Only serious eaters need apply.

This statement may be obvious, but: there are a lot of places to eat in Paris. Many are good, many are not; but it still happens that each Saturday night is preceded by a lengthy and arduous decision-making process to determine where to eat. Most places are French, and most of those have an almost identical aesthetic, making it even more difficult to distinguish between what will be tasty and what will tasteless.

It also happens that in Paris, quality of decor is rarely an indicator of the quality of the meal that will be served and is therefore not usually a factor in the method of selection. In fact, little to no decor is likely preferable to any alternatives. I have learned to be weary of those certain establishments whose walls are over-decorated and whose plates are over-garnished, Franc-ified to lure unsuspecting tourists into their seemingly quaint interiors only to stuff them full of cheap cuts of meat, poorly veiled by a nondescript sauce, and served with the requisite frites.

But after a few disappointing dining experiences, one gains a bit of wisdom in the art of selection. And after having even one amazing, unforgettable meal, you start to feel the pressure to match or exceed that experience in every meal that follows, to never return to that place where you regret handing over your hard-earned euros for a meal that leaves you full yet unsatisfied, with a sour expression, and a bitter taste in your mouth.

And fortunately, after making a strict promise to myself never to consume another less-than-sastifactory meal in Paris (especially considering that there are many delicious opportunities that are still uneaten), I have had nothing terrible to report in recent months. Most meals I eat outside of my own kitchen are carefully researched, highly anticipated, and rarely disappointing.

However, once in a while, if you're lucky, there are those exceptional occasions that manage to surpass every possible expectation; when all the stars align and destiny or karma, fate or some higher power presents you with a single, unforgettable moment of gastronomic enjoyment. A miracle of meat and wine and conversation and atmosphere. A mouthwatering jewel amidst a sea of faded flavours.

One often hears that miraculous things can happen in the most common and unsuspecting of places. And so was the case on a typical Saturday in early February, at a small and unassuming establishment in the 11th arrondissement, Bistrot Paul Bert.

While decidedly unpretentious, made up of an odd cluster of small rooms and sparsely decorated with mismatched chairs and a few pictures tacked to the walls, Bistrot Paul Bert is humble but lively, and furnished with the only the elements really necessary, and those generally indicative of a good meal; a portable chalkboard menu, a sturdy table, and a sharp knife. The restaurant and it's patrons are legitimately unconcerned with designer furnishings or flattering lighting schemes. This place has only one purpose. Only serious eaters need apply.

After arriving, we sit for a moment at the bar while our table is cleared and set, and consider the prix fixe options listed in barely legible handwriting on the menu board. And while there usually tends to be just a slight inkling of competitive camaraderie between myself and my dinner companions (you're going down, Shucks), we still always manage to pull together as a united front, vigilantly and strategically selecting our courses so that we can both cover as much of the menu as possible, and still all leave with the satisfaction of getting exactly what we wanted.

We make our menu choices before we're finally seated, and as we travel the short distance between the bar and our lovely little table by the window, I can feel the excitement rising. Passing through the room filled with crowded tables of happy diners and the pleasurable aromas of food and booze, the anticipation continues to build and I suddenly have the knowing sense that this will be a fantastic meal.

They say that first impressions are both revealing and irreversible, a principle that is easily applied to that first bite, as it slides off your fork and on to your tongue, and you wait for your senses to relay the textures and flavours that are dancing inside your mouth. For this reason, it can also be said that the entrée is the most important course of your meal.

Scott ordered the most intriguing (but also most disappointing) dish from the entrée section, a pigeon ravioli in a very plain-tasting broth (pictured on the far left). It was still edible, and maybe compared to less impressive alternatives it would have tasted better, but overall it was quite bland. I think I expected something with such an exotic-sounding title to taste a bit more, well, exotic. But I guess pigeons aren't really exotic creatures, and their prevalence was reflected in their very ordinary and insipid flavour. On a positive note, I finally got my revenge on all of those vicious pigeons who have endeavored to attack me. Let this be a warning to them all.

The veal tongue salad (far right) was Mia's choice, and was a dish that I think I underestimated. It was delicious; the tender tongue combined with potato, onion, and tarragon, with that kind-of warm, gentle spiciness provided by the mustard sauce. It was perfect and comforting and gave that cozy feeling of reassurance and contentment.

I chose a "squid head" salad (centre), although there were also other parts of squid involved, all mixed with crisp peppers and cilantro and something citrusy. It was lovely and fresh, like a really pretty girl without make-up on, or a sprinkling of rain when the sun is still out. And after forks were stretched across the table and each dish was sampled by all, it was chosen as the winner of the entrée portion of the meal, and I was glad to have had something so light and refreshing as a precursor to the significantly more demanding challenges I had ahead.

While I usually spend some time deciding on what to order, often flip-flopping between two or three equally tempting choices, I think I knew, even before entering the restaurant, what I was going to order for my main course. I had a craving for meat; a big slab of something rare and salty and juicy. They had a côte de boeuf for two on the menu and so it was decided that Scott and I would combine efforts and take on the challenge.

