The New Soul Food Scene in Paris

In his 1972 essay collection, No Name in the Street, James Baldwin remarked, “During my years in Paris, I never felt homesick for anything American. But,” he continued, “I longed for my brothers and sisters … I missed Harlem Sundays with fried chicken and biscuits.”

As I savor a piece of fried chicken — its light, crispy coating giving way to juicy meat that requires a quick lip wipe — I sit outside Gumbo Yaya. The small restaurant's vibrant red exterior stands out in the otherwise muted corner of Paris’s 10th Arrondissement, just a short distance from the striking, concrete headquarters of the French Communist Party designed by Oscar Niemeyer.

Situated in one of the last relatively affordable neighborhoods in Paris, Gumbo Yaya boldly proclaims itself as a “Soul Food” and “Southern Kitchen” on its sign, overlooking a quaint cobblestone square. The restaurant's cozy interior is currently closed due to COVID-19, yet a few spaced-out picnic tables outside accommodate diners, while a steady stream of customers waits to order takeout.

At a nearby table, Zoé, a 23-year-old medical student from Grenoble, hesitantly lifts a fry and dips it into a small cup of an unfamiliar sauce. It's her first encounter with soul food, and she seems unsure about the concept of using a waffle as a bun for her fried chicken sandwich. After tasting a fry, she exclaims, “It’s sirop d’érable!” correctly identifying the sauce as maple syrup. Her friend Najat, who has the same dish, takes a bite, glances at me, and declares, “It’s perfect.”

While chicken and waffles might seem unusual to many European diners, soul food has long found its place in Paris, dating back to the era of jazz. The postwar Paris known to Baldwin featured several soul food spots, including Chez Inez, which Baldwin frequented, and Gabby and Haynes. The latter was established by Leroy Haynes, a Black American GI who settled in Paris after World War II and opened the restaurant with his French wife, Gabrielle Lecarbonnier. This restaurant was a precursor to the more renowned Chez Haynes, which opened in 1964 and was the oldest American restaurant in Paris by the time it closed in 2009. Between the 1990s and 2000s, a few African-American expatriates opened and closed other soul food establishments in the city, such as Bojangles, the Rib Joint, and Percy’s Place.

These establishments mirrored Paris’s role as a haven for African Americans throughout the 20th century, from former soldiers who found a refuge from discrimination to Black intellectuals who chose to expatriate. Thus, Paris became entwined with the civil rights movement in the U.S. Today, however, with one of Europe’s largest Black populations, France grapples with its own issues of discrimination, police violence, social inclusion, and the essence of French identity.

In this evolving landscape, a new wave of soul food restaurants has emerged in Paris over the last five years: Gumbo Yaya and New Soul Food-Le Maquis near Canal Saint-Martin, along with Mama Jackson further east. Unlike their predecessors, these new spots are operated by Black French chefs, who engage with soul food's rich history and cultural significance amid a global dialogue inspired by the Black Lives Matter movement. At Gumbo Yaya, there’s a celebration of culinary heritage; at Mama Jackson, an appreciation for and integration of American Black culture; and at New Soul Food-Le Maquis, a bold exploration of identity and how food serves as a means of asserting one’s self and aspirations.

“Soul food is immigrant cuisine,” states Adrian Miller, the author of Soul Food: The Surprising Story of an American Cuisine, One Plate at a Time. He highlights that soul food emerged from the Great Migration, where millions of African Americans moved from the rural South to industrial cities in the Northeast and Midwest, such as Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland, and New York, during the early 20th century. Just like any immigrant community, they brought their culinary traditions along — including cornmeal mush, greens, stewed black-eyed peas, and affordable cuts of meat like pig feet and chicken feet.

Initially, these newcomers faced disdain from Northern Blacks — the Defender, a Black newspaper in Chicago, criticized the “pig-ankle joints” established by rural Southern Blacks as “unsightly, unsanitary Mytouries.” However, by the 1930s, as incomes rose, many of these former Southerners, along with their cuisine, ascended into the Black middle class. During the civil rights movement of the 1960s, the term “soul,” embraced by Black intellectuals to promote cultural identity, became linked to music, style, and food, ultimately embodying a specific countercultural “cool.”

