La Tuile a Loup

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La Tuile a Loup

Take a journey into the various regions of France in this lovely downtown Paris boutique, devoted to See you in Paris!

Your curator of the finest French artisanal crafts, Eric Goujou, takes you on a journey throughout the major ceramic and pottery producing regions of France. Enter the shop and let him be your guide to selecting, based on your tastes, the best pieces to accentuate your existing tableware. And don't worry about excess luggage, we ship internationally.

04/09/2026

At the turn of the season…

A gathering of finely handwoven wicker baskets, shaped in France from locally grown willow with remarkable precision, patience and restraint.

At La Tuile à Loup, we have always held a deep appreciation for the art of basketry. These vessels do more than contain. Like textiles, they carry within them the hand and rhythm of their maker, the landscape from which they come, and the quiet persistence of a tradition that resists haste.

Among them, the smallest pieces are perhaps the most remarkable. Miniature basketry requires an extraordinary degree of precision: as the scale diminishes, the work becomes increasingly intricate and demanding. What appears smallest is, paradoxically, often the greatest feat of craftsmanship.

A limited selection is now available.

All inquiries exclusively via email: [email protected]
International shipping is available.

Please note:

• All pieces are individually crafted in France by independent artists and artisans, working in very small batches with exceptional care and attention to detail.

• Miniature baskets require considerably more time and precision to produce. The smaller the scale, the more exacting the work and, consequently, the greater the value of the piece.

• Pieces featured on our Instagram feed are available on a first-come, first-served basis.

• Our inventory is limited and evolves rapidly, often within hours rather than days.

30/08/2026

Our joyful menagerie appears as a 22-piece dinner service.

The dinner plates are glazed in warm tan tones, while the salad and dessert plates deepen the palette with a rich, autumnal coffee brown. Across the glossy earthenware, animals and playful characters wander freely, each carrying its own small story.

Expressive, whimsical, and full of personality, this service was made to bring a touch of fantasy to everyday life.

22-piece dinner service (indivisible).
– 10 dinner plates: 10⅛ W (25.5 cm W)
– 12 salad/dessert plates: 7½ W (19 cm W)

All inquiries are handled exclusively by email:
[email protected]
Please, no DMs.
International shipping available.

Handcrafted in France by independent artists and artisans.
Dishwasher-safe.
Not microwave-safe.
Available now. No custom orders.

22/08/2026

Home at last!

The drive from the airport was remarkably quick. Crossing Paris from north to south along its western edge made me realize that Parisians are still away. Such quietness. One of those rare occasions that reminds me just how theatrically beautiful my home city can be.

Haussmannian buildings lining the boulevards, the refined curves of Art Nouveau lamp posts, sidewalk cafés still half asleep, long rectilinear perspectives opening up ahead. The cool early-morning air brushes against the skin, while a pale yellow sun catches the upper floors and slowly travels down the chalky blond façades. Even the street sounds different. The usual rumble has receded, leaving space between one sound and the next; and, more importantly, space for the eye to wander.

At this hour, Paris can be looked at from a distance.

And what strikes me is how much of the French mind seems written into its architecture.

There is something almost Cartesian about these great perspectives: proportion, symmetry, repetition, an insistence on order and reason. And yet that discipline is constantly interrupted by wit and fantasy. Black wrought-iron balustrades twist into flowery contortions; Art Nouveau lamp posts bend against the severity of the boulevards; great portes cochères and sculpted façades punctuate all that rational geometry with moments of exquisite frivolity.

Perhaps this is one of the contradictions I love most about our way of seeing the world: rigor and fantasy existing side by side. Ultra-Cartesian, certainly, but never entirely willing to surrender to reason. There must always be room for an arabesque, an unnecessary flourish, a little esprit.

Even the strangely empty city at the end of August expresses something of this. Every year, almost without question, an entire city decides to leave at the height of summer. Offices empty, shutters come down, routines are suspended. Never mind efficiency. Never mind productivity. There is summer to be had.

And somehow, that too feels profoundly French.

We reach the Pont de l’Alma. Here, on an August night in 1997, one of the world’s brightest stars was extinguished.

There is another sadness awaiting me in Paris. At the very beginning of this week, the city lost one of its most radiant presences. Her smile, her gaze, her voice, her unmistakable elegance…

Then, finally, my street. My space. My habits.

