(Entry through courtyard and into building where my sunny apartment in the 11eme is located)
For this France trip, which, despite the strikes, got underway officially today when I landed around 6:45 a.m. Paris time at CDG, I forgot my toothbrush, packed only two bras—one white and one black—for 4 types of short-sleeve and sleeveless white t-shirts. This would not be a problem but for it is a three-week stay. Telecommuting is a wonderful thing. I found the local Monoprix - love - and took care of those issues.
I soon learned that my flight to Paris, cancelled just two days ago due to the strike, was suddenly reinstated (just the day before I left) because the air traffic control strike ended June 13--today--to be followed immediately by a train strike. Train strike is code for all transportation in Paris besides taxis is not working per usual, or at a snail's pace if at all: metros, RER, the TGV, etc. I learn all this from the man sitting next to me on the plane, who flies every few weeks to see his new (of 2 years) French wife: they met as pen pals when he was learning French, and that exercise was considered the thing to do to help him learn French. He went to visit her. He got swine flu. She took care of him. Voila. He says his French is terrible, and he has given up. They speak English.
I think to get concerned about getting a taxi from the airport, as they should be in high demand with the RER commuter trains and Metro affected, but opt instead to spend the balance of the trip with a good cry with a tiny plastic bottle of red wine and Crazy Stupid Love on the high-def touch screen.
On arrival, no problemo with les taxis. I decide, with 4 hours to kill while awaiting the apartment's state of readiness, I will go to a comforting comfortable place where I can charge all my devices, get a fantastic bathroom break in, and enjoy lovely coffee and service before I head to the unknown territory of the 11th Arrondissement. This venue of choice would be the Hotel Burgundy, where friend Maureen and I have had some lovely phone-charging champagne or coffee-drinking sessions in between meetings. Getting there was a whole other issue.
With all of Paris and its regions' inhabitants taking to their cars given the no regular train service available, the route was packed. Crawling along at a snail's pace, I begin to fear the fare will consume the week's grocery budget.
The driver and I start talking. For an hour. His wife has a fabulous job at a big corporate American company, with global operations, where she is in charge of various highly technical import-export regulation matters. They realized early on that 2 careers was crazy with caring for the only child, a daughter. He would adjust to his wife's career. He made it so he woke up every morning, very very early, to finish in time to pick up his daughter at her school, a school just 300 meters from their house. He did this every day. It was he who decided, when she was 12, that perhaps he would wait for her a little off to the side somewhere. She was 12 now after all. "Papa" - she chided him, why are you doing this. He went back to his usual practice. He at times tried to alter the routine, but every school year, same routine. This was of course really hard on the working mom, but for her daughter, amidst this wonderful teamwork for parenting, this was an optimal arrangement. Two difficult careers and a child just do not mix well, he said. That leads to problems.... I said I knew something about that. He continued this tradition with his daughter until she ended high school, at that same school, just 300 meters from their house.
I find out he is from Valencia, so we speak some Spanish. And talk about Sevilla, and the dialects and Catalan. And we talk about cabrito.
His daugher is now married to her high school sweetheart (who also has parents who are French (the mom) and Spanish (the dad). This cute couple used to live a few hundred meters away from her dad (my now totally intriguing taxi driver) and her mom, that high-powered also multi-lingual wife of my taxi driver. This only child, who now has a precious baby boy--the first, and maybe only, grandchild--then moved back next door to her parents.
(Cafe de l'Industrie: will go back; found it while I was lost looking for lunch restaurant)
Now, as retirement for this world traveler taxi driver looms near for his wife, the days look even more charming. With his one and only grandson next door, he will now do for his only grandson what he did for his only daughter. He will take him to school, the same school his daugher attended all those years, and, as with his daughter, he will wait after school for his grandson and walk him home. He and his wife could have opted for the big "terrain," the big house, but they "live small." And they travel: California, Wisconsin, Bryce Canyon, Yosemite, New York, Boston, Florida -- and of course back to Spain every summer as well. We talk about where he should visit in Texas. I marvel at the wonder of getting this driver and having this conversation about a special man's charmed "small" happy life.
