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How To Use The Velib In Paris: It's Not Just For Parisians Anymore

For years we foreigners without a special "puce" -- or smart chip -- in our US credit cards could not enjoy the thrill of checking out the Paris "vélib," a vast city-wide network of 20,000 bikes to pick up and drop off at "stations" all around Paris, at a low, low price.  The concept inspired the vélib name :  "vélo" is the French word for bicycle, and "libre" means "free."   Paris now has the "Autolib" - same concept, except for electric cars.  But back to the bike.

The lack of a smart card is not a problem anymore for checking out a vélib.  Your US credit card, which has otherwise been working overtime at all those stores, wine bars, and restaurants in Paris, will now get you a super cheap day, or just an hour or so, of fun on the vélib.  And a little bit of additional exercise does not hurt either. All that walking will not diminish the effect on your hips and thighs of days of croissants for le petit dejeuner and enjoying a cheese course with every meal.   Additional work is needed.  If you care about those things. 

How it works and a few tips for the novice, non-techie velib customer.

1.  Go to the on line site here.  If you're in Paris longer and want to make this a daily habit, go for the 7-day pass.  All I needed was a one-day experience.  You can pick the start time for "now" or pick any 24-hour period.  But if you decide you need to blow off the pre-purchased ride, no worries.   It is only 1.7 euros.  For an entire day. 

2.  The process on line is straightforward.  (You could probably do this same process at one of the kiosks, but this applies to the on-line process that I used.) Two numbers are critical here, besides the credit number you will input.  On this screen, you pick a 4-digit PIN.  You will need the number to pick up the bike at whichever station you choose.

* I wrote my code down on my iPhone notes.  But then I wore down the battery taking pictures all day on my velib tour.  A hard copy back up or a good memory is a good back-up.  The latter does not work so well for me.

3.  Once the code is entered and payment made, you will get a client identifier.  One more number to remember.  It's longer than four digits.  Write that one down.

4.  With these two numbers, you are liberated from the slow pace of walking and aching feet and free to pedal around Paris, down along the Seine, up around the Etoile, and learn that sometimes pedestrians are the most potentially dangerous obstacle for the cyclist, not cars.

5.  Download the velib app on your smart phone.  This is not critical, but how else would you know (i) whether there are velibs available at that very moment; (ii) where a station is to park/return the velib (i.e., a station where there are spots available to place it into the "fastening post" for each bike) while you grab some coffee, do some shopping, or walk around a new neighborhood you stumbled upon; and (iii) how many velibs are available at that very moment at the closest velib station near you.  I found the app indispensable ... for as long as I had battery power left in the iPhone to use it.

6.  At the velib station, walk confidently to the keypad and follow the helpful instructions on the screen - available in English.  

There are many options available to you when you get to the screen.

You want to "take out a bike."

First, the client identifier will be needed, to confirm you are someone the system recognizes.  That's the longer number that you received that when you bought the pass on-line.  Then you will need that easier-to-remember 4-digit PIN that you selected.  

Time to pick out a bike from the numbered parking spaces/ locking mechanisms into which each bike is parked. 

This particular bike will be identified at the kiosk/instruction screen as bike no. 3. Note the silver button on the bottem there to unlock.  This is important.  

7.  Even though you may have already scoped out which bike you want, the screen will alert you to which bikes are available.  

I picked Bike No. 3. Note the helpful instructions here.  Need to push that silver button in the previous picture to unlock the bike and pull it out from that locking mechanism. 

Paris is yours! 

8.   Read the safety instructions.  Get familiar with the bike.  Get ok with understanding some of the signage for following the bike "paths" around Paris.  Wear a helmet, if available.  (Not required, but recommended) 

9.  Set off.  Note there are gears for the bike.  In some places there are very well-marked bike lanes and routes identified.  I started off here, on Batignolles, on a quiet Sunday morning. 

I just followed the signs to the Etoile, which was easy to find from there and a breeze on a Sunday morning.  I figured out the gears at the last minute.  Who knew there was a bit of an uphill climb to the Arc de Triomphe?

9.  After this, getting to Place du Trocadero (primo viewing spot in chic quartier for the Tour Eiffel) was a breeze.  

Thanks to my velib app, I knew there was a velib station on one of the many avenues that end at the Place, e.g., Avenue d'Eylau, and there were plenty of open parking spots.  I parked the bike, inserting it firmly into an available spot after pushing that button to unlock.  I did not care that I was hot, sweaty, and in a tank top for my carb-loading breakfast at this elegant cafe. 

