Paris simmers with delicious innuendo: tales of chefs rising like caramelized phoenixes from the flames of defeat. Of three-stars dangling in financial distress, one even plunging into bankruptcy. Of Michelin all-stars relying on boil-and-serve packages. Is the food world bitchier than any other? Or does it just seem so because I’m wired into the chatter?

        Enough of knaves and kings. Let’s speak of cabbages. Parisian bread, like New York’s is better than ever, and restaurants vie to serve the most paralyzing variety of house-baked petits pains. Even chain bakeries stock a dazzling array of options – olive, nut, sesame, semolina, ancien, not so ancien. But in the name of health, the waistline, and pinched pocketbooks, many Parisians are drinking and eating less. (Parisians like to pose as cholesterol agnostics, but there’s no ignoring those abused livers that cry out in the night.) As the keepers of the priciest tables keep starting little discount bistros and offering cut-rate lunch, their former protégés are opening restaurants where the prudent prix fixe rules – with innards and odd parts (beef cheeks, calves’ tongues, oxtails) to batten down food costs.

        What follows is a report from a month in Paris, where a few go-for-broke splurges spiced up the hunt for the best in bargain dining. And the dollar, sturdier now against the faltering franc, sweetens the stew, though you may scarcely notice the blessing as you surrender $270 per person for grandeur-with-a-limp at the town’s newest three-star, Restaurant Alain Ducasse.

        If I had just one night to eat in Paris, I’d head for L’Ami Louis of course. Seasoned travelers don’t need me to wallow in images of excess at this happy frump of a joint – the essential brick of foie gras, the glorious côte de boeuf and baby lamb, the buttery pommes béarnaise with its staccato of raw garlic almost as outrageous as the dinner tab, easily $250 for twom that is, if you can resist the mushrooms and asparagus, at $100 per craving. (32 rue de Vertbois, 3rd arrondissement; 33-1-48-87-77-48).

        When the need for raffish L’Ami Louis-esque exuberance at a price strikes, two other great restaurants meet down-home expectations. Chez Jean is not for sissies. Its rollicking anthems are for gourmands. Like the big galette-wrapped bundle of cèpes, pig’s foot, and foie gras, a rich madness that two of us absolutely have to have and that one of us, truly insatiable, follows with pork, cheese, bacon, and potato stewed in a marmite. Tour d’Argent alumnus Pierre Jay, all by himself in a broom closet of a kitchen, can do no wrong, except for a preposterous crème brulée of crustaceans, a tepid custard glue. Even the breast of his guinea hen, baked whole in salt for two, is miraculously juicy. Its fries, cooked in goose fat and crusty caramelized cabbage, inspire happy moans. Beef shoulder braised in curry butter on pumpkin puree with a grilled-scallion banner is a triumph of butter, butter and butter. True, the room is crowded and plain, but how petty to complain, given the $30 prix fixe.

        You might find abundance scary: wide curls of smoked salmon cloaking an overblown artichoke lodge in a hill of celery remoulade. But nothing fazes our crew, lured here by the raves of Le Point’s critic Gilles Pudlowski. The good-looking chef emerges from the kitchen to study us with almost otherworldly light eyes. Can we handle dessert? Silly question. I can still taste the revved-up apricot of the feuillentine, the crème fraîche tempering the sweetness of a warm fig tart, and the surprise of fresh raw mango chunks in caramelized custard cream. (52 rue Lamartine, 9th arrondissement; 33-1-48-78-62-73).

        Friends I’ve sent to La Régalade for the $30 Parisian soul-food prix fixe now send their friends, too. So I’m back again, crowded into a bare table draped with a couple of dishtowels in this dark-wood-paneled plain-Jeanne roost, worries that success has the staff running on automatic pilot. A waitress drops off a terrine (as irresistible as remembered), pickles in a jar, and crusty peasant bread. It’s help-yourself. Last time, we slivered away till more than half of the rough meatloaf had disappeared. No chance tonight. Too quickly, our waitress snatches it away with a snarl, “It’s just an amuse-gueule,” she scolds, meaning a small offering from the chef to set the mood – not dinner.