I arrive at l'Hotel Burgundy. I have to explain no, not checking in. I, uh, have a rendez-vous later on nearby and want to have breakfast and a coffee (and use your lovely WC facilities and your Wi-Fi as well). Alas the lounge is not available, just the breakfast room. I am surrounded by Fendi strollers and demanding super wealthy and very young hotel patrons wanting many different varieties of cooking methods done for their eggs.
Service is impeccable at a 5-star boutique hotel. And so it was in summoning the taxi and loading everything up for me in the taxi. The driver is intrigued by my 3-week stay, my business plans - he totally nailed the business side of my trip in like 12 seconds - and he is amused at the change in scenery I am doing here with the taxi ride from the swanky swanky Place Vendome area over to the more real-life 11eme.
We find the little street that will be home for 8 days.
The apartment agent meets me in time to manage my suitcase up the two flights of stairs.
The drill was that I would leave the bags and wander around for another 2 hours while Sebastien, the agent, finished the cleaning of the apartment (he already was letting me check in earlier than the rules say). We go over the little booklet of information about local sources for wine, food, cheese, and where to not buy wine (no, never from the large commercial entities--go local; go local and smaller producer), and the best restaurants for very reasonable prices.
This turns into a conversation about the ways "industrial cuisine" has made its way into Paris restaurants and how to avoid bad food in Paris. One tip: Read the reviews - but pay attention to the bad ones, not the good ones (and dismiss the ones from Americans who sound like they do not know Paris. Have to agree with him there).
I also get a lesson on the chef/owner of restaurants in the area and more on organic wine and the purpose of preservatives in wine, etc.
(View from interior courtyard close to my building, looking out onto rue Popincourt)
Not that he is too different from any other French person who cares about where his food is from and the "correctness" of the pricing as to the quality, but I am taken aback by this impromptu food and wine conversation and the gravitas of it. I decide I will set out for one of the few places that make his cut for the small booklet for the apartment. I decide it will be "Le Petit Cheval de Manege." I stumbled around in a daze, literally, getting lost along the way, and finally end up there.
(front of restaurant, but Google images for this place - better than my pics)
Sebastien was spot on for this place. And, it turns out, my most reliable food review food blog Paris by Mouth is all over it as well. For good reason.
There is a very small "market" menu, but I still go for what I think might be especially good: the "formule" of the day - a set dish or two for a bargain price. A mere 15 euros for a starter (l'entree) and the principal dish.
Candidly, I was not sure what I ordered. Was losing consciousness because of exhaustion. I did order a glass of Bordeaux. That I could do and remember.
Apparently I ordered a warm salad with spizy homemade chorizo and capers. Good bread is served therewith--a good sign that this is indeed a quality place.
Shock. The young chef comes out and checks on me. He tells me how to eat this salad to get the best of it and all the juices of the chorizo and its drippings mixing into the salad's minimal vinaigrette. He asks me if the dish is pleasing to me. After I get over being agog at how young, and cute, he is, I speak: Uh, yea, totally (en francais of course).
Next: fish of some kind with tasty grilled and flavorful spicy sauced fennell. One bite and I get why this made Sebastien's cut.
Crispy on that outer part, flaky and tender and piping hot on the inside. I melt with contentment. I realize I may have to get dessert. What else can this guy do?!
But no. I am done. I get the check. I assure self I will come back. I walk home and trust I am just right on the timing for me to crawl into bed and deal with my sleep deprivation.
Sebastien was just leaving. I have to de-brief him on my meal.
He is horrified that I had a Bordeaux with the fish - I should have known better than to tell him - and, worse, I said I pretty much drink red with anything. I decide I need to rebuild my credibility. I tell him: did not know what I was going to eat when I ordered (well, that's a problem right there though) and the fish did have a hearty rich sauce that made it maybe not too wrong. I did concede the Bordeaux as the red was a little heavy. We discuss what fish may be ok for a red wine.
Finally. Nap time.
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