After that, I was really ready to get to some serious cycling in.  

I crossed over to the left bank, thinking a stroll along the left bank along the Seine and around Invalides would be nice.  

I accidentally ended up on the right bank due to some confusion on my part on the bike paths, etc.  I learned you really can just make your own path and do whatever. I went back over to the other side (at the point at which I took the picture above).  I explored the new Paris urban infrastructure achievement of Les Berges.  It is cool in an edgy but very kid-friendly way.  Games, decks, bars, lounge chairs ... it's all there amidst public art installations.  

Sundays in Paris are magical.  The stores are closed.  You have no choice but to relax.  As testament to this, those broad thoroughfares along the Seine are closed to cars.   The bikes, skateboards -- runners --  they all rule the roads for a time on Sundays. And it was this thoroughfare I found along the right bank of the Seine to finally ride and ride and ride.  

Cycling along the Seine on a Sunday in Paris ...

Priceless.

And if you park your velib at the Hotel de Ville, as I did ...

... I highly recommend stopping in at (sort of) nearby Candelaria for Mexican breakfast (lunch) and a cocktail.

Okay, well maybe a cocktail with absinthe and mescal is not the best thing after 3 hours on a bike, but in Paris, on a Sunday, it's all good.  

(I had the Tamarini from the cocktail brunch menu.)

(Velib-riding after this...no. That is what the metro is for : a ride home after something like this when dehydrated.)

 

 

 

Talking to Strangers : Dining Solo in Paris (Aux Deux Amis (11ème); Frenchie to Go (2ème))

Back from four weeks in France, on day 2.5 back in Austin, I am still haggard-looking and can barely fit into my last resort, back-up fat jeans.  Thinking back on how crazy it seems now to have worked from France for 4 weeks, some of my best memories are random conversations with people when I was dining solo, and the best conversations were with les francais, not Americans. 

I checked out Aux Deux Amis over in the 11th, where all the neat new places seem to be these days.  Aux Deux Amis has been on my mind, particularly because of my exploration of the natural wine scene in France.   I walked in early enough to get a seat and settled in at the bar. This piece by Amy Thomas at the HiP Paris Blog depicts said bar. 

I got my order in, ordering in such a way that allowed me to try a white and a red wine out of the natural wine selections.  "Vin nature" seems to be all the rage just now.  I was delighted the manager dude picked out which red and which white. The thing with natural wines is that they are outside the AOC/AOP regime. That means that the producers are forbidden from placing anything remotely resembling a reference to a region. Makes it difficult to know what to order: can't say with these wines "I'd like a Brouilly" ... or a Chinon, or a Bordeaux. More on this in an upcoming article. 

I struck up a conversation with the young American guy who took the seat open next to me at the bar.  

I asked him what brought him to Paris (en anglais), a benign conversation-starter. 

He: Oh, I've been coming to Paris for like 14 years now.

[Me, to self: ok, well I've been coming here for like 32 years now so, whatever.]

He inquired where I was from, as he could not discern any regional US accent.  I said Texas. That telltale accent goes away apparently when speaking French for a time.

Me:    This place has been on my list for some time.  I noticed it's also on the top 100 list of bars in Paris.

He:  Oh, no. It's top 10.  I've been coming here ever since it opened.  Some friends brought me here when it first opened.

Realizing he thought himself too cool about all things cool about Paris, I returned to my meal and studying the names of the Seine's quais and bridges.  As part of his sharing his coolness with me though, he recommended I check out Le Baratin, which he was right on, based on Le Fooding's drooling over how great it is, per this review.

One day a lunch reservation falls through. I figure this is a sign to check out Frenchie to Go.  The raving about Frenchie goes on and on.  And true, I love the wine bar. But it's almost Frenchie fatigue. I head out to the tiny rue du Nil off of rue Aboukir. Just to see what the fuss is all about for this addition to the Frenchie empire.

I had to eat crow.  Frenchie to Go is fresh, superbly prepared food, in a simple and laidback venue.   I ordered fish and chips.  And a glass of red natural wine.  The drill is you just go and sit down after ordering.  There is a table off to the side with a large pitcher of water and glasses for you to help yourself.  You do not get a number or anything.  Somehow the someone who brings the food out knows how to find you. 

