Le Cinq, a Sommelier, and the Wine He Didn’t Want Me to Order

I’m sitting at a corner table at Le Cinq — the three-Michelin-star restaurant at the Four Seasons George V — and the sommelier has just told me, with a straight face, that the wine I ordered is “an adventurous choice.”

I think he means it’s cheap.

Not cheap by normal standards. Nothing at Le Cinq is cheap by normal standards. The bread course alone involves three types of butter and a man whose entire job is to present them. But by the standards of a wine list that opens at €80 a glass and has a section labeled “exceptional vintages” where the prices have the same number of digits as a mortgage payment — yes. My choice was modest.

A Côtes du Rhône. 2019. €65 for the bottle. In the context of this restaurant, I might as well have asked for the house red.

The Pause

The sommelier paused. It was a professional pause — the kind they must teach at whatever school produces French sommeliers. A pause that communicates, without words, that your selection has been noted and that an alternative might be worth considering. He reached toward the wine list, which was still open on the table, and his hand hovered over the Burgundy section the way a parent’s hand hovers over a child reaching for something sharp.

“If you’re drawn to the Rhône style,” he said, “we have a Châteauneuf-du-Pape from Château Rayas that is, perhaps, a more complete expression of the region.”

I looked at the Rayas. €380.

“The Côtes du Rhône,” I said. “Thank you.”

He nodded. He poured it. It was excellent.

The Meal

Le Cinq is the kind of restaurant that treats dinner as a production. The dining room is all gilt and chandeliers and flowers arranged with the precision of someone who believes asymmetry is a moral failing. The tables are spaced far enough apart that you can’t hear your neighbors, which in Paris is a luxury worth more than any wine on the list.

Chef Christian Le Squer’s menu is classical French technique pushed to its limits — not deconstructed, not reimagined, not “inspired by.” Refined. The difference matters. A langoustine ravioli that arrives in a consommé so clear it looks like nothing and tastes like everything. A turbot with artichoke that does something with texture I’ve never encountered — each bite changes, shifts, resolves into something different from what it started as.

The cheese course is wheeled in on a cart the size of a small vehicle. The waiter described each cheese with the tenderness of a man introducing family members. I chose four. He chose two more “because you should.” He was right.

The dessert — a citrus soufflé — arrived with the kind of theatrical timing that only the French can pull off without looking ridiculous. It was perfect. Not good. Not excellent. Perfect. A word I use once a year, maybe less.

The Bill

The tasting menu is €380. The wine pairing is €280. With my modest bottle and a few additions the waiter suggested with the gentle insistence of a man who knows you’ll say yes, the total was — I’ll tell you the truth — more than I’ve spent on most hotel rooms.

Was it worth it? That depends on what you think food is for. If it’s fuel, nothing on this menu is rational. If it’s experience, craft, the accumulated knowledge of a kitchen that’s been earning three stars for years — then yes. It was worth it in the way that anything made with genuine mastery is worth it, even when the price makes you pause.

The Snobbery

Fine dining has a snobbery problem and Le Cinq is not immune. The sommelier’s pause. The waiter who noticed my phone on the table and moved a bread plate to cover it, gently, as if the phone might contaminate the butter. The hostess who assessed my dress when I walked in with the efficiency of a scanner at airport security.

I passed. Apparently. But the assessment happened, and I noticed, and I want you to know that every three-star restaurant in Paris does this and none of them will admit it.

The trick is not to play the game. Don’t dress to impress them. Don’t perform knowledge of the wine list. Don’t ask for permission. Order what you want. Drink what you want. Eat with your hands if the bread is good enough, which it is. The snobbery is a test, and the correct answer is to ignore it entirely.

Where Else to Eat in Paris

If Le Cinq is the cathedral, these are the chapels:

Septime, 11th. One Michelin star that should be two. A tasting menu that changes daily based on what arrived from the market that morning. No choices. No modifications. You eat what they made and it’s always right. Book three weeks in advance or eat at Septime La Cave next door, which is walk-in and serves natural wine and small plates that cost a tenth of Le Cinq and are, on certain nights, equally good.

Le Baratin, 20th. A wine bar with food that has no business being this good in a space this small. The chef is Argentine. The menu is handwritten. The wine list is natural, funky, and chosen by someone who drinks for pleasure rather than prestige. The locals treat it like their living room, which is the highest compliment Paris can give.

Clown Bar, 11th. Named for the circus-themed tiles on the walls. Small plates, big flavors, a wine list that reads like a manifesto. It’s loud and tight and the food arrives when it’s ready, not when you’re ready. This is the anti-Le Cinq, and I love them both for different reasons.

The sommelier from Le Cinq would probably not approve of any of these. That’s how I know they’re good.

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