With its significant historical context (and the deep connection between our diets and identities), soul food also became a contentious topic within Black politics. Elijah Muhammad, a mentor to Malcolm X and long-time leader of the Nation of Islam, claimed that rich, fatty soul food was a remnant of the harmful culture imposed by whites during slavery, meant to undermine Black people. In contrast, Dick Gregory, a comedian and activist, promoted vegetarianism, labeling soul food as “the worst food you can eat. Nothing but garbage.”

What we now recognize as soul food originated as celebratory fare — the type of dishes that impoverished sharecroppers, descendants of enslaved individuals, would enjoy on Sundays and special occasions. However, soul food does not conform to a single, universal definition.

Adrian Miller defines traditional “soul food” as a collection of dishes that originated in the American South — including black-eyed peas, macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pie, greens, and fried chicken, typically accompanied by a red drink. “In African-American culture, red is both a color and a flavor,” Miller chuckles.

Frederick Douglass Opie, a professor of history and foodways at Babson College, suggests that the boundaries of soul food are more flexible. He acknowledges that certain ingredients, such as yams, and preparation styles can be traced back to the African roots of enslaved people. He also highlights the historical convergence of Harlem and Spanish Harlem, where diverse communities from the Francophone and Anglophone Caribbean, West and Central Africa, as well as Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic, blended with Harlem’s Black residents. “When all those groups came together, they influenced the cuisine,” Opie explains, pointing to the incorporation of red beans and rice and plantains.

Excluding the red drink, Lionel Chauvel-Maga has largely based Gumbo Yaya on the elements that Miller would classify as soul food. While enjoying his fried chicken, hot sauce, macaroni and cheese (which featured rigatoni during my visit, but usually includes classic yellow cheddar), coleslaw, and cornbread, Chauvel-Maga shared the inspiration behind his restaurant, which he established after turning 30 in 2015, in the neighborhood of his upbringing. Despite having no American heritage — his father is French and his mother hails from Benin — he cherishes childhood memories from visits to relatives in Macon, Georgia. These memories extend beyond the food to include the warmth and togetherness surrounding it, an atmosphere he aims to recreate during Sunday brunch, featuring dishes like black-eyed peas and greens.

Chauvel-Maga is deeply connected to the cultural and political narrative of soul food, and his vision of success involves creating a sense of familiarity for Black American visitors — or expatriates — while also appealing to French customers trying chicken and waffles for the first time. “We strive to maintain tradition,” he emphasizes. “No mac and cheese with fourme d’ambert [a firmer bleu cheese from Auvergne] or anything like that.”

While Chauvel-Maga’s childhood experiences inspired his restaurant, Chez Haynes served as a more local reference. Similar to Gumbo Yaya, Leroy Haynes’s Montmartre establishment focused on traditional soul food: a 1975 review in Le Monde highlighted dishes like fried chicken gizzards, corn on the cob, barbecue spare ribs, and desserts such as apple and coconut cream pies. The restaurant, resembling “a far-away Texas ranch,” gained fame over its 45 years, drawing in jazz legends and celebrities like Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Elizabeth Taylor, and Richard Burton.

Chauvel-Maga aims for Gumbo Yaya to achieve that same iconic status. He believes that staying connected to his local clientele is key, avoiding the pitfalls of fleeting trends. This strategy has proven effective enough for him to consider opening a second restaurant, this time dedicated to Louisiana-style seafood.

“I wanted to recreate the flavors and atmosphere I experienced visiting my aunts [in Georgia] as a child,” he shares. “And when African Americans come here, they’re moved to see that French people truly appreciate soul food. It’s about pride and preserving heritage.”

Mama Jackson is located just a few kilometers southeast of Gumbo Yaya, nestled in a vibrant, non-touristy area of Paris close to the Gare de Lyon train station. The restaurant began in 2016, when executive chef and owner Ludovic Florella started offering soul food brunches paired with screenings of classic Black films, quickly realizing the demand warranted a permanent establishment. Inspired by visits to the American South, Florella developed a passion for soul food during trips to Louisiana with his (French) girlfriend's family.

