After a year of visiting far-flung outposts of civilization we have finally returned to the home of civilized dining – Paris. We ate and drank extraordinarily well in our travels, but coming back to Paris is like returning to nowhere else. Tonight’s dinner was a reminder that great dinners come from great chefs, not from trendy menus or thirty page winelists or bigger-than-life settings – or any other manifestation of largeness.

Invictus is a small (less than 3 dozen seats) on a tiny street lying between Boulevard Raspail and Rue de Notre Dame des Champs. The host/chef/owner and a single waitress (with another young man in the kitchen) comprise the entire staff. We may have well been the only out-of-towners in the room, but our host’s English was more than a match for my French, and the bubbling conversations in French around the room, without the intrusive demands of a single badly mannered American gluten-free vegan was relaxing. (Well-mannered gluten-free vegans are always welcome anywhere, but most tiny restaurants in Paris don’t know what to do to make them happy, and feel that they have somehow failed in their duty as hosts, which makes them cranky. But more observations about the clash of those particular cultures another time.) The winelist is carefully curated and completely affordable. The entrees are limited, as are the main courses, to a manageable number of choices based on the availability of fresh ingredients. Everything arrived at the table fresh from the stove, well-plated but not extravagantly overdone, and thoroughly delicious.

The wine we chose this evening was a 2013 Chateau de Terte. I am of the belief that any Grand Vin de Bordeaux should taste good even before it fully matures, and this Fronsac did. It will probably be better in a few years, but it was delicious and complimented the food without calling undue attention to itself. It was also surprisingly light, only 12.5% alcohol but with a richness usually associated with “bigger” wines boasting 14% or even 14.5%; another example of delivering great enjoyment without displaying overwhelming size.

The entrees were exceptional. Milady chose a tortue of fresh “deboned” crab – a light dressing and thin slices of fresh green squash worked well with delicate flavor of the crab. “Deboned” meant shelled, as opposed to requiring the diner to remove the meat him/herself. The portion was not enough to make a meal in itself, but enough to whet one’s appetite for the main course. I chose the shrimp. Four perfectly roasted morsels finished with coriander and sesame seeds on a mixed vegetable slaw with just the right amount of vinegar to wake up the tastebuds.

One of the day’s specials was a poached haddock filet served over a bed of white asparagus. The fish unwrapped itself in lovely pure white flakes just the right size to melt in one’s mouth. (Of course I don’t eat fin fish, so I’m only relating what I was told, but it looked so good I was tempted to try a forkful.) My filet was a beautifully grilled piece of French beef – moist, with the firm texture that only the French seem to be able to create, and full of flavor. It was accompanied by sauteed onions and perfectly mashed potatoes. It was a modest portion, but delivered enormous enjoyment and left me room for the house-special dessert.

The special dessert is a drunken brioche slathered with a caramel sauce, covered with slices of slightly cooked apple and crowned with just enough homemade caramel ice cream. It was so good I forgot my chocolate craving for the entire time I was devouring it. The sharply robust espresso which followed was the perfect finishing touch to a great meal. But wait – there was one surprise remaining. The bill for our dinner was also an example of modesty. It cost less than our lunch at Georges atop the Centre de Pompidou earlier in the day. Perhaps my mother was right when she said great things come in small packages…