I ate at the forbidden restaurant on Friday.

When I pulled open the heavy outside door, a deep purple, velvety curtain confronted me. I pulled it aside and peeked in.

Directly in front of me stood a table with glasses stacked high. Behind it, a framed poster for a Fernet-Branca digestif dominated a wall. “The King of Bitters” it said.

I scanned the room. The floor covered with small white tiles led to to leather banquettes and small wooden tables and chairs, with mirrors rising behind the shoulders of seated patrons. I imagined Ingrid Bergman dining with Humphrey Bogart in wartime Paris, as in Casablanca.

“Bonjour.” The waitress’ greeting broke my reverie. She seated me in what was formerly the front window of a shop, smoothing over the white tablecloth a sheet of white paper with a name, L’Entrecote Saint-Jean.

The name explained why this restaurant was forbidden to me, at least in the company of Iggy, my husband. Entrecote is a cut of steak. Iggy is a vegetarian. It’s not that he won’t enter any restaurant serving animal flesh. But L’Entrecote serves only steak.

Iggy couldn’t have sneaked by with a hearty salad. Patrons either order a salad with walnuts followed by a steak and frites or the same set menu preceded by tomato soup or juice and followed by chocolate profiteroles puff pastry. I imagine this keeps the restaurant’s costs low. I was eating at 2 p.m., so I couldn’t judge whether the limited menu cramped their traffic.

I ordered my guilty pleasure.

The salad arrived as stripped down as the menu. Broad lettuce leaves the color of endive tips rested under a sprinkling of walnutes and a lightly oily vinaigrette. I ate it slowly, savoring each bite.

Next came the piece de resistance. A long, thin steak bathed in pale brown gravy shared the plate with a heap of matchstick fries.

I’m always nervous before I cut into a steak. Not because I’m afraid of offending Iggy, but because even 30 seconds of overcooking ruin it for me.

I pulled my knife across the steak to reveal a pink center. Promising. Skewering the morsel with my fork, I delivered it to my mouth. Into the hangar. Chomp, chomp. Mmm…