Stop me if you've heard this one before: Parisian banlieu decor; no-frills wooden tables in cozy proximity; Pernod and Lillet bottles on the shelf behind the bar; the obligatory espresso machine; a short wine list; and a menu of brasserie staples chalked on a blackboard brought round to your table by a waiter dressed in an ankle-length apron.
In the two decades since the concept of the budget bistro touched down in Tokyo (thanks to Yotsuya's legendary Le Monde des Chimeres, followed soon after by Pas a Pas), it has almost become a cliche. The look -- the menu, the checked tablecloths -- has all become so standardized, we barely bother to register new arrivals as they continue to spring up in obscure spots all around the city.
One place that has immediately caught our attention, however, is Pot-Bouille. This modest little bistro tucked away in nether Ebisu is as typically French as a Zola novel. But the important thing is not just that it looks the part -- the cheerful yellow awning outside; white cotton half-curtains over the windows; ocher walls with brown wooden paneling; linen tea towels on the tables in place of formal table cloths; Michelin guides arrayed on bookshelves by the kitchen -- it also gets the feel exactly right. It's casual and comfortable. The welcome is personal. The place exudes a palpable buzz. Everyone's enjoying themselves.