Rue de Malabry

Can you believe that a street could be named after “badly located, spoiled ground”? Right here on Rue de Malabry, that’s exactly the case. The name Malabry is thought to come from a mangled version of “malabri,” meaning just that. Rue de Malabry itself isn’t spoiled ground, though. It’s nestled in Plessis-Robinson, a commune in the southwestern suburbs of Paris, just a short hop from the city center. While today, the street is lined with residential homes, it echoes with a far more boisterous and whimsical past. Imagine this street in the late 19th century, thronged with Parisians eager to escape the city for a taste of country life. Back then, this area, dotted with massive chestnut trees, wasn’t a residential area but a hub of open-air restaurants, or guinguettes. It all began with an enterprising innkeeper, Joseph Guesquin, who, inspired by “Swiss Family Robinson,” decided to build treetop dining pavilions linked by ramps and stairs in 1848. His Grand Robinson became a sensation. Soon, copycat establishments sprung up, leading to a treetop dining boom. There was the True Tree, The Great Tree, The Tree of Rocks, The Great Saint-Éloi. Even The Fame of Fried Potatoes had its own tree house tavern. It’s hard to fathom now, looking at the modern buildings along Rue de Malabry, but imagine over 200 gazebos nestled among the leaves. This whole area was alive with music, dancing, and laughter, especially on Sundays. Folks would arrive by any means necessary: charabancs, horseback, donkey, even on foot, all eager to partake in the festivities. Rue de Malabry became the heart of this whimsical treetop village. It was such a popular spot that the area, once called Le Plessis-Piquet, was officially renamed Plessis-Robinson in 1909. Even royalty, like Russia’s Tsar and Spain’s Queen Isabella, graced these treetop tables. Unfortunately, like leaves falling in autumn, the guinguettes gradually disappeared after World War II, replaced by the homes we see today. Even a revival attempt by Johnny Hallyday in the 1960s, with his wild-west themed Robinson Village, couldn’t bring back the magic permanently. Now, only fragments remain. A few deserted pavilions and the facade of Pavillon Lafontaine serve as quiet reminders of Rue de Malabry’s vibrant past, a past when dining among the leaves was the height of Parisian fashion.