Upon entering the restaurant, it’s evident that Mama Jackson captures the essence of both a dining venue and a cultural hub. The walls are adorned with memorabilia celebrating African-American history: covers from Rolling Stone and Time featuring prominent Black figures, iconic Obama campaign posters, framed black-and-white images of legends like Ray Charles, B.B. King, Nina Simone, and Maya Angelou, and a large TV displaying a rotating selection of music videos and movie scenes. One wall features a giant chalkboard with a quote from the Notorious B.I.G.: “If you don’t know, now you know.”

As I step inside, my phone reveals that the song playing is Michelle Lawson’s “Looking for Love (Soul Syndicate Remix).” The warmth of the restaurant is palpable, with co-founder Naick M’bae sharing that both Nicki Minaj and Drake have ordered from here during their performances in Paris, a testament to the restaurant's appeal.

Similar to Gumbo Yaya, Mama Jackson's menu revolves around fried chicken (offering a thicker breading) and waffles (lightly sweet and fluffy), but it also incorporates French and Caribbean influences. The macaroni and cheese features a cheddar and béchamel blend, and while the menu has been streamlined due to COVID-19, it typically includes a 'Vegan & Love' plate with roasted peppers and sweet potato croquettes in a green coconut curry, alongside Jamaican jerk chicken. Starters and sides encompass red beans and rice, sweet potato puree, and crispy fried plantains served with a mildly garlicky, vinegary spicy mayo.

M’bae, who grew up alongside Florella, insists that I sample the 'Mama’s Club Waffle,' an enormous sandwich that combines fried chicken, melted cheddar, red onion, French cornichons, and a sweet-tangy sauce. The most apparent manifestation of their 'French touch' is found in the dessert: a caramel pain perdu made with an exceptionally buttery brioche that nearly falls apart on my spoon.

While M’bae downplays any political implications of their work, he expresses excitement about the cultural significance of their endeavor. 'You can embark on a journey just by visiting a restaurant that feels completely different,' he shares, noting that their aim is to provide a gateway for experiencing soul food and Black culture for those who may not have traveled to Harlem or New Orleans, yet, like them, grew up surrounded by Black American influences.

Thus, the restaurant serves as a tribute to their childhood memories. 'We may not be African American, but we've been influenced by this music, this aesthetic, and this lifestyle since we were kids,' says Brice Naranassamy, who became part of the Mama Jackson team after two years in New York, where he worked at Mojo, a now-closed soul food spot in Harlem. Although he was captivated by elements of Black American culture displayed in his restaurant, it wasn't until his early 20s in New York that he truly experienced soul food.

Naranassamy’s limited exposure highlights a broader issue with soul food reaching audiences beyond the U.S. 'Every other aspect of Black American culture has achieved global recognition, but our food hasn't,' notes Miller, partly because 'Black cultural tastemakers don't promote it much.' He views international chefs embracing soul food traditions as a compelling addition to the trend of African American chefs exploring diasporic cuisines.

Naranassamy’s comment also underscores another reality. American politics resonate globally; George Floyd’s name appears in graffiti from Lisbon to Lyon. Yet, the irony of the 'America First' mentality is that even as faith in the U.S. has declined, much of its remaining soft power seems tied to its Black culture. Hip-hop, in particular, serves as a global language, much like jazz captivated Paris in the 1920s.

This sentiment is palpable at Mama Jackson. 'We’re celebrating our culture,' states Naranassamy. 'It’s not about where we’re from, but rather what we were raised on.'

Just a few streets from Gumbo Yaya, New Soul Food-Le Maquis overlooks the Canal Saint Martin and a fire station that shares half its red-brick warehouse with a trendy nightclub. 'I initially wanted to name it 'Nu Soul Food' to resonate with the music, as that's the sound of my generation,' says Rudy Lainé. However, the French word 'nu,' meaning 'naked,' is pronounced differently from the English 'new,' causing confusion among francophones with the clever wordplay.

In his 30s, Lainé grew up on the outskirts of Paris. After running a food truck (L’Afro Truck) since 2016 with his brother Joël, he established a permanent location (Le Maquis) last year. At both venues, he aims to create a distinctive style of cuisine he refers to as 'new soul food,' blending the traditions of his mother from Cameroon and his father from Guadeloupe with the techniques he learned as a pastry chef in high-end Parisian restaurants like Georges V and Fauchon.