I step into my apartment, greeted by the wooden floorboards creaking beneath the weight of my body and my luggage; by a thousand personal memories; by silence and darkness. After the coolness and yellow light outside, the apartment feels almost enveloping. The air is still. Familiar. I reconnect with my reality, with my world.

Before me, the living-room table is strewn with books. A large bouquet of dried flowers. A marbled bowl. Tall baroque candlesticks acquired at La Tuile à Loup long before I ever became its owner. Little by little, I find my bearings again. My eye recognizes objects before my mind has quite caught up with being home. The walls covered with art photographs, portraits above all: a landscape of the inner self.

There. I am home.

And “la rentrée” has begun.

For now, Paris is slowly emerging from its summer slumber. Soon the shutters will rise, the boulevards will fill, and the familiar hum of the city will reclaim the silence.

Life will resume its course.

16/08/2026

The taste of the Assumption weekend

August 15. One of those great summer gatherings when families come together around a table laid the night before.

The white damask linen. The dinner service everyone knows by heart, brought out year after year. Some pieces handed down, others added over time. Nothing quite matches, and yet nothing seems replaceable.

Before lunch, the wait for the last arrivals.

The smell of gougères still warm from the oven; black pepper and the slightly nutty fruitiness of Gruyère. The pop of a champagne cork. Someone inevitably reminds us that we should start drinking if we want the latecomers to finally appear.

Then everyone is there.

We sit down to lunch.

One white wine follows another. Bottles make their way around the table, accompanied by knowledgeable, sometimes remarkably precise observations. Later come the reds. The dishes follow at the same leisurely pace.

Conversations cross the table. Some involve everyone; others continue in quiet asides. Summer confidences. News we had been waiting to hear. Old family animosities too, needing little more than a word, a glance, or one glass too many to resurface.

Lunch stretches on.

No one is keeping track of the time. There is nowhere else to be, nothing scheduled for later. The afternoon has been given over entirely to the table.

Beyond the open windows, the children have escaped into the garden. Their voices drift in and out with the warm air; cousins rediscovering one another, picking up where the previous summer left off. The teenagers are the first to disappear from the table, retreating into a world of their own.

Inside, another bottle of red is opened.

The large cheese platter arrives. The scents become deeper, earthier, almost animal. Wine, ripe cheese, the remains of lunch, mingling with the warm air coming in from the garden.

The white linen now bears the traces of the meal. Conversations have broken into smaller ones, some continuing in quiet asides.

Then come the ripe fruits.

Peaches, plums, perhaps a tart made with whatever the garden has given us. Their sweetness seems to gather the whole afternoon into one last fragrance.

Somewhere between the smell of warm gougères at the beginning and that of ripe fruit at the end, the hours have disappeared.

We sat down to lunch in the heart of summer.

By the time we leave the table, something of summer is already behind us.

13/08/2026

This spareness suits me. I feel it on my skin, a physical lightening, almost as though a weight were lifted from my shoulders and neck each time I return.

I feel the need to find the clarity of the North again, on this island I have been returning to for twenty years. Like returning to a slower breath, one the body already knows, inscribed in the muscles. Here, the cold air enters the lungs with an almost metallic sharpness. The breath falls into step with the gusts, as though rediscovering an ancient rhythm.

Far from Paris, urban reflexes, the sophistication the city demands, even the sense of duty, seem to recede of their own accord. Gestures become lighter. Footsteps crunch over damp gravel, sometimes mixed with sand. Gusts sweep across surfaces and whistle between the boards of the cabins. Almost without noticing, one sheds what encumbers. Here, nature dictates the terms.

Above all, I watch the light across the landscape, always the same and yet never quite identical. The Baltic Sea at sunset. Pale, unsettled, almost sick with light. Somewhere between ash blue and reflections of cold straw, with milky glimmers that appear and disappear. The offshore wind ripples the surface. Wet granite, spongy mosses and dense lichens seem to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Everything feels restrained, washed, rinsed to the bone.

Scents are scarce, carried off by the gusts, as though the wind were intent on reducing everything to its essence. A trace of raw iodine. The cold dampness of the rocks. Wet wood. And, more distant, the memory of the salmon smokehouses, that rich, acrid smoke that once clung to hair and coats.

The tastes are simple and sharply defined. Pickled herring, acidic and unapologetically salty. Red berries whose tartness tightens the mouth. Sea buckthorn, bright as a spark. Bornholm figs, dense and faintly granular. Few things, but distinct. Uncompromising. As though reduced to their very core.

