All the president’s menus

Every politician needs a favourite restaurant for plotting and networking late into the night. Our

IT WAS seven years ago that Gérard Tafanel — who with his brother Serge owns the Montparnasse brasserie L a Rotonde — said to one of his re gular customers: “You will be president one day.” That customer, described by the waiters as “respectful, kind and polite” was the now 39-yearold Emmanuel Jean-Michel Frédéric Macron, leader of La République en Marche! and — as of May 14 — the youngest ever President of France. By virtue of this position, it is perhaps worth noting, he is also Co-Prince of Andorra.

That his wife Brigitte Trogneux is 24 years older is, of course, riveting and encouraging, but it is Macron’s choice of where to eat at least once a week — presumably not any more — that sends me hotfoot on the Eurostar to Paris to have dinner at La Rotonde.

I am with my sister Beth, a graduate of La Sorbonne, and my daughter Alice, who astonishes me by suddenly breaking into confident colloquial French. Alice is anti-Brexit.

We make a booking for 7.30pm, the latest time our hotel says a reservation can be taken. La Rotonde, with its striking Art Deco signage curving around the corner of Boulevard Montparnasse where it meets Boulevard Raspail, is un vrai brasserie, where meals are served from morning to night. Its crack troop of staff can handle whoever presents themselves, including local intelligentsia, walk-ins, starry-eyed tourists and the new centrist leader of France, who arrived with an entourage of staff and supporters to celebrate until 2am an historic victory.

Unlike other significant Paris brasseries — the beautiful engine rooms of dining such as La Coupole, Bofinger and Balzar — La Rotonde has avoided being swallowed in the great global maw of Group Flo, the organisation that also runs five restaurants at Disneyland Paris.

Executive chef Franck Gonnet has been running the kitchen for the past 17 years. The “serveurs” dressed in dark suits worn with a white napkin draped over one arm, look as if they have been handed down this very important job from their fathers and their fathers before them.

It is a balmy evening and we are shown to a table at the edge of the ground floor where it meets the deep terrace and red velvet seating gives way to red basket=weave outdoor chairs. Inside, honey-coloured light falls from golden lampshades with deep red fringes on to the womb-like comfort of the banquettes.

Opposite is a newspaper kiosk. The cover of Charlie Hebdo shows a gruesome picture of Theresa May with a severed head. As ever, Johnny Hallyday, sadly very ill, fronts a glossy. The French show greater fidelity to their pop stars than to their politicians, although the editor of Paris Match

Macron may be accused of being ‘caviar Left’ but this brasserie serves the people

recently said: “Macron on the cover can easily lift our sales by 10 per cent.”

All in good time — there is a rhythm of service here that nothing can disturb. Menus are brought. On the cover is a painting of a woman with hat, pearls, gloves, a glass of wine and an ashtray — not a Modigliani, I think, although reproductions of his paintings decorate the interior.

During the i n t e r-wa r ye ars L a Rotonde, founded by Victor Libion in 1911, was a haven for impoverished artists and writers, who often paid for meals with their creativity.

Macron and his wife are said to favour