Le Costes never sleeps. Its opéra-comique décor (fancy lah-di-dah furniture, intimate spaces, small round tables, stucco columns) that’s been extravagantly staged by Jacques Garcia around a Cali-Italian patio, is like a Second-Empire slap to the face. Haters have been mocking its shiny jewels since it came to the city in 1995, but Le Costes has never stopped laying on the charm. This greased up heir to the Belle Époque is (more and more of) a world apart, a natural preserve for endangered species in the world of media, publicity and fashion. A “codified” space like you just don’t find anymore, where people fight for roles in the central courtyard. To our left, creatures dressed in Saint-Laurent. While to our right, tycoons with whitened teeth. And in between them there’s a never-ending flow of delicate dishes: small chicken and Thai basil spring rolls and crisp lettuce leaves (€20) – with a glass of Chablis from Olivier Savary (€12); an unbeatable crying tiger steak with its mane of matchstick fries (€46), or four small suckling Aveyron lamb chops with mashed potatoes (€48) – with a glass of Château Chasse-spleen (€17); before the final credits roll via a gluten-free miniature chocolate lava cake (€10), and the sonorous “pop” of a bottle of Cristal Roederer (€520 a bottle). À la carte €50-206. // P.-H.B.