A while back, my wife Ilka and I visited Paris for a month. We rented an apartment, and on the evening of our arrival, our landlady took us for a walk around the block. She pointed out three neighborhood restaurants and offered opinions on each. One, she said, was the poor sister of the three. Its name was not even on the front of the building. But Stella Artois (which we later found out is a beer) was inscribed on the faded red awning.

Several days later, exhausted after a day of sightseeing, we went out for a late supper. Restaurants abound in Paris and are marvelous, but on this evening we were too tired to go very far. The other two restaurants our landlady had pointed out were decent. Why not try Stella?

We walked in and the restaurant was small. It was a neighborhood bistro, not f...

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