I find Lainé’s use of the term 'Afropean' particularly captivating. This concept has been embraced by various writers, artists, and academics, most notably popularized by British journalist Johny Pitts in his 2019 memoir, Afropean: Notes from Black Europe. In this book, he chronicles five months of travel through European cities, seeking to uncover what it means to be Black in Europe.

As the son of a pacifist white Presbyterian minister and a pacifist Black Legal Aid attorney, I often ponder, 'What does it mean to be Black?' In the U.S., I am instantly recognized as such; in Chad, where I spent ten months working for an NGO, I felt unmistakably foreign and white. France, however, has never required me to fit into a category, only to say 'bonjour' before ordering coffee or asking for directions. Would my experience change if my accent and passport were from West Africa instead of North America? Probably. Yet, within that difference lies an insight: Skin color and race do not shape life in France as fundamentally as they do in the United States.

Monique Wells, an African-American woman who moved to Paris in 1992 and fondly remembers Chez Haynes, notes that while 'being Black here does carry significance,' it differs greatly from being Black in the United States, which has a distinct shared history and cultural identity. She operates a tour company, Entrée to Black Paris, that explores the city’s contributions to African diasporic history, among others.

France's relationship with diverse identities has been complex. The country's philosophical stance on citizenship is rooted in universalism, which ideally allows the state to engage with citizens equally, treating them as individuals rather than as part of distinct communities. This ideal has faced numerous challenges throughout history. Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, born to a French noble and a freed slave, rose to prominence as a general during the French Revolutionary Wars; his son, the renowned writer, was depicted in striking portraits yet caricatured in popular media. The Dreyfus affair split the nation along lines of universalism and anti-Semitism, while in the 1930s, Léon Blum, a Jew, served twice as the prime minister of the Third Republic. More recently, the concept of universalism has become a contentious issue dividing traditional political ideologies.

Despite its flaws and contradictions, France’s notion of individualism and equality historically provided Black Americans with a welcome that was often denied in the United States, even amidst its colonial endeavors. Paris was where W.E.B. Du Bois and Blaise Diagne, a Black French-Senegalese parliament member, organized the inaugural Pan-African Congress in 1919 against U.S. government opposition. It was a stage for Josephine Baker to perform. It allowed Richard Wright, a Black American expat, to engage in discussions with Sartre and Camus, gain French citizenship, and refer to his adopted country as “a land of refuge” from racial strife. It was also a place where Leroy Haynes, a soldier and restaurateur, could marry freely.

This historical backdrop may explain why Paris, uniquely among European cities, has consistently hosted soul food restaurants. Lainé's menu showcases a range of 'Afro-' dishes, each striving to honor West African culinary traditions while adapting to the challenges his parents faced in sourcing ingredients. Highlights include the Afrocaribéenne (chicken braised in Antillean coconut curry, paired with herbed sweet potatoes and a hint of vanilla), the Afrosubsaharienne (grilled chicken seasoned with Penja pepper, served with basmati rice, plantains, and a spiced peanut sauce), and the Afrovégane (a mix of corn and okra accompanied by attiéké and plantains).

After hearing Lainé's vision for creating Afropean soul food, I decide to embrace the concept and order the Afropéenne: chicken braised instead of fried, generously covered in a yassa sauce that has been adjusted by adding significant amounts of grain mustard to the classic lime and onions, accompanied by Lainé’s version of attiéké, a manioc-based grain mixed with confit tomatoes and herbs de Provence. I also choose the Afropéenne drink, a blend of hibiscus, raspberry, and rose, reminiscent of the lighter, less sweet variant of the deep red jus d’oséille (bissap) that I often enjoyed in southern Chad.

This 'new soul food' is noticeably more refined than the larger, richer portions typically served at Gumbo Yaya and Mama Jackson, which, despite being unfinished, left me feeling excessively full. Lainé remarks, 'In France today, to create a lasting cuisine, we must align with new culinary principles—organic, natural, and made to order.' He emphasizes his unique stance, declaring, 'It can’t just be about chicken and waffles,' despite maintaining a friendly rapport with the teams at Gumbo Yaya and Mama Jackson.

