French bliss for less than a tenner

Bargain bistro lunch makes a magnifique impression on Anna

I must have passed it a hundred times and never thought to pop in for a plate of mussels and a glass of vin rouge.

It’s exactly the kind of place I look for on holiday – in Spain last year I had lunch in its equivalent ever y second day.

The menu del dia, or its French equivalent, the menu prix fixe, is one of my favourite ways of eating authentic, seasonal, reasonable food.

The memory of the Teenager enthusiastically tucking into hake followed by a pear poached in red wine is getting me through these grim travel-free days.

At home, however, there are so many more pressing new places to try.

Then I saw a foodie Instagrammer having a Chez Jules takeaway. The film of her pouring pepper sauce over a foil tray of steak frites put my gastric juices on full alert.

Suddenly a traditional bistro lunch was the only thing that would do.

Unlike many lockdown takeaway options, this is easy enough to arrange. No booking, preordering, following complicated reheating instructions.

Just pick what you want from the blackboard menu, order through the hatch, sit on the steps and wait for an unfeasibly few minutes and it’s ready.

I barely had time to eavesdrop on the two rugby lads sitting at the makeshift table for two crammed into the other corner of the entrance area, having a jolly lunch with vino in paper cups, at 12.30 on a Friday.

A three-course lunch for two fitted in two brown carriers. I whisked them away to meet Old Chum for a socially distanced picnic in the park.

The menu has been boiled down to the bare minimum but still includes an astounding number of extras for a sub-£10 meal.

We took a wild guess that one of the three mini-baguettes, the tiny tub of olives and the mystery brown matter that turned out to be chicken liver pâté were nibbles to get us in the mood.

The pâté was more of a puree, with chicken livers an excuse to add brandy, cream and a hefty hit of garlic. The trees faded away and I was back at one of my mum’s dinner parties in the 70s.

French onion soup, the only first course in the set lunch menu, is the taste of red checked tablecloths. It normally comes with a severe risk of tongue scalding, so driving it around the capital before attempting to eat it was actually an act of health and safety. I liked it warm rather than blistering, with its chunk of cheesy bread disintegrating into the middle.

I’m always surprised that coq

au vin is a dark burgundy colour, like old velvet curtains. I know it’s made with red wine. It’s just a glitch in my mental Google image search that I will never straighten out.

Old Chum opened her silver foil dish to reveal two-thirds darkly fragrant chicken casserole, one-third mash made with the same approach to dairy enrichment as the pâté.

Neither of us had eaten anything like this for years, yet it was instantly homely and comforting.

I was raring to get at my steak frites. The meat was shredded, which accounts for the speedy service, and is suitable for eating with recyclable wooden cutlery.

There were the muchanticipated skinny chips, the kicking peppercorn sauce made from the pan juices, the shards of juicy beef. It was so simple and so good.

Included in the price was a cardboard bowl of torn butterhead lettuce and a tiny carton of mustardy vinaigrette.

Salad dressing running into the meat juices, mopped up with a chip, is one of the loveliest things that I have eaten in a long time.

By this time, the people with sandwiches at the next table were looking at us with undisguised envy.

And yes, there was more to come.

Paper cups – the ones that also come full of wine – of chocolate mousse.

This was made on the same principle as the pâté and the mashed potato. It was close to liquid, with a good hit of brandy. Made with milk chocolate rather than the currently fashionable dark, it was sweet, nostalgic and heady with booze. What’s not to like?

We loved our Chez Jules lunch. Not only was it a delicious bargain – less than £20 for two – but it was wildly different from every other meal we’d eaten in living memory.

Even without the tablecloth or the waiter in the long white apron, it was a holiday-style treat to brighten these weird stay-at-home days.

All that was missing was a stroll along the Seine afterwards.