Le Vin Sobre (25 Rue Fuillantine, 01 43 29 00 23) is in an equally not happening neighborhood (see previous wine bar entry). Sobre is a tiny, potentially adorable, space but it could use a dimmer switch and a designer’s good advice to go along with the decent wine and eats.

I was there on a very busy Sunday night-- of course, every other place in Paris was closed. Our waiter ticked me off by assuming I didn’t get the pun on the name (Vinsobres--one of the Cote de Rhone village) and recommending a wine from the Languedoc by a rich guy with the last name of Forbes --a bit too nouvelle for me. He redeemed himself, however, by taking the wine back and putting up with my bad language skills with good humor.

The four-top behind me were Brits in the wine biz but most people seemed like non-wine industry folk-- here for the inexpensive drink (natural or unnatural) and the popular and medieval looking cote de boeuf. I barely ate anything, the soup—a big piping bowl of fennel soup and the crusty bread which was exactly what I wanted.

The wine list? Solid, nicely stocked with wines from the south and southwest and the twelve wines by the glass choices wisely feature some hot shots from the Loire including Jo Landron and Domaine Griottes. Would I go back? Hell, yes. Harsh lighting side, it is hard to argue with the prices and quality.

However an argument is what I got in the trendier 6th arrondissment at a sweetly reinvented old dairy store, Cremerie Caves Miard (9, rue des Quatre-Vents Tel : 01 43 54 99 30). As we waited to order I fixed my attention on the owner/chef hunched over his cutting board, behind the four- seat marble bar, framed by a curtain of rusty-colored prosciutto. Pierre Jancou, gap tooth, chestnut hair falling on his forehead is handsome and he cut a darned picturesque figure so I aimed my digital and shot.

The lousy shot at La Cremerie that got me in trouble.

Within seconds he loomed over me, hand placed on his heart. In perfect English he scolded, “Madam, like an American Indian, if you take my picture I lose my soul.” It didn’t stop there. After the tongue-lashing I was tempted to pull the plug and leave, but the selection of French and Italian natural wines were too extraordinary, the food, simple, fresh, perfect. I stayed put. Fuming. Perhaps he knew I was no wine slouch when I ordered the Olivier Cousin Le Breton. Maybe he overheard me talking about the story I was working on for the New York Times, maybe he heard me drop some names of people we knew in common, because he soon gave me a heartfelt apology, which evolved into an energetic wine dialogue. Miard’s lunatic, passionate owner not withstanding, the place is a gem, (even though he insisted I buy a Loire gamay that was totally oxidized, natural isn’t good just because it’s natural. It’s also got to be good).