        Sufficiently chastised, we revive and dip into “la cochonaille de la maison familiale,” the all-you-can-eat sausage basket. We’re all still flirting with the salami when the cranky server returns to discipline us again, swooping away the basket so she can deliver entrees: lamb and white beans, salmon cooked in salt with lentils, splendid guinea hens, and my favorite, boudin parmentier (a hash of crumbled blood sausage and mashed potato glazed under the broiler). All this good grub, plus desserts like rice pudding, prune-Armagnac tourtière, and Mirabelle clafouti, has folks begging for tables, often settling for late supper. Dinner for two costs less than the asparagus at L’Ami Louis. That explains the bum’s rush but doesn’t excuse it. (49 Avenue Jean Moulin, 14th arrondissement; 44-1-45-45-68-58).

        [NOTE: Chef owner Yves Camdebord announced in 2004 he was leaving La Régalade for a sabbatical and later turned up in the small 17th Century Relais Saint Germain of the Carrefour de l’Odean where there is always a line waiting outside his small joint, Le Comptoir du Relais where fans meekly accept blankets and heat lamps to sit outside in the dread of winter. La Régalade, with its new owner, gets good reviews too but I’ve not been.]

        She was Dominic Nahmias, the glamorous cook in red leather pumps, a society pet during the glory years of nouvelle cuisine. Now split from her mate, she’s Dominic Versini, and there is no sign of her or her red shoes as we nibble the tiniest olives I’ve ever seen at Casa Olympe. The grand Venetian chandelier seems curiously out of sync in this narrow pocket of a place with unadorned walls painted mustard. Parisian gurus have warned us that the $37 prix fixe menu is limited and the cooking uneven. But small doesn’t matter if roasted lamb shoulder for two is the special. The crisply sweet char of the meat, the greasy cubes of potatoes and garlic cloves en chemises, are impossibly beguiling. Our friend’s entrecôte, deglazed with wine ($4 extra), satisfies, too, blurring memories of over-soaked mesclun and slivered sardines needing lemon on an hors d’oeuvre plate with a brilliantly dressed julienne of beets. Granted, tonight’s eggplant roulade with a melt of goat cheese is just a minor event. But we’ll remember the boudin wrapped in crackling phyllo and a fondant of chocolate in a deep, dark, seriously bitter chocolate sauce that makes me happy I’m grown-up enough to adore it. (48 rue Saint-Georges, 9th arrondisement; 33-1-42-85-26-01).

        The newly relit Eiffel Tower looms in the distance as if it were a stage prop, though the jaded diners at the sidewalk tables of Au Bon Accueil hardly seem to notice it. But it speeds the pulse of tourists like us. Smartly dressed bourgeoisie of the neighborhood, dropping by this crowded bistro where Bacchus smiles over the mahogany bar, don’t want to believe there’s no space after 9 p.m. (“But we live around the corner,” I hear them protesting.) We’ve reserved, but still we stand for fifteen minutes getting trampled at the door. The crush fails to taint the bonhomie of the patron and his crew as they reel and pirouette in nonexistent aisles.

        Don’t expect culinary epiphany, just sprightly freshness. You wont be disappointed by sparkling salmon carpaccio, the jellied terrine of crayfish and kidney, the crisp-skinned and rosy-rare salmon with a kick of balsamic vinegar. The kitchen’s respect for haricots verts has us marveling. Our steak-and-potatoes fan grudgingly approves his butter-brushed filet alongside pommes puree, even though the steak is sliced (treachery in his book). Then on to pungent sorbets, warm chocolate tart, or bracingly citric lemon tart, finale to the gentle $24 prix fixe. (14 rue de Monttessuy, 7th arrondissement; 33-1-47-05-46-11).