I installed myself at one of the small community tables/counters in the doorways.  I like the picture this writer includes on his write-up.   As I sit down, the two French guys on the other side of this counter are in the middle of exclaiming to a third friend, who had just walked up, how great the food is: especially the Reuben.(Wendy Lyn at The Paris Kitchen has a spectacular picture of it here.)  

My fish and chips arrives. I stared at it a while. I could not believe how fantastic it looked.  They point out my fish and chips to their friend as yet another example of how stupendous the food is. 

As happiness descends as I break into the crispy fish and steam flies out, and I start dipping the hot steaming crispy white fish into the rustic tartar sauce-esque sauce and the smashed peas, I can't help but interject myself into their conversation.  

"Excuse me, if you don't mind my bothering you to ask ... you're French, and you love this food, what is it about the food that you like so much?"  

This conversation-starter was more successful than the one at Aux Deux Amis.  We ended up talking for at least an hour.  About French politics, the French health care system and home care benefits, attitude differences between the French and Americans, great public spaces in Paris, their travels in the US, my travels in France, my favorite places in Paris, their favorite places in Paris - and new recommendations for me of hip new hotels, public spaces, etc.   I ordered desserts for us to share so I could taste a little bit of all of them: the chocolate doughnut, the rhubarb beignet, and the brownie.  (We liked the whole hazelnuts in the brownie; I liked the intense chocolate in it, but we left it alone otherwise: too dry.  Preferred the rhubarb beignet, but I was not blown away by any of the ones we tried.)

I mentioned how exhausting Paris is contrasted against the heartbreaking gorgeousness of it. 

They agreed:  Paris is exhausting.  You have to get away from it every now and then - to breathe more deeply - and then come back to appreciate it.  And once you can't see the beauty anymore in Paris, it's time to leave.  

For them, growing up and living their adult lives in Paris, the attachment is seeing their personal histories as played out in various corners of Paris.  Could not agree more. 

It was not so hard to leave Paris this time, trip no. 19 (that return to Paris after Nantes and Angers counts as a separate trip).  I just consider this a little time away to breathe.

 Signage at Candelaria the last Sunday in Paris, over killer Sunday brunch "cocktail"  that included absinthe AND mezcal

 

Losing the iPhone in Paris : Oddly Liberating (still annoying); Outdoor "Ciné-Karaoké géant" by the Seine Ends le Festival Paris Cinéma

Signage at La Buvette, a Paris natural wine bar, deep in the 11eme near Pere Lachaise 

This is not a picture from the Paris Film Festival's closing night tonight, which involved outdoor movie karaoke night, in a prime setting along the Seine (in the awesome new build-out that is les Berges), because my iPhone was stolen this morning in the Charles de Gaulle metro station.  

So I have nothing to show and help describe the pretty amazing scenery of a giant movie screen, crowds below singing along, many bateaux mouches going up and down the Seine with their bright white lights shining in the night and lighting up the water, the Louvre lit up in the distance, the white lights of the giant ferris wheel and other neon lights in the dark sky over in the Tuileries.   The night was so chilly and breezy after such a hot (86 degrees) day I almost did not stay for the movie even after getting there way too early at 7:30, having read the movie clips for sing-along would start at 9:30.  Allergies, cool/cold breeze, no movie, and just my sitting there among the happy groups of picnic-ing francais all waiting for the movie to start...that was a long three hours to sit and reflect by oneself without a phone to engage in one's virtual social media world to feel connected.

Haricots blancs from La Buvette

Instead, without the iPhone I had to do something unusual.  I had to just experience the experience.  Experienced it without the compulsive need to document and capture every visually stunning moment.  At many times, especially when I looked with longing and pangs of sadness at everyone else with their iPhones, capturing the cool image of the big screen, the hot pink verbiage of the Paris Film Festival logo against the dark night, the crowds, the funky brass band playing and the people dancing...yea, I felt regret I could not have the visual image to recall the night. None of that though for me.  Hard to accept.  I will have only the memories (which are not reliable at my age).  

