A cheesesteak in Paris: Was it possible to find the perfect Philly sandwich in France?

SAINT-OUEN-SUR-SEINE, France — I came here, to this commune in the suburbs just north of Paris, on a whim, not certain at first if my destination actually existed. I had a few hours of downtime early Monday afternoon, nothing pressing on my Olympics-coverage agenda. As I considered where to go and what to have for lunch, I figured that, since Paris is the best food city on earth and the Philly cheesesteak is the best sandwich on earth, a Google search ought to reveal the best place to find the best sandwich in the best food city on earth.

What Google spat back at me was a spot that seemed ideal and possibly imaginary. The joint’s name — and based on the couple of grainy photos that existed online, it definitely was a joint — was so simple and direct that I questioned whether the place was real: FRENCH CHEESE STEAK.

A joint was good. A joint was promising. Joints that make cheesesteaks tend to make great cheesesteaks. And this joint was just a 16-minute ride from where I happened to be: inside the Olympic media center’s workroom.

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But this joint didn’t have a website. Most restaurants these days, even joints, have websites. And when I thumb-typed FRENCH CHEESE STEAK into the taxi app on my phone, two words appeared: no address. Hmmm. More doubts. Had the joint closed? Back to Google. Google said there was, in fact, an address for FRENCH CHEESE STEAK. I loaded that address into the app, caught my cab, and prepared … hoped … to find out what a French cheesesteak at FRENCH CHEESE STEAK tasted like.

Sixteen minutes later … sweet relief. Set in a gritty strip of stores, laundromats, and apartment rises, FRENCH CHEESE STEAK had the right look and feel for what it was offering. Pretty small. Some tables out front. Some cramped booths and shelves stocked with cold soda inside. Promising, sure, but why? Why a Philly cheesesteak shop here?

Fortunately, owner and manager Mourad Guerraoui, 45, and his son, Sofiane, 17, were on hand to cook me a steak and answer my questions. Mourad doesn’t speak English fluently, but Sofiane served as a willing and helpful interpreter.

Algerian by birth, Mourad has lived his whole life in or near Paris. He opened FRENCH CHEESE STEAK just four months ago, which was why it had no website and didn’t come up on my cab app.

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“He created the concept because he wanted to try the sandwich,” Sofiane said. “He knew in Philadelphia it was very famous. He wanted to do a French cheesesteak because France is the country of cheese.”

Which means there is no Cheez Whiz here. Of course there isn’t. As the Guerraouis said, this is France: country of cheese. France is a Whiz-free zone. And if it isn’t, it should be.

Most steaks at FRENCH CHEESE STEAK come with melted cheddar or provolone, though the menu has a couple of exceptions, including a salmon cheesesteak and a steak with blue cheese. Mourad felt he had to offer some more conventional options — conventional for his clientele, that is. Going full Philly would be too shocking to people’s sensibilities and palates. It would drive them away instead of coaxing them to try something — and here’s a word you don’t hear often in reference to a Philly cheesesteak — exotic.

You won’t hear, “Avec ou sans?” here, either. The steaks that are served with onions are noted that way on the menu, and Mourad uses bib steak — the boneless flank that’s common in fajitas — instead of rib eye. “Rib eye here,” he said, “not good.” He does bake his own bread, however. He consulted with a friend in America about the recipe, he said, and tinkered with the ingredients for a year to try to get it just right.

Your move, Geno’s.

The only three customers in the place sat together in a corner booth. From their conversation, it was easy to tell they were American, and the first two I met, a husband and wife named Melvin and Eve Clark, were more than pleasant.

So where are you from?

“Dallas,” Eve said.

Are you Cowboys fans?

“Yep,” Melvin said.

I laughed out loud. Then they introduced me to Jessica Long, their goddaughter, a teacher who has a doctorate of philosophy. Jessica, are you from Dallas, too?

“I am,” she said. “As soon as you said ‘Philly,’ I said, ‘Ugh.’ ”

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I had met three Cowboys fans in a Philly cheesesteak joint near Paris. I don’t know if that sentence is fitting or ironic, but it’s definitely the most Mad-Libs-ian thing I’ve ever written.

Had any of them gone to a Cowboys game recently?

“I was there for the playoffs,” Jessica deadpanned, referring to Dallas’ lopsided loss to the Packers last January.

At least her food came with a side of schadenfreude.

Melvin is originally from Cleveland. He had been a paperboy as a kid; Jim Brown’s house had been on his route. Eve had grown up in Chicago. Both retired, they had moved to Texas more than 30 years ago for their jobs, Melvin’s in IT, Eve with a construction company. Now they travel extensively. Having been in France for several days, they went looking for a meal that tasted a little more like home, and they came across FRENCH CHEESE STEAK. They went last week and thought it worth a return trip.

Eve is volunteering at the Olympics. She’ll be working at one of the information booths at Stade de France during the track and field events. She was also the only one of the three who had ordered a cheesesteak. (Melvin and Jessica had chicken.) What did she think of the steak?

“Excellent,” Eve said. “Really pretty good.”

Yeah, but Eve was from Dallas. What did she know about good cheesesteaks or football teams that don’t choke in the playoffs?

Just then, Sofiane served me mine: just melted cheddar, bib, and roll, with a side of fries. I took a bite.

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The roll didn’t have the satisfying chewy resistance of a typical Philly steak, but it also wasn’t so soft that it ruined the sandwich. With its gooey consistency, the cheddar was like Whiz, which I don’t mind on a steak, but I knew it wasn’t Whiz, which made it better. The bib meat was fine and carried a slight cumin flavor, which I chalked up to Mourad’s desire to appeal to his local customer base.

I ate the whole thing. Was it the best cheesesteak I’ve ever had? Of course not. But it was far from the worst. I’d go back. If I have time between now and the end of the Olympics, I will. And maybe the highest compliment I can pay Mourad Guerraoui, Sofiane Guerraoui, and FRENCH CHEESE STEAK is this: I’ll take your cheesesteak over a Wawa hoagie every time.