        Nimes-bon chef Flora Mikula brings a bite of Provence to Les Olivades with its country cotton prints, painted-wood cicadas tacked on the walls, and gratis olives. Housemade rolls, meant to dip or spread with tapenade, eggplant puree, and herbed fromage blanc in a trio of small ramekins, bridge the pause till dinner appears. Choose from the $29 menu or order à la carte (entrées from $17 to $22). Eggplant-goat-cheese terrine and greasy but delectable vegetable fritters in a fierce anchoïade are typical starters. Sautéed calamari gets a peppery lift. Honey, rosemary, lemon, and whole garlic cloves flavor slightly chewy saddle of rabbit. Picodon, an oil-and-herb-marinated goat cheese from Provence, is an authentic finale. But we choose sweets instead – lavender crème brulée and a roasted peach, discordantly spiked with rosemary. (41 avenue de Segur, 7th arrondisement; 33-1-47-83-70-09).

        Bumped from the Tour d’Argent after being indicted for taking cash gifts from a fishmonger, chef Manuel Martinez leaped from that frying pan back into a fire of critics’ applause around the corner at Le Relais Louis XIII. So far, he’s not touched a tapestry, a royal portrait, or a brass nail head of the quaint, rather dated royal-hunting-lodge look. But his classic sensibility and $45 prix fixe ($35 at lunch, about $60 a la carte) have had the spot fully booked since the first gleeful quack of the critics last September. As usual, I’ve peeved by the sexism of no prices on the menus given to women. The insult is quickly forgotten as I taste the quivering chicken mousse with its hidden foie gras, its crown of white truffle, the bits of frog’s leg, girolle mushrooms, and the hit of garlic in a rich herb-green bouillon, Two lobster-stuffed ravioli are napped with an intense crème de cèpes.

        Just when I think I have a terminal case of total duck-breast ennui, this spectacularly meaty bird with fresh figs and the traditional fillip of turnips restores my faith. The crisps of skin and leg meat chopped and folded into mashed potatoes are served as an encore. The rump steak comes with a small spoon to attack the tall marrowbone beside a potato mille-feuille in still another impressive sauce. And then a ravishing crème brulée of fruit-studded fromage blanc. “Quelle formidable,” wrote Le Nouvel Observateur’s Phillippe Coudert a week after the launch. Absolument. (8 rue des Grands-Augustins, 6th arrondissement; 33-1-43-26-75-96).

        Paris has discovered the rest of the world. And by god, it’s edibl. Shozan with its expensive minimalism, burnished-wood paneling, putty-hued linen, and Franco-Japonais cuisine, makes sushi, sashimi, tempura quite stylish for an affluent caboodle that trips from Dior to the Plaza Athenée to La Maison du Chocolat in the 8th arrondissement. Always wary of hyphenated cuisine, I am surprised by the clean crispness of deep-fried oysters and the moistness of marinated chicken with seaweed-stippled rice on the $35 prix fixe lunch that is supposed to include a glass of wine (only mine never comes). (11 rue de la Tremoille, 8th arrondissement; 33-1-47-23-37-32).

        I’m wary of chain feederies to, but Thai Elephant out of Bangkok’s Blue Elephant Group, is worth relaxing my snobbery. The waiters wearing sarongs and pantaloons and the décor of Thai carvings, babbling pools, and rain-forest foliage must feel authentically exotic in Paris. But for those of us who teethed in the ethnic motley of Manhattan, it fails somewhere between theme-park and Trader Vic’s. Still, the stuffed chicken wings, papaya salad, spicy shrimp-and-pomelo salad, and caramelized spareribs provide a tropical escape for the locals at about $50 per person. And it’s good enough to tempt Moulin de Mougin’s celebrated chef, Roger Vergé, into a repeat visit. (43-45 rue de la Roquette, 11th arrondissement; 33-1-47-00-42-00).

        Even though I have committed myself to total immersion in foie gras, I feel I must steal a night to savor the pleasures of Moroccan cooking – so rarely done well in New York. Behind a rustic studded wooden door with s metal tattooed Berber hand as a knocker is Oum El Banine.Think Rick’s Café Américain in Casablanca – the play of light and shadow thrown by palms, arches, and pierced-metal lanterns. The host, Nordine (“just Nordine,”,he says), smiles, pleased to see the six of us sharing the cumin-scented salads, the crisp triangles of thinnest pastry stuffed with meat and seafood, and a sensational egg-and-meat-filled Tunisian crepe. Inside the sugar-dusted pastilla – a crunch of tissue-thin pastry layering chicken, nuts, and egg – each ingredient is distinct. For me, couscous is the inevitable entrée choice. But tonight’s lamb tagine with zucchini and thyme, which sounds unexciting, proves to be a must, too. And I’m much too fond of the deliciously crusted méchoui (grilled lamb). Add a rough Moroccan red wine, sweet almond pastries, and mint tea, to spend about $53 each. (16 et 16 bis rue Dufrenoy entrée, 1t6th arrondissement; 33-1-45-04-91-22).