Included in those memories will be the visuals of some very awful picnic food some groups were having around me (while I tried to look entertained and content by reading The Economist).  I have to say : the French know how to do a picnic.  They were out en masse for this event and had planned ahead.  Everyone else but me just about had bottles of wine, baguettes, cheese, tomatoes, hummus--18 packs of Kronenbourg.  Nothing particularly high-end or sophisticated.  Just a bunch of food. But the 20+ gals next to me were eating some things I wish I could block out of my memory bank forever:  industrial doughy white slices of bread, slices of slimy turkey out of a plastic package, processed cheese slices, and some jam/spread thing to top off that lovely sandwich.

Small plate of manchego shavings at La Buvette (and of course great bread, cut thickly and...toasted!)

However, from some of the less-than-great situations on this trip (having iPhone stolen would be one of those), I have had some different, real-life experiences of Paris and its inhabitants--experiences beyond figuring out which red wine to order for an apero on the rue des Abbesses and which cafe should I hang out with le laptop: Le Sancerre or Le Vrai Paris (they are right next to each other on Rue des Abbesses). 

Example:  Had to trek from Charles De Gaule Etoile metro station (after one meeting) to go to Abbesses for 11h30.  There I realized I was without my life support device while traveling abroad that is the iPhone.  Friend I met there tried to call RATP for me to see about lost and found.  We had a nice visit nonetheless.  She thought I should check back with the station and see if someone picked it up.  Yes, yes - I will do that.  Hope springs eternal.  Back to Charles de Gaulle Etoile.  No luck. But the guys at the Info booth/command central for the station were quite helpful in at least helping to make the inquiry--or make it look like they were helping. 

I run back to apartment to get address for 2 pm meeting far away - no iPhone to remind me or help me find the place so I have to use a real map to get there.   I make the 2 pm meeting.

Back to apartment to (i) call AT&T via Skpye on the laptop; and (ii) block the phone now that I have confirmed no hope for finding it.  [The 2 pm meeting person regales me with stories of flagrant thievery.  When he asked if it was crowded where I was (yes, very) - he confirmed that this was no mere loss or casual thievery.  More orchestrated and, alas, very typical.]

No point getting new iPhone here (locked, more expensive, about to leave anyway): I should go to Orange - the carrier here - and get a pay-as-you-go phone.   And so I do.

They could not have been nicer at the Orange store in my quartier.  The nice lady gets me all set up; we discuss how much time I should buy.  We discuss the manner in which I was accosted/thieved. Another customer comes in.  She says - yes, madame, I will be right with you please have a seat."

But then Orange assistant person, totally focused on my dilemma, has the idea: Had I contacted the police?  Well, no, I had not thought of that.  She decides she needs to get the address and phone number. Her manager comes out.  They proceed to attach themselves to this task, which requires deciding which arrondissement I was in, and where the relevant police station would be.

All the while, the other customer is sitting there waiting while they are both surfing for information for me.  She writes down the address and phone number for me.   She wishes me luck (bon courage). 

I would, 2 hours later, be back at the store for help getting the SIM card in the phone.  The manager is there from earlier in the day. He fixes that issue, handily, and then sets up everything on the phone for me: date, time, language, etc.   

Between this and the cute little guy near Place de Clichy being so tickled that I was his first customer to buy the first of his first shipment of suitcases (cheap suitcases are everywere for sale for tourist crowd) that he gifted me with a couple of Eiffel Tower key chains, I am once again amazed at the kindness of Parisian folks.  And in the most unlikely places. 

A Rabelaisian Day in Saumur - Loire Valley : The Fouées Lunch

Although I have been back in Paris for a few days, the days in the Loire Valley and the Anjou region remain highlights.  I tend to experience culture through food, so experiencing a local specialty -- a food specialty -- is the ultimate cultural immersion experience.

After the very special tour of the historically fascinating site (a visit to the cellars is a must) of Bouvet Ladubay, and by its charming head of public relations, Jean-Maurice, it was time for lunch.   Bouvet-Ladubay (whose exquisite sparkling wines have been winning awards for decades) is, technically, in St. Florent.  Lunch would be in Saumur, just a few hundred meters away.  Driving into Saumur was like driving onto a movie set, or back in time into a charmingly surreal idyllic stereotype of a French village.  

 

After hearing that I was going to be treated to a local specialty -fouées - and at a restaurant integrated into a troglodyte cave, I had been preparing for this day for weeks.  "Fouées," I would learn, figure in the oeuvre of Rabelais, and his epic fictional work Gargantua (with its legendary character Pantagruel (associated with gluttony), includes a "war" involving fouées.  Fouées has been called, in a Wall Street Journal article, French soul food.  This is all to say that fouée is steeped deeply in the French cultural psyche. 

