it, how, or why.
Meatpacking/Chelsea/West side is not somewhere I frequently frequent, and when I do eat over there, it’s either at Joseph Leonard or one of the Italian Big Four (Three of which I have not hit… That’s all to say, I go to Via Carota).
On a fateful Thursday night, truthfully a tad dark and stormy, the name I knew but knew nothing about jumped out at me while Resy doom-scrolling. I’ve been dying to try Claud, a restaurant on all of the lists these days and in my neighborhood. I figured Pastis would give me my French fix, so I booked a table for three. My cousin, mom, and I were trepidatious about a 9 pm dinner. Could our Prince Street Pizza pepperoni pie sustain us for that long?
**side note, but the new slice at PSP is a marriage between the vodka and iconic pepperoni. It is square and spicy yet sweet with melted honey, showcasing big hunks of white cheese throughout. AKA, to DIE for**
Nevertheless, she persisted; prosecco from Serafina blasted us into a night of reverie and chaos and, frankly, good food. Stepping into those French double doors at 8:54 pm, I knew I was the most blind of the three. My cousin has dined at Pastis in the recent past. My mother, a more distant past, of “twenty years ago.” Me, never.
Immediately, I was transported back to Paris (cue sighs and eye rolls). The white tiled floors and chalk-drawn mirrors adorning the night’s drink specials and the dim yellow lighting. An ambiance so loud you can barely hear your own hunger (louder than a restaurant would ever be in Paris, I could argue).
Our drink of choice was the refined take on what I previously knew to be a “pickle back shot” (#college). My mom played “Rizzard of Oz” this evening, charming just about every man, woman, and child we encountered. She inquired about the strange-seeming pickle-brine-vodka-drink, and the bartender replied: “Yes, it’s horrible,” snidely, “That’s exactly why we have it on our menu.”
As for food, we went big. The pepperoni was well worn off. My cousin had even attended a Barry’s Bootcamp just before! I was tired and hungry from a long day of reading and writing. On my way to our table, I bumped into a friend. Who knew so many people went to Pastis!
With only eating on my mind, I quizzed her on the best things to get from a lengthy list of classics. Escargots and french onion soups whizzed by us as we spoke. She sung the praises of the hamburger. Then, consequentially, of the Chicken Paillard. Why does Chicken Paillard feel like it should be capitalized? She went on to list a few other items.
Upon my mother’s insistence that I eat more red meat, the hamburger was a contender - which, ultimately, did not make the cut. This is a surprise, considering we ordered practically the whole entire placemat of a menu. Leeks. Fried artichokes. Ravioli. Steak sandwich (with frites and a side of mayonnaise). Roast Chicken with mashed potatoes. Chicken Paillard. Am I forgetting something?
The rest didn’t even make the cut, as far as photos go. Honestly, the best meals, nights, and memories have the least amount of pictures to show for them.
Stuffed to the brim with martinis and laughs and French fare, I didn’t even have room for dessert…
The star dish? The fried artichokes with garlic aioli for a starter, and the roast half chicken main.
A dark horse, what the chicken lacks in wow-factor appearance, the dish makes up for in taste and execution. Your two pieces of poultry bathe in a wildly flavorful jus, while the skin (the true test) remains greased and cripsy. I recommend dipping each bite into buttery-but-light mashed potatoes. The chicken barely needs a knife.
In terms of the bill, it’s not your average workweek dinner, but for a place of such a grand reputation and mystique, we were shocked it didn’t cost more. Soo shocked, apparently, we forgot our credit card at the restaurant. Retrieving the card close to midnight, Pastis still hosted a slew of diners in their outside seating (well-past closing time). They lingered over their meal, enjoying a long, near-summer night like the rest of us.
⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ /five
Pastis, a pleasant surprise.
Other highlights
Congee Village (LES) for a night of lazy susans and karaoke
Saint Ambroeus on the Upper East Side, a scene. A slice of Princepessa, a sight to behold.
Thanks as always for reading!
xoxo,
Chloé
Chloe I can’t believe I missed this night, but because of your incredible writing I feel like I was there! Great seeing you last week-I’m glad you included the Saint Ambrose cake❤️❤️
A night to remember 😍. Can't wait to go back. No mention of Anna Wintour sitting next to us?!?