        For a while, the town seethes with reports of Wolfgang Puck sightings. It seems the pair behind the feverish bar-cum-mating scene at Barfly, at 49-51 Avenue George V, had imported Wolf’s onetime right hand man at Chinois-on-Main in Santa Monica to launch the $2 million Buddha Bar. In a nanosecond,, a migration of night birds jammed the doors – leggy dress-hangers, Gallic garmentos, and the usual scene-crashing curious tipped off by the hotel concierge. Macao is the caprice, an excuse for jumbling Asian brocades, teak floors, Iberian wrought iron, and a fourteen-foot polystyrene Buddha in a soaring lacquered space with a staircase for dramatic descents. Thirsty? Cocktails begin at $10. Chinois fans will recognize the fusion fuss: sweet, meaty ribs, crackling squab à l’orange, and Vietnamese spring roll. It’s all rather pricey – lamb at $29, sorbets for $15 – especially if you are charged for duck that never arrives, and the waiter decides you need four portions of riz à la Shanghaienne ($40) when you ordered just one (($10). (8 rue Boissy-d’Anglas, 8th arrondissement; 33-1-53-05-90-00).

        Phillippe Starck has gone has gone for clutter at l’Hôtel Costes. roping it in kilometers of braid bondage and tassels and planting grand Victoriana in house and garden. Just steps from the Place Vendôme in born-to-shop Valhalla, the hotel’s lobby and terrace have become Capistrano to the fashion flock. I steam out my Armaniesque jacket in the shower, recruiting a pal with clout to snare an impossible reservation, and soon we are nibbling rabbit food (appetizers $12, entrées $27) on armchairs pulled up to a small round table shrouded in creamy fagoted linen, just inches away from a famous American X-ray. “Now that proves you can be too thin,” my companion whispers, pronouncing her club sandwich “the best I’ve ever had in Europe.” And the aubergine-tomato melt is the worst. Clearly, no one comes here to eat. They sit with chums while chatting with other chums on cell phones. (239 rue St-Honor entrée, 1st arrondissement; 33-1-42-44-50-25).

        For a serious splurge, I send friends to Taillevent where it doesn’t matter who you are or how you look – the consummate host, Jean-Claude Vrinat, treats you like a sultan. But gourmand friends lobbied instead to blow our stash at Guy Savoy. Four hours later, six of us have spent $175 each – the wine provided by one of the guests – and have confirmed that two-star chefs try harder. Saner minds might prefer to eat less a la carte and spend $125 to $140, drinks not included.

        Neither the chef nor I can remember my last visit, but he is determined to make up for wasted years. By midnight, he is totally out of control. In a single day, I can handle one dégustation – a chef’s special tasting – of eight or nine courses. But two, with addenda, is a challenge. Perhaps that why the few flubs are forgotten and the triumphs register: Raw foie gras cured in salt and rolled in cracked pepper. Exquisite skate, a small lukewarm rectangle with caviar and oyster juice. Mussels and mousserons terre et mer, earth and sea – France’s answer to surf and turf. Unctuous tuna belly in ginger butter. Croustillant of calf’s foot with black radish and an herb salad. Duck roasted a l’ancienne with caramelized turnips and a turnip galette, served in two courses. A parade of desserts, exploiting every fruit in the market. And cookies, tartlets, bonbons, sorbets. A first-timer to Paris summons the strength to stagger from the table. “Am I still alive?” he asks. “I think I’ll spend the rest of the night in the nearest emergency room.” (18 rue Troyon, 17th arrondissement; 33-1-43-80-40-61).