When I asked Chauvel-Maga about any connections between the past politicization of soul food and Lainé’s current quest for Afropeanness, he thoughtfully acknowledged the link. 'Of course,' he replied. 'But we’re crafting soul food à la française, which reflects a certain universalism, and besides, soul food is a convergence of various cultures, with elements like cornbread rooted in Native American traditions.'

Lainé’s distinctly Antillean and West African-inspired menu extends beyond the conventional limits that Miller defines for soul food; however, Lainé is not trying to market his dishes as soul food per se. Instead, he draws from the soul food tradition, playing with its conventions—such as the focus on chicken and the signature “red” drink—while leveraging its cultural and political significance in African-American history for his own gastronomic exploration: using cuisine not just to express identity and memory, but as a means to shape both moving forward.

Rudy Lainé’s connection to the African-American soul food tradition is evident in his commitment to a cultural-political project that transcends mere cooking. He acknowledges the tribute to a specific community within the American soul food tradition, noting the movement rooted in cuisine. 'I take pride in being French and European,' he shares, 'but identifying as ‘Afropean’ resonates more than simply being African or French. In France, we’re seen as noirs, while in Africa, I’m viewed as français. We occupy a unique space, and ‘Afropean’ truly captures that essence.'

Food anthropologists often refer to a “grammatical meal,” illustrating the typical structure of a plate for most North Americans, which consists of a protein, a grain, and a vegetable. However, there’s a deeper layer in which meals serve as a form of language, offering a subtle communication that touches our emotions. In this context, soul food might be seen as a response to the haunting refrain of the Negro spiritual “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child.” It provides comfort within a cultural tradition that is cohesive, despite the erasure of the diverse heritages that shaped it. The identity of “African American” cannot be reduced to a mere hyphenation.

Consequently, as Wells observes, “Americans tend to see Black.” Many individuals have shared with her that they only realized their identity as ‘Black’ after moving to the United States. This insight highlights a significant difference. In contrast, Europe’s diverse Black identities are often more traceable—directly linked to regions like the Antilles, Benin, and Cameroon, especially among the chefs of these emerging soul food restaurants. The connection remains intact, unlike for my family, where it vanishes within the records of a Missouri county archive from the Emancipation era. Does this suggest that soul food cannot be fully replicated outside of the Black American context?

In the wake of a summer where the Black Lives Matter movement has compelled the U.S. to confront its racial history in challenging and often painful ways, Paris’s soul food restaurants reflect on America: revealing that despite its struggles to fulfill its ideals, the U.S. continues to inspire both solidarity and concern. Yet, what is most elusive to replicate—perhaps found in the humble, authentic West African Mytouries near Gare de l’Est—is the essence of “community.” Sharing meals with people who may not be close friends but share meaningful, recurring interactions and memories is what truly defines this experience.

Today's soul food in Paris isn’t simply immigrant cuisine; it leans more towards tourist fare—discovered during trips to the U.S. and often served to American visitors or expats. However, it comes with a sense of nostalgia and respect rather than appropriation. While some places may merely use the term “soul food” as a marketing tool—serving up burgers instead—these three restaurants demonstrate a genuine commitment to crafting meaningful dishes.

Recognizing the attempt to capture an identity is simpler than drawing definitive conclusions. As a continent that is politically somewhat unified, Europe has spent decades cultivating a growing, albeit complex, sense of European identity. “If you took me up blindfolded in a balloon and dropped me in any European city, I would know it was Europe,” a German poet observed nearly two decades ago. This feeling resonates as I savor Rudy Lainé’s Afropéenne plate. It may not yet clearly convey ‘Afropean!’—perhaps I lack the reference points—but it undeniably embodies something distinctly more European and African than the offerings at Gumbo Yaya or Mama Jackson.

“Soul food à la française has a future,” Lainé asserts. “If soul food found its way to Paris, it was destined to become French and eventually return. We can create something that can be exported. I aspire to end up in New York.” If he does, perhaps he’ll find himself, much like Baldwin, at home in his new city, yet occasionally longing for those Sunday mornings in Paris with his friends and the meals they shared together.

Alexander Hurst is a writer and freelance journalist based in Paris. His work has been featured in The Guardian Long Read, The New Republic, The American Prospect, Hazlitt, and other publications. Eileen W. Cho is a Korean American photographer and journalist who primarily resides in Paris.Fact-checked by Sarah Stodder