I lived in Paris for many years, and there is one restaurant I now return to religiously: Le Fumoir, on the Rue de l’Amiral de Coligny, facing the Colonnade du Louvre. The amber-lit, wood-and-leather interior, along with the lending library and 15 different daily newspapers, give it the atmosphere of an intimate club, albeit one with excellent food in the beating heart of Paris. Over the years, I have met colleagues there for working breakfasts, eaten Sunday brunch there when my kids were small, and late dinners with them when they were grown. These days, when I first land in Paris, after napping off jet lag, I meet my best friend at the bar for a coupe of champagne and a sublime plate of smoked salmon. In other words, I’m not really in Paris until I eat at Le Fumoir. —Marcia DeSanctis

Marcia DeSanctis is a Connecticut-based writer. She recently published her second book, a collection of travel essays called A Hard Place to Leave: Stories from a Restless Life