I am generally a bit wary of "plates for two" as you always take the risk of there not being enough to sate two healthy appetites and then are left to resignedly divide the portion into two equal, but unsatisfactory parts that you know you could finish both on your own. However, any reservations I might have had were quickly diminished as the waitress arrived with a large wooden board topped with a hefty piece of cow, a pile of fries, and a couple little pots of bernaise:

My eyes widened and my pulse quickened. The steak was releasing the most wonderful meaty aroma of charred flesh and melting fat and was supplying rivers of savory pink juice that were seeping into the cracks of the board. Okay, forget what I said earlier about the entrée being the most important part of the meal. This not only deserved prominence, it demanded it.

We looked at it with gluttonous thoughts, with hunger and excitement and maybe just the slightest bit of trepidation. But I was confident -- in Scott's abilities, and my own. We could finish this monster and his little French fried friends. With pleasure. And a bit of bernaise.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, Mia had her own battle to fight -- a pot au feu that was intended for one, but that could have easily fed two:

Pot au feu is a relatively common French meal consisting of a standard assortment of root vegetables and herbs and some meat, all thrown into pot and then eaten with a bit of mustard. This particular pot au feu also had the distinct addition of a couple pieces of bone filled with the fatty treasure that is marrow.

And, being the selfless team players that we are, Scott and I were only too happy to help her out. What's a bit more meat, when you are already faced with several pounds of it? (And I mean literally, several pounds.)

And then there was that moment, one of pure decadence, when Mia reached over and smeared a knife-full of marrow on a small bit of steak left on my plate, and (after adding a dab of bernaise, obviously) I was transported to a place of incredible indulgence, where meat joins butter and fat in the pursuit of ultimate satisfaction and where the calories don't count (or where you don't count the calories). A place that I still think of often, with fondness and with longing.

Then, a moment of pride and accomplishment:

Yes, we did it. Completely filled and intoxicated by an excess of protein and a couple glasses of wine, we became almost delirious as we leaned back in our seats, trying to breath deeply and remain coherent. And then we remembered, we still had one course to go. Dear God.

Except dessert is my favourite course. And it goes into a different stomach, or something. And the desserts offered sounded entirely too pleasurable to just neglect. And, after all, we are not ones to shy away from any challenge, or let a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for gastronomic gratification pass us by. Even if it means that I have to undo my belt.

Our decision to continue with dessert was instantly justified when I was informed that the Grand Marnier souffle I had chosen was made to order and would make the journey from oven to table in about fifteen minutes. Our decision was further (although unnecessarily) justified after we were presented with these:

Mia chose the classic tarte tatin (far left), which is never complete without a little bowl of crème fraîche, thick and glossy, just waiting to be spooned onto the slice of warm apple-y goodness. It is a staple in most French restaurants, and I have ordered it often myself. But it's ubiquitous nature means that there are a lot of unsatisfactory versions out there, not to say that I haven't also had several memorable and thoroughly satisfying varieties. Regardless, this was the best I've tasted, surpassing it's competitors with the aid of a faintly bitter caramel sauce.

Scott, the cyclist, ordered the Paris-Brest (far right), named and created in honour of the bicycle race from Paris to Brest and shaped like a tiny, delicious bicycle wheel. It may look like a bagel with pastrami, but in reality it's a delightful ring of choux pastry filled with a velvety noisette filling and topped with a few slices of almonds and a bit of powdered sugar.

But the real hero of the dessert course, and possibly of the entire meal, was the Grand Marnier soufflé (centre) that was placed in front of me, direct from the oven, fifteen minutes later as promised. Flawlessly puffed and golden, warm and airy with just a hint of sweet liqueur, it was the consummate way -- the only way -- to end the meal. And when I think of that last, lingering spoonful of puffed perfection I can't help but think that it's dessert, really, that is the most important part of a meal. It's the last flavour that endures on your tongue, the last impression of taste and texture that follows you home and haunts your dreams. In fact, this soufflé still haunts my dreams. Although that may be because I keep a picture of it beside my bed.

We left Bistrot Paul Bert that night, the last patrons to walk out the door, fully sated and still buzzing with pleasure and satisfaction. The food had been wonderful, but by no means perfect. The service was prompt and pleasant, but not particularly engaging. The atmosphere warm and spirited, but not exceptionally so. Nevertheless, this was one of the best meals I have ever experienced. It wasn't overly expensive, or the mark of a significant occasion, and yet the distinct culmination of food and friendship and flavour succeeded in creating one of those perfect, fated moments and a lingering impression.

I am not sure if I can recollect another meal that was as gratifying as this one, so much so that I am almost afraid to return to Bistrot Paul Bert with the fear of tarnishing my memory, of recording over the experience with a lesser one. And however strange it may be, I honestly don't know if I'll ever have another meal at the place where I had the best meal. What I do know is that I am ready to persevere, to keep eating and discovering, searching amongst the cafés and bistrots of Paris for another culinary miracle.