7.5 Clamato, 80 rue de Charonne in the 11th (Metro: Charonne), 01.43.72.74.53 (but no reservations and lots of counter space), open Wednesday to Sunday nights but lunch only on weekends. Backstory: Yesterday my know-it-all (in the best sense) friend asked if I'd been to Clamato because she'd had a blowout meal there (again) the night before. "No," said I, "it's only open at night." "Not so, it's open for lunch on weekends." "Ahhhhright!"
So realizing it took no reservations, I arrived at 12h15 and was seated at the only 2-seat table that didn't abut tables with those pesky fellow Parisiens. While waiting I had a glass of (get your) Jaja('s out) and read my JDD about Mandiba, Ghandi and Barry. My invitee, who lives near Voltaire, arrived on the dot and we wrestled with the choices on the menu. As you can see, or maybe not, there really are no clear entrees or mains (excepting the oysters) so we regarded our meal as a small plate free-for-all which was the way to go.
The best tasting dish for both of us was/were the slices of octopus with cooked leeks and hit-you-in-the-face chorizo bits - wow! Then tied and close behind were the rillettes of tuna and sweet herring with a good portion of salad on top and the scallops and héliantis (me neither) and the hazelnut sauce. Pulling up last, but hey, anywhere else it would be outasight, the ceviche of mackerel with cabbage.
We elected to share a dessert, a good move, because the Sicilian lemon financier with ice cream was superb.
Our bill, with a glass and a bottle of 1901 (the brand not the year) Rhone white wine (I'm only on Photoshop Lesson #80 so I haven't yet learned how to turn rosé into white wine, but I assure you it was a white), decent but not extraordinary bread and a staff that worked the door, tables, bar, counters and kitchen seemingly seamlessly, with enthusiasm, humor and pretty damn good English once they heard us chatting, was 76 E. And the dB level never exceeded 80.3 dB.
Go? "Nation" as Colbert would say, "Nation, wake up, go, enjoy!"
