It’s been a while between visits. The last time I was in Paris was 2009. I was travelling with my girlfriend, and we stayed in a bizarre hotel in Le Marais. Eerie, high-pitched chanting would emanate from the room next door each evening, but as soon as we opened our door to investigate, it would promptly cease, as if someone had flipped a switch. Then we’d close our door and it would start again.
A week later, on the Spanish Steps in Rome, I got down on one knee and asked her to marry me. Maybe there were subliminal messages in all that chanting. Reader, she said yes. And, seemingly in the blink of an eye, here we are, almost 17 years later, living in Perth with two daughters aged 14 and 12.
So, when we decided it was time to finally return to the City of Light in the Christmas school holidays, we started looking at where to stay. Our previous family trips had been to Rome and Tokyo, using the Divola Family One-City Full-Immersion Plan. This involves renting an apartment and staying put in one city for three weeks, getting to know the place inside-out and hopefully becoming a little more like locals and a little less like tourists by the end of it.
Back in 2009, we both loved Belleville, in the 20th arrondissement, so we went online and searched for apartments in the area, but couldn’t find exactly what we wanted at the right price. And then a quaint two-bedroom place in the 20th came up in a nearby neighbourhood called Ménilmontant. It borders Belleville to the north, and Parmentier and Oberkampf to the west, with Père Lachaise Cemetery less than a 10-minute walk south, and – this was the kicker – we realised it was just a couple of blocks from Café Charbon, a place we both remembered fondly from 17 years ago.
We booked it. A month later, I read Time Out’s annual list of the hippest neighbourhoods in the world. And there was Ménilmontant at No. 7. Yes, we’re trendsetters. And we hadn’t even been there yet.
At first sight, you might wonder how the neighbourhood got the accolades. This is not the fashionista-filled, boutique-lined Paris of Le Marais. And it’s certainly not the cobblestoned postcard Paris of Montmartre – which, to tell the truth, is long past its quaint Amélie phase and is now so overrun with tourists (and the stores, cafes and restaurants that cater to them) that it borders on unpleasant trying to navigate the hordes around Sacré-Coeur and Place du Tertre – even in mid-winter, which is when we visit.
By contrast, Ménilmontant has a grittier vibe. Our apartment, which is in a large, ’70s-era block, is around the corner from a Metro station and main intersection. There’s a bustling, open-air produce market most days along Boulevard de Belleville, where we load up on fresh supplies.
On our first morning, we revisit Café Charbon and it hasn’t changed a bit, with its padded booths and flotilla of fringed lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The faded murals are perhaps a little more faded – and while the set breakfast (coffee, orange juice, croissant, baguette, butter and jam) may have gone up a bit in price, at €9 (about $15) it’s still a pretty good deal in 2026 Paris.
We explore Rue de Ménilmontant, the neighbourhood’s main street, which is an uphill walk from the station and a vibrant mish-mash of cultures. Here in the 20th there are strong immigrant communities, especially from the Middle East, China and North Africa, and as a result, a veritable United Nations of restaurants lines the street – Turkish, Lebanese, Moroccan, Indian, Chinese and Japanese sitting alongside more traditional French bistros, boulangeries and patisseries. Over the next 21 days, we try as many as we can.
If one building represents Ménilmontant, it’s L’Église Notre-Dame-de-la-Croix. The 78-metre-high belltower of this 19th-century neo-Romanesque church can be seen from almost anywhere in the neighbourhood. It sits on Place Maurice Chevalier, which is encircled by a few old-school cafes with outdoor tables and chairs.
Around the back of the church is the striking orange frontage of Le Monte-en-l’air. Although this welcoming bookshop and gallery has only a small English language section, there is a large selection of art, design and photography books which are heavy on visuals, so it’s a great place to browse and buy.
A little further up the road is the area’s best-known mural, C’est nous les gars d’Ménilmontant by street artist Jérôme Mesnager. It features his trademark white skeletal figures dancing in a circle; the title translates as “It’s us, the boys of Ménilmontant”, a reference to the rebellious spirit of the area.
Along with Belleville and Butte-aux-Cailles, Ménilmontant is known as one of Paris’s top spots for street art, and two of the best places to see it are Rue des Cascades and Rue de Retrait, residential streets where artists have been given free rein, and the walls explode with stencils, paste-ups and free-hand works.
History makes itself known throughout the neighbourhood. La Petite Ceinture is a disused railway line, built in the mid-1800s, that used to stretch for more than 30 kilometres around Paris, but it was usurped by the Metro system in the early 1900s and was left to the elements. Since 2018, parts have been cleared, redeveloped and reopened to the public. A section of it is here, about halfway up Rue de Ménilmontant, and it’s now an urban park and hangout space.
At the top of the hill is another piece of the past. Villa de l’Ermitage and Cité Leroy are little laneways lined with cottages, detached houses and artists’ studios, their yards filled with lilac, wisteria and magnolia. Strolling around here gives you some idea of how Ménilmontant used to be: a working-class -village dominated by vineyards and stone quarries.
Just off the main street, on Rue Boyer, are two of Paris’s most vibrant entertainment spaces. La Bellevilloise is a beautiful 19th-century co-op building that now hosts concerts, art exhibitions, markets and a popular Sunday jazz brunch. Next door, La Maroquinerie is a former leather-goods factory that is now one of the best places to see indie rock and pop in the city.
Nearby, just across the border into Belleville, village-like Place Henri Krasucki is situated at a six-way intersection, surrounded by inviting haunts such as charmingly ramshackle bar-cafe Bistrot Littéraire les Cascades, and a light-filled, high-ceilinged coffee shop called Candle Kids, which is run by brothers Martin and Ernest Laurens and a resident corgi named Voltaire, who likes to spend most of his time asleep on the floor.
Over an excellent flat white extracted from the cafe’s La Marzocco machine, Martin tells me: “Ménilmontant still had a lot of sketchy areas a decade ago. Now it’s a desirable place to live. I like it because it’s more like the real Paris, whereas the Marais and Montmartre are for tourists.”
The 20th also has a reputation as a working-class stronghold and a place that fostered radical politics. I meet graphic designer and illustrator Regis Leger at Dugudus Atelier, his design studio and store, where he creates posters and cards based on social and political protest of the past. “The 20th has always been on the left and always attracted artists,” he says. “Even though it has become more gentrified recently, I think it will always be that way and keep that spirit.”
Gentrification is definitely happening here, but you get the sense that Leger is right. Ménilmontant has a strong multicultural mix, an inner-city feel and a bit of dirt under its fingernails that will hopefully help it retain its roots, even as it changes.
One morning, after sheltering from the snow – yes, it snowed – we duck into a delightful old-world passageway off the main street called Cité du Labyrinthe. After following it, we discover an inviting-looking bar named Lou Pascalou. Later that evening, I head off by myself to check it out. The place is packed. A multiracial five-piece band is pumping out joyous Cuban music from the small stage. Couples dance, there is a mix of young hipsters and older people, and even families with kids. Everyone is smiling and many are singing along to the songs in Spanish. It feels like I’ve found the beating heart of Ménilmontant.
On our final night, we are walking back to the apartment from dinner when a woman stops and asks me in French if she is walking the right way to Parmentier station. Three weeks previously, I would have shrugged and apologetically said that I didn’t know. But instinctively, I point the other way and say, Non, madame. C’est par la. Cinq minutes. She thanks me and turns to retrace her steps. My kids tease me about it all the way home, but it feels good. Maybe, even after my short time in Ménilmontant, I had become just a little bit of a local.
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