Paris Bar

Paris Bar isn’t just a restaurant, it’s a Berlin institution. For decades, this Charlottenburg classic has been the unofficial canteen of the city’s art world, where painters, punks, gallerists, and the occasional movie star squeeze into red leather banquettes under walls crammed with original works and stories. The food? Solid French bistro fare. Not life-changing, but reliably good: steak frites, moules, tarte Tatin. You’re not here for reinvention, you’re here for the room, the history, the crackling energy that hums through every late-night service. Tourists might wander in, bit the terrible reviews on Google shows how this is not a place for them - Paris Bar has always been for the insiders, the regulars, the romantics who remember West Berlin before Neukölln became New Brooklyn. It’s messy, mythic, and somehow still magical. And to quote an artist I met there during my last meal "Where else can you stumble in drunk at midnight and still get a proper steak frites without judgment?"