Fouée is an ancient bread, per the WSJ article above, baked at extremely high temperature in a wood-fired brick oven, which come out puffy, filled with steam. Split open the top carefully for the steam to release, and fill it up with the tradtional fillings.  

Baskets of fouées will be brought to your table.  And baskets of them will keep being brought to your table until you say "stop."  

We get to a fouée restaurant on the sidewalk of the picturebook setting, one that the generous Jean-Maurice had recommended and called ahead to make sure we would get seated, as we were past the usual lunch time.  (The one in the cave was a little too touristed that day, i.e., busloads of visitors had stopped there for lunch intellgence sources told us).  I learn, on seeing the menu, that there is another specialty here:  galipettes.  My tour guide for the day passes on them.  I never pass on a local specialty, especially this one, which involves large rustic mushrooms, grilled at high heat in the wood-fired oven with fillings of (i) olive oil and garlic; and (ii) cream/goat cheese.  I don't get what's not to love about these.

As I am the only one having this entrée, I am holding up everyone from the main event: the fouées.  Sorry guys.  They graciously say I should take my time.  I speed up.

Next comes the tray of the fillings to fill up the piping hot breads.  

I am starting to get the literary overlay of Rabelaisian gluttony here.  The toppings include:   goat cheese slices with a beautiful substantive rind, salted butter, a light chive creamy sauce -- "ciboulette" -- white beans, a boudin (blood sausage), and a pork terrine, rillettes.  The server tells us that lardons and the chive cream are a good combination, as are the butter and the lardons.  

The first basket arrives.  

Time to starting cutting them open and filling them up. They remind me of a high-end but rustic pita bread. But that is not quite right to desribe the flavor.  I end up liking the combination of goat cheese and lardons.

I only make it through three (3) fouées.  

I thought we were done.  But no.  There is a dessert version.  The dessert version is a tiny bowl of hot melted dark chocolate and hot salted caramel served alongisde the hot out of the oven breads.  I figure I will have just a bite.  Just to see how this tastes and whether this works as a dessert.

 

Well, it works.  One little bowl of melted hot dark chocolate later, and me using the last of the bread to wipe the little bowl of chocolate clean, I pronounce this one my favorite.  I swore not to eat dinner.

We bid our farewells.  I stumble out into the bright cheery sunlight into the movie set that is this charming main street of Saumur.  My tour guides insist I see the Château of Saumur.  It is right here.  It would be a shame to miss it.   Agree.

A meeting we have scheduled for later that day, on Austin-Angers business mattters, gets pushed back.  More time for the leisurely, winding backroads scenic route from Saumur to Angers.  I learn this is the Grande Levée, and this is the "rue" or road of the levy.  It winds along the Loire River, along charming cobblestone streets, farmhouses, vacation houses, second homes made out of regal chateau-esque stone structures, with wild gardens and manicured gardens -- all with the Loire River as their backyard view.

This is bicycle country.  The Loire valley was made for cycling it seems, and the tourism infrastructure has made it very simple for you, as sites such as this show: well-marked trails, storybook landscapes, charming river-side cafes in small villages, and trains outfitted with special cars just for the bikes.  You can hop on the train with your bike, and descend again at some other spot to continue the journey down winding paths alongside the Loire, winding your way through vineyard after chateau after vineyard. Even by car though, all of this was stunning in driving back to Angers.

I had the best intentions to fit in a short little "balade" on a bike through this food/wine/landscape paradise, but it was not to be.  It definitely will be on another trip, very soon.   

And once you've had about as much charm and relaxation riding through the terroir that has produced the wine you have been (or should be) drinking at night while you are in the Loire Valley, there is always the hustle and bustle of Paris just a 2-hour train ride away.  Or not.

 

French Food Rituals and Etiquette Dining Out (in general and in Paris) (le 6 Paul Bert delivers; Day 8, Trip No. 18)

A well known tip for eating very well in Paris, at the cool raved-about places, is to check out those places at the lunch hour.  This does not mean that you do not have to reserve.  You do.  It just means (1) you have a really good chance of actually getting in; and (2) it will be less expensive than the evening menu.