The local crafts share the same restraint. Blown glass, heavy in the palm, its bubbles suspended like breaths. Turned wood, smooth and cool. Ceramics in muted tones, as though weathered by a long rain. An economy of means. A quiet integrity of material. Nothing imposes itself.

I often listen to Arvo Pärt. His music unfolds like a held breath. Between the notes, the silences sometimes seem more present than the sounds themselves.

Sight dominates everything. The horizon, of course, but also the coolness on the skin, the grain of the stones, the discreet bite of the wind. Something precedes words here, a perception without contours that returns intact with every stay.

Then memory begins to layer the years. The same paths through flattened grass, the same salt-laden gusts, the same cries of birds. Nothing ever quite repeats itself, and yet everything is recognized.

Perhaps that is why I return.

06/08/2026

The deafening sound of the sea crashing against the rocks at sunset. The salty, faintly decaying scent of seaweed drifting through the evening air. The sudden calm after the beaches have emptied of the crowds that filled them all day long.

The last light of the day reminds us of this particular time of year. A celebration of slowness. Of idleness.

Along the harbor, sun-kissed silhouettes begin to settle onto the terraces of seaside bistros. On the tables: oysters, prawns, brown crabs, Breton lobster, or freshly grilled mackerel. And, of course, well-chilled natural white wine, recognizable by those delicate flinty, struck-match notes that wine lovers simply call reduction.

Here, the annual family reunions that August faithfully brings. There, friends who have chosen a harbor in Brittany to make a few more memories together. Conversations seem endless. One bottle of chilled white wine inevitably gives way to another.

Then comes the sweet, almost irresistible fragrance of Plougastel strawberries. The taste of simple things.

The joy of being together again. Evenings that drift effortlessly into the small hours.

TOMORROW CAN WAIT.

Here and there, the scent of ci******es mingles with bright citrus colognes. Tongues loosen. Laughter gives way to whispers. Whispers become confidences. A rare sense of lightness settles in. An almost forgotten carelessness. The simple joy of being alive.

Will you remember it? It was the summer of 2026.

26/07/2026

Summer is remembered by its fragrance long before it is remembered by its dates.

It lingers in the sweetness of fruit picked at the very moment it could not wait another day. In warm skin still carrying traces of salt and sunlight. In a lunch that quietly becomes dinner beneath a canopy of leaves, where tomatoes taste of summer itself and basil perfumes the evening air.

It lives in the pause when the voices soften and the cicadas finally fall silent. In one more glass of rosé poured almost absentmindedly. Around a table, once so carefully laid, now left just as it is because no one is ready for the day to end.

Perhaps that is why the memories we cherish most rarely return as images. They arrive instead as a fragrance carried on the evening air, the taste of something once shared, or the unmistakable feeling that, for a fleeting moment, time had quietly forgotten to move.

By September, none of it will remain; except the perfume of those days, lingering long after the season itself has gone.

24/07/2026

This summer, I thought I’d keep a different kind of journal.

Not of places visited or miles travelled, but of fragrances, tables, conversations, and fleeting moments that only summer knows how to offer.

If you feel like it, come along.

Perhaps you’ll recognize a few memories of your own along the way.

14/07/2026

Today, France celebrates Bastille Day.

Rather than flags or fireworks, at La Tuile à Loup we thought we would mark the occasion with one of France’s most enduring symbols: the Gallic rooster.

Thanks to a play on words in Latin, gallus came to mean both “rooster” and “Gaul.” Over time, the proud bird became a symbol of French identity, resilience, and spirit.

Here, he proudly crowns a handcrafted terrine, a joyful celebration of French craftsmanship, rural tradition, and the enduring art of the table.

Happy Bastille Day from Paris.

09/07/2026

Not every vase is meant to disappear beneath flowers.

Some deserve to be collected, displayed, and lived with.

Hand-painted with white magnolia blossoms and blue foliage on a luminous yellow ground, this rounded vase has the quiet confidence of a timeless object.

Placed on a console, a generous coffee table, or beneath a staircase, it becomes more than a vase; it becomes part of the architecture of the room.

A piece to treasure for a lifetime.

For inquiries: [email protected]
No DMS please
International shipping available.

10 3/8 W × 10 3/8 H
(26.5 cm W × 26.5 cm H)

Adresse

35 Rue Daubenton
Paris
75005

Site Web

http://www.latuilealoup.com/

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