The Parisian Duck That Disappeared
Duck à l'orange in a Parisian bistro
Paris, post lockdown, felt like a city rubbing sleep from its eyes. The streets were quieter and had a certain unhurried romance, and for the first time perhaps in history, Parisians were almost unnervingly polite. No dramatic sighs at the mere existence of tourists, no condescending eye rolls when you mispronounced a menu item, just genuine warmth, as if the collective trauma of a pandemic had pressed a cosmic reset button on French hospitality.
It had been a while since I had travelled properly. I had forgotten how to roam with intention, how to stumble upon things worth finding. There were no restaurant reservations, no bookmarked Google Maps pins. Just a craving for normalcy and a deep, unshakable faith that Paris would take care of me.
And oh, did it ever!
A Quiet Street, A Crisp Afternoon, A Doorway That Pulled Us In
Le Petit Canard wasn’t on my list. In fact, I didn’t have a list. My travel instincts, dulled by months of takeout and home cooking, had abandoned me, and we found ourselves wandering towards Montmartre without a single reservation.
It was one of those crisp grey Parisian afternoons, the kind that makes everything feel like it belongs in black and white. The winding streets leading up to Montmartre were slick with the morning’s rain, glistening under the weak sunlight peaking through the clouds.
Tucked away on a quiet street, Le Petit Canard barely announced itself. Just the low, contented murmur of diners spilling onto the pavement, a warm invitation hidden in plain sight. The name, which means "the little duck", felt like a flirtation.
Intrigued, we stepped inside, expecting the usual Parisian scepticism toward reservation-less wanderers, but to our delight, the host smiled warmly and led us to a cozy corner table.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of butter, garlic, wine, and the unmistakable promise of something decadent. A French bistro that knew its strengths and played to them. Warm, dimly lit, humming with energy. A tiny temple to all things duck.
Foie Gras, Snails, and the Duck That Ruined Me
We started with foie gras, because some days you just have to accept your inner aristocrat and lean in. It arrived cool, rich, and impossibly silky. The first bite of the foie and fig compote spread on toasted brioche welcomed be into its familiar buttery luscious embrace.
Then, escargots drowning in garlic butter, each bite an indulgent, slightly scandalous affair. We mopped up every last drop of that earthy sweetness with crusty baguette, unabashed that we were one shade of restraint away from licking the plate.
And then, came the duck.
It arrived like a grand entrance in an old movie, almost in slow motion now in memory - golden, glistening, unapologetically rich.
The skin crackled under the knife, revealing meat so tender it practically melted into the sauce, and that glorious sauce was equal parts citrusy, caramelized, and seductive.
Every bite was a quiet kind of indulgence, the kind that makes you pause mid-conversation just to close your eyes for a second. And that’s exactly what I did.
The entire meal was so perfectly balanced, so completely self-assured, that for a while after we were finished, all we could do was sit there in stunned silence, quietly thanking the gods for this return to normalcy which made this divine experience possible.
There was no room for dessert, just an espresso to stretch out the moment a little longer, a final note to let the meal settle into memory.
And Then, It Was Gone.
A year later, planning another Paris trip, I did what any sane person would do. I went looking for my duck.
But Le Petit Canard had vanished.
No relocation. No poetic farewell note from the chef. Just a ghost of a perfect meal, lingering in memory.
I felt a sense of loss, of a delicious memory slipping through time. No recreations, no second chances. Perhaps that’s the cruelest, most beautiful part of food travel - sometimes, you only get one shot at an unforgettable meal.
And maybe that’s the most Parisian thing of all.
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Not all those who wander are lost - some of us are just looking to recreate the perfect meal.
Ankita
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