The Disappearing Paris Duck Spot

The series finale at Le Petit Canard

There are two finales that stick out to me and they’re obvious. There’s the Seinfeld finale, which I’ve always loved because it really connects a lot of what Larry David does to another writer who I personally find hilarious, Franz Kafka. Maybe I’ll dive into that another time, but go rewatch the episode and maybe it will make sense. The other is The Sopranos, which, again, not going to get too deep into that one because this isn’t about whether Tony is alive or not (he’s not) or whether they should have made it more final in the last seconds. Those two series-ending episodes have been discussed over and over and over and over and that’s part of the reason they pop into my head, but the main reason, I think about those two is because I watched them live. I cared about those shows. I don’t make it to the finale during the original run that often. I watched one season of Lost and hated it, then heard about how it ended, same with Game of Thrones and I think I saw the end of Friends, but I can’t recall so maybe I didn’t. The third finale I know I did watch and think about often is the 1993 ending of Cheers. I love that show and I love how they ended it, with Ted Danson’s Sam Malone realizing he’s got everything he could ever want in the bar he owns and the people that go there. “I’m the luckiest son of a bitch on earth,” he says.

That’s the perfect end to me, and I probably think about it often because the end of bars and restaurants is something that occupies a lot of my thoughts. I’ve written about plenty of places that I loved that are no more. I joke sometimes that I’m sort of the Grub Street obit writer since I’ve tackled places like City Bakery and little Brooklyn bars shutting down, and I’ve written plenty of essays on the topic in other places. But the thing with places I love closing is I either have a heads up and make it a point to go one last time, or the spot just shuts down and I’m filled with regret that I didn’t have a final chance. That’s almost always the way it goes in New York or Chicago or other cities I’m familiar with. But when I go to cities that I don’t know so well, fall in love with a place for one night and then find out it’s the one and only time I’ll be able to go because the end of the establishment is coming up, that’s crushing. That was the case the other night with Le Petit Canard in Paris, the little duck-centric restaurant near the Pigalle Metro station, the place won me over, then when I told them I’d be back next time I’m in town, they told me that wouldn’t be possible since they were closing up in a month

I’m thankful for the fact that I saved a little room and was able to order a lot of food so I could say I tried it all. The French onion soup was God-level, like a thinned-out Thanksgiving gravy as a soup. The plate of duck charcuterie, the melon salad where smoked duck breast took the place of prosciutto, a farmhouse salad with shredded duck on top of a bed of veggies with dried duck breast stuffed with foie-gras hidden inside. I got the duck à l'orange. It was incredible. I got emotional. Part of it was the food was so good, but the bigger reason was that was it, I will have this meal in this place once and then never again. It was the finale.

The thing is, I’ve been eating in New York restaurants for so long that the end of one is always due to some calamity. It’s likely the landlord being shit and jacking up the rent, but it could be anything from the place just running out of money to internal squabbles to the fact that the owners just fell out of love with the idea of the place. The New York restaurant closing feels traumatic, you can’t help but feel like something you love is going away while also feeling a tremendous amount of empathy for the people who no longer have a place to work or a place that is their dream disappearing because the industry is damn near impossible to survive in. I can’t say whether or not it’s like that in Paris or anywhere else I don’t live. In Paris, I hear stories of how places go in and out of fashion, live and die by the chef at the helm. I sort of love that idea, that one person can make the whole thing sink or swim, especially since so many New York restaurants attached to a “name” chef normally see the chef peace out once new locations or television or Las Vegas or whatever other opportunities start calling. Until it finally closes at the end of this month, Le Petit Canard has been serving up ducks from local farms in the same spot for 20 years. The decor is fun and obviously shows the owner’s two passions: ducks and ‘70s music, as evidenced by the framed copies of records like Lou Reed’s Berlin, some Miles Davis funk era and a Weather Station album. There’s nothing pretentious about the place, and the staff is funny and friendly even if your English isn’t so good. Our server was snappy in a way that reminded me of the old waitresses at places like 2nd Ave. Deli before it was forced to move uptown, except with a French accent, not a Bronx or Brooklyn one.

And so Emily and I ate and drank and then ate and drank some more. It was our last night in Paris and we just decided on a whim that Le Petit Canard looked nice so we took a chance. It was such a beautiful experience, not going in with any expectations besides the hope of good food, and coming out knowing that not only did we get that, but it was truly special because we could never do it again. I asked the owner why he was closing up, and he told me the simple reason is that he’s in his 70s and he wants to enjoy life and not wake up with his back hurting all the time. I told him that’s fair, and then he said something that for some reason I wanted to think was sarcasm because it was so lovely that it couldn’t be honest, but then when he shook my hand I realized he was telling me the truth. He said, “Memories of people like you are the souvenirs I will take with me after this.” I told him I felt the same about visiting his restaurant one time only, the only regret I had was I hadn’t gone there before.