I got there just ahead of my reservation, before a stream of increasingly well-dressed guests came filing in. 

I was among the first to be seated, which gave me time to take in the restaurant’s glowing atmosphere. Sitting on the patio, I had a view of the courtyard in front of me, which promised to make for the perfect summer evening in Paris. 

Light and crispy, the chips packed more flavor than they let on at first glance. 

Paired with a glass of white wine, the slightly salty snacks gave me a glimpse into the tasty appetizers that were still to come. 

In all my years, I never thought to myself, “I wish I had a teacup filled with tomato water,” until dining at Il Carpaccio. Since trying it, however, I’ve had that thought semi-regularly.

The amuse-bouche — a complimentary bite sent out by the chef ahead of a meal — was unlike anything I’d ever tasted. Fresh and slightly acidic, it was as if they’d found the ripest, sweetest tomato and distilled it into a liquid.

Chef Oliver Piras told me it was made with oregano and vinegar and is only served through the summer months (incentive enough for me to return to Paris next year).

This liquidy tomato dish was made with finely sliced tomatoes and a mozzarella emulsion, Piras told me. 

It was more acidic than the tomato water and had a playful, bubbly texture, a frothy, watery soup that doesn’t skimp on flavor.

As Piras perfectly described it: “The sensation is like caprese — but slightly different.”

The fact of the matter is, you can’t go wrong with focaccia.

That was especially true in the case of Il Carpaccio, which served a perfectly squishy rendition of the classic Italian bread. The thick-cut bread was topped with diced tomatoes, making for the perfect pre-dinner bite. 

With the rate at which these appetizers were coming, I worried I wouldn’t be hungry for the main course. 

Before being served the entrée, I had two more appetizers: A tiny carrot dish and a tiny zucchini dish.

The carrot dish exceeded my expectations. Consisting of a carrot chip, diced carrots, and carrot cream, the little appetizer was the perfect consistency — a mix of crunchy and soft, with a decadent cream to top it off. 

The zucchini was less my taste but flavorful nonetheless; the tiny pellet-looking snack was doused in a sauce with hints of dill, basil, and Parmesan and was accompanied by a side of onions in a balsamic-vinegar compote (which outshone the zucchini itself, in my opinion).

Made with mint, pecorino cheese, onions, and olives, the dish was a creamy, perfectly cooked risotto.

I’m not much of an olive person, so this plate didn’t speak to me like its tomato counterparts did — but I could still appreciate the vibrant flavors that went into it.

The presentation of my entrée — a creamy tomato pasta — was spectacular. Piras wheeled out a cart with a stove top to my seat on the patio, and I watched as he worked in Parmesan and spices to create a delightfully rich dish.

On track with the several snacks that preceded it, the entrée was tiny — just two al dente tubes of paccheri pasta with a decadent sauce that I couldn’t help but scoop into my mouth, even after I’d finished the thick noodles. 

Once again, this part of the meal was wheeled out on a cart. I shared a baffled glance with the table next to me, laughing over the sheer volume of food that kept coming — and coming, and coming. 

This round was dessert, a tiramisu. I watched the waiter assemble Il Carpaccio’s avant-garde take on a classic. 

She placed a biscuit at the bottom of the bowl and poured espresso over it, giving it the same signature-soaked texture associated with tiramisu. She then covered it with the appropriate amount (a lot) of cream and topped it with praline. 

After dessert, I told my server I was getting full. 

“Already?” he joked. More was on the way.

At this point, I could barely continue eating, but I’m also not a quitter, so obviously, I ate what was delivered to me. 

The bowl of fresh berries and three small pastries were the perfect way to end my meal. 

When I first sat down and experienced the attentive staff, I felt out of my league. I feared the special treatment was because of my position as a writer.

But throughout the evening, I saw how servers tended to each table with care — I even watched a server bring a shawl to a woman who said she was cold — and how Piras made a point to stop by and speak with guests — not just myself. 

In addition to Il Carpaccio’s playful flavors and textures, that made for the perfect evening — one I hope to recreate the next time I’m in Paris.