Where else but Paris can you sip champagne in a brasserie that feels plucked from Proust, then slink back to a boutique hotel that channels sixties cool? Alex Larman discovers two sides to the city of lights, both irresistible…
Arriving in Paris in late August is something of a collision of cultures and expectations. On the one hand, it’s nowhere near as busy as it usually is, because all les vrais Parisiennes have taken their opportunity to flee the bustling city for the south of France, or beyond.
Yet if the natives are away, this doesn’t stop it being a hive for holidaymakers of all hues, from the out-of-town French wishing to spend a few days in the big city when it’s a bit quieter, to, of course, Francophiles of all hues, from Americans in Paris to Brits wishing to immerse themselves in something rather more chic for a few hours or days than the usual grind in our own country.
If it’s glamour that you’re looking for, I cannot think of a more appropriate spot than the Hotel Norman, which opened in 2023 to appropriate applause. Tucked just a whisper from the Champs-Élysées on Hotel Balzac, the Hotel Norman is a boutique gem that channels the pioneering spirit of the 1960s, yet complements it with the plush comforts of today.
Named after Norman Ives, the American graphic artist whose bold designs defined an era, this 37-room bolthole in the 8th arrondissement is a stylish paean to modernist verve, coupled with Parisian nonchalance. It’s the sort of place where one might imagine Jean-Paul Belmondo plotting a heist over a martini, as Brigitte Bardot slinks into view.
The interiors, a symphony of clean lines and vibrant hues, evoke Ives’ graphic genius without slipping into pastiche. Think teak accents, geometric flourishes, and a palette that dances between mustard yellow and charcoal grey, complete with Bakelite details and mahogany in all the right places. My third-floor room was a study in understated opulence, with one of the most outrageously comfortable beds I can ever remember sleeping in, and a bathroom that subtly redefines luxury. It all made for a delightful stay.
The intriguing-sounding Thai restaurant Thiou was closed during our visit, but we breakfasted there, and it was a Tom Ford/Single Man-styled retro delight, combining terrific food (perfect scrambled egg with ham, a comprehensive fruit plate and delicious pain au chocolat) with design that unites France and the West Coast of America in the best way imaginable.
We left delighted and relaxed. Still, for all its polish, the Norman retains a relaxed charm, avoiding the sterile grandeur of Paris’s palace hotels. For those seeking a chic, intimate escape, the Norman is a triumph.
However, we still needed to be fed, and so it seemed important to head over to another Paris, in the form of one of its most famous brasseries, Bofinger. Nestled snugly in the Marais, Bofinger remains a bastion of Parisian grandeur, its Art Nouveau interiors gleaming with the jollity of a century and a half’s revelry.
This storied brasserie, a stone’s throw from the Bastille, is less a restaurant than a living tableau of Belle Époque excess, where mirrored walls and stained-glass cupolas frame a parade of diners who seem plucked from a Proust novel. For the Arbuturian reader, it’s a pilgrimage worth making, and we ate conspicuously, devilishly well.
Our evening began with La Tatithou oysters, six briny jewels from Brittany, taken even despite their not being an ‘r’ in the month. Our decision to throw caution to the winds was rewarded; their saline purity was offset by two flutes of Jacquart champagne, crisp and effervescent, poured with a flourish by staff who glide with balletic precision and happily lapse into English and friendliness before returning to Gallic formality.
I remembered my Spartacus, and like dear Laurence Olivier, my tastes have always included both snails and oysters. So it was only logical to order a half-dozen large Burgundy snails which arrived, glistening in garlicky butter. My wife’s langoustine ravioli followed and was every bit as good, but we were both more interested in the mains to come.
Her sea bass was a triumph of flavour and texture, with grilled peppers giving it a remarkable straightforwardness (‘very simple, very good’), but I dare say that my entrecôte, a generous slab of grilled beef, was even better, its charred exterior yielding to a blushing core, paired with a béarnaise sauce as silken as a top KC. Accompanying this was an excellent bottle of Haut-Médoc Cru Bourgeois claret, its robust tannins and blackberry notes cutting through the richness with aristocratic poise.
By now, we were quite full, but it would seem silly not to order dessert, and so a few murmured words brought crêpes flambéed with Grand Marnier, the flames dancing briefly before revealing thin, caramelized pancakes that melted on the tongue, a fittingly theatrical finale. Bofinger’s charm lies not just in its food but in its atmosphere—a cacophony of clinking glasses, murmured French (and, it must be said, American-accented English), and the occasional guffaw from a table of bon vivants.
The service, attentive yet never fussy, ensures you feel like a regular, even if it’s your first visit. Prices, while not modest, reflect the quality and the setting; this is no place for penny-pinching, although there is a good-value set menu offer, and lunch, in which you can have two courses for less than twenty euros, is undeniably a bargain.
You will leave Bofinger and Hotel Norman alike feeling a sense of having seen Paris, old and new alike, at its best. There’s a saying about old wine in new bottles, but this is a case of a pair of excellent vintages presented at its very finest. And nobody could, or should, wish for anything finer.
Hotel Norman is a member of the Small Luxury Hotels of the World. For more information, please visit www.hotelnorman.com.
Bofinger, 5-7, rue de la Bastille 75004 Paris. For more information, and for bookings, please visit www.bofingerparis.com.
