Le Petit Zinc didn’t rise out of a branding meeting. It wasn’t built to “evoke” anything. It simply was—a working café with a flair for beauty, opened in 1924 and quietly adorned with the rich, curving lines of Art Nouveau just as the world was beginning to turn sharp and modern.
Its name, a nod to the classic zinc countertops of early 20th-century cafés, caught on quickly.
Originally operating on Rue de Buci, the establishment moved to 11 rue Saint-Benoît in the early ’90s, occupying the former space of L’Assiette au Beurre. But it brought its soul with it—carved panels, swirling ironwork, mirrored reflections—all the hallmarks of a time when decorative arts weren’t an afterthought.
If anything, they were the draw. During the Nazi occupation of Paris, many Parisian cafés lost their zinc bars—melted down for the German war machine. Some cafés didn’t reopen.
Others reemerged stripped of their original identity. But Le Petit Zinc held on. Through blackout curtains and rationed sugar, the café stayed open, feeding quiet resistance with coffee and stolen time.
There’s no plaque for it, no grand story—just regulars who never stopped coming and staff who refused to give up a good room with a view.
Now beyond its centennial, Le Petit Zinc endures as more than a Paris landmark. It’s a working monument to design with purpose, elegance in the everyday. Come for the espresso, stay for the tilework, and leave with the certainty that beauty—when it has grit behind it—can outlast wars, fashion, and even clichés from writers zapped on espressos.
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