Paris for The Food Pilgrims: a Friday-to-Monday weekend

The market street with Stohrer, pâtissier since 1730, and a fishmonger, a cheese shop and a butcher every few doors; eat a baba on the pavement.

A wine bar with a tasting room, three regions in six glasses with someone who can explain why Chablis and Meursault disagree.

Camdeborde's corner bistro, the Friday set menu with no choices, a dozen tables and a reservation made weeks ago.

The Beauvau hall as the shutters go up, cheese and tripe inside, Maghrebi vegetables on the street; coffee at the Baron Rouge counter after.

A market-to-table class in a Latin Quarter kitchen, four hours on a three-course French menu, eaten together with the wine at the end.

Bertrand Grébaut's seven courses in a plain room, vegetables first and the sauces that made his name; the booking opens three weeks ahead and goes in minutes.

Sunday's long market down the boulevard, oysters shucked at the stall, rotisserie chickens dripping onto potatoes, Comté cut to order.

Bœuf bourguignon and œufs en meurette with the Burgundies they were made for, on a Sunday when half the city's bistros are shut.

The island's ice-cream maker since 1954, two scoops of wild strawberry and salted caramel, eaten on the quay opposite Notre-Dame's apse.

The 1875 bakery by the canal, open weekdays only: the escargot pistache-chocolat and the pain des amis, still warm at half past eight.

The cooks' ironmonger since 1820, copper sold by weight and knives in drawers; buy the tart tin you will actually use.

Checked tablecloths and confit de canard near the tower, open every day; the Monday lunch that proves the classics survived.