We had lunch at this restaurant on Friday and Monday with friends (we were two couples).
We received a very warm welcome upon arrival; the staff were friendly and smiling.
The food was excellent, beautifully presented, with generous portions – you can tell everything is homemade.
The service was very attentive: they even kindly brought a small dish for our dog, a rare and much-appreciated gesture.
A real gem!
We highly recommend this restaurant for its atmosphere, the quality of the food, and the attention to customer service. We will definitely be back.
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Philippe Jamin
.
25 novembre 2025
10,0
Orange – a city that doesn't need to rush to be impressive. Here, where the Romans built a stone theater two millennia ago – a theater that still carries sound today, collecting voices, music, and history – here life unfolds not in a museum, but on the stage.
And somewhere between the venerable facades, where the alleys narrow and the shadows deepen, lies a place that doesn't impose itself, but rather demands to be found: La Cantina.
You don't recognize it immediately.
A simple sign, barely lit, points the way – more by chance than by design.
And yet, whoever enters immediately senses that this coincidence is no ordinary one.
For La Cantina is one of those rare places that doesn't advertise itself, but waits – quietly, confidently, like someone who knows its worth.
It was evening, the sun had long since sunk behind the hills, and the air still held the last breath of the warmth left behind by the day.
As I crossed the threshold, I was enveloped by a coolness that came not from stone, but from tranquility.
The light—muted, almost reverent—lay over the rough walls of the grotto like it lay over an old, familiar skin.
People speak more quietly here, not out of compulsion, but out of respect.
Because you sense: This space demands mindfulness.
I admit, a trace of uncertainty remained.
You wonder if you're in the right place—if you can do justice to the place, the cuisine, the host.
But this worry quickly melts away when you're welcomed with the warmth that requires no words or language.
A smile, a nod, a patient gesture—and suddenly you no longer feel like a stranger, but like a guest in the truest sense of the word: welcome, valued, understood.
I ordered—or perhaps I let it happen.
Because this wasn't an evening for control, but for trust.
And then it arrived: the Carré de Veau.
A plate, simple, almost modest, yet possessing an elegance that isn't forced, but evolved. The meat—a tenderness reminiscent of stillness. The jus—dark, glossy, with that depth that only emerges when time, fire, and patience converse. An aroma that doesn't intrude, but invites; a harmony that doesn't beguile, but touches. Every bite—a balance of power and gentleness, of technique and soul.
I ate slowly, very slowly, not out of etiquette, but out of a need to capture this moment. Because here, at this table, in this silent grotto beneath the walls of Orange, cooking was no longer an art or a craft—it was a memory. A memory of what eating can be when done with heart.
La Cantina is heartfelt cuisine—not because it moves, but because it believes.
It believes in simplicity, in patience, in the silent conversation between chef and guest, conducted not through words, but through taste.
And as I later stepped back out into the night, accompanied by the distant chirping of crickets and the soft light of the street lamps, I felt as if I had experienced something precious:
that rare, quiet form of perfection expressed not in grand words, but in a quiet smile.
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Martin Petri
.
05 octobre 2025
10,0