And so it was that I opted for le 6 Paul Bert with foodie/wine guru lawyer friend Brendan.   We had the optimal reservation time of 13h00.  Noon or even noon-thirty is too early for the French appetite.  I arrived just in time after a 20-minute walk from my dodgier part of the 11eme to this lovely little corner of the 11eme where two "Paul Bert" restaurants are located on the rue Paul Bert.   One, the Bistrot Paul Bert I thought would be just too too much for lunch.   I picked the 6 Paul Bert, which all my favorite respected Paris food bloggers were really gaga over.

I walk by the Bistrot Paul Bert.  It is indeed charming.  I keep walking a little further along rue Paul Bert to get to the number 6 address, which is where the little restaurant called le 6 Paul Bert is located. 

After dallying in the small foyer to the restaurant, surrounded by little wood shelves and cubbies of food stuffs like a very well-stocked high-end epicerie, I was led to my table.  As I was led there, I swooned and gasped silently to myself. It is so lovely in a cool way.  Soft gray-washed vertical wood panels, like an old shabby chic beach house.  Contrasted against modern bright red tables.  It is cute yet sleek in a warm, well-done, modern way.

I get a table next to the sort of open kitchen.  It is sort of open in that all the diners can see, if they even glance over there, is the very thoughtful plating being done on the counter.  

1:10 comes and goes. 1:15 comes and goes.  I'm still sitting there alone, waiting for Brendan.  I get an email from him asking me to remind him of the address - he got hung up on a conference call (he's a lawyer remember).  1:20 comes.  I order a glass of wine.  I am also given to go alongside the glass of wine a saucer of thinly sliced charcuterie.

1:30 comes and goes.  The restaurant is packed now.  I'm still hanging out alone, checking the email on Brendan's status.   He is in taxi, he emails me.  Traffic is terrible.  I should have another glass of wine, he says.  Lunch is on him he says; he feels terrible as I should be eating by now.   Glass No. 2 of wine arrives.  With more charcuterie.   He says 10-15 minutes.

1:45 arrives.   Now the server is really looking at me funny.  I tell her: "Really, he really is coming. He's a lawyer.  He's late."   She looks at the clock.  She tells me: "Ok, 10 minutes is ok.  The kitchen closes at 2pm.  But 10 minutes is ok."  

As 1:50 comes around, still no Brendan, I start to panic. I cannot miss this meal.  

I ask the server, out of desperation, knowing what I am about to ask will seem weird: "Well, I am really hungry.  May I go ahead and order the gazpacho as the starter, and then we can put orders in now for the plats, even though he is not here yet, but he should be there by the time those come out?"

This requires a conference with the kitchen on this unconventional interference with the proper timing and plating and serving of this fine food. 

They agree I can at least get the gazpacho order in.  

Just then, Brendan rushes in.  Sweaty and breathless.  I tell the server:  "I know you were thinking I just had an imaginary friend.  But here is.  He really exists.  Let's order!"

We both get gazpacho and the brandade de morue (a brandade of cod, which says absolutely nothing to reflect how exquisite and tasty this mix of perfectly flavored textures of grilled bread and spring array of vegetables was alongside the brandade).

Brendan does not like the wine I am having and selects something else for himself. Things starts to calm down (i.e., me).   The gazpacho arrives.  It is a gazpacho of cucumber and coriander, and it is beautiful.

Next is the brandade de morue.  In cleaning my plate, I leave not a single morsel on the plate.  

Another server/helper comes by, again, and this time scoffs with frustration  and mutters something under her breath.  Well, not so under the breath.  She was visibly, and audibly, annoyed.  With me.

She was selectively enforcing a rule that is not always enforced in my experience.  I had not done the special signal with the cutlery to indicate I was done.  It is not just a Paris thing, but an international sign of good manners to indicate you are done with the course.  In my heathen laidback food world, this rule is not enforced all that much.  I am duly chastened.  Now I know.  And so do you, in case you did not.

Put the knife and fork at 4:00.

Technically, the knife should be with blade turned inward.  My bad.  Again.  And, to reiterate, it is not just a Paris thing.  It is an etiquette thing more studied research shows.  

None of the table manners reprimand prevented me from enjoying dessert. Grapefruit, creamy milk sorbet, and chocolate crunchy cookies covered in a chocolate ganache.  

We ended up being there so late and so long that there was not a single other person left by the time we finished.

We were there so late the pork delivery came in for artisanal butchering for the evening service.

Brendan did pay for lunch.  

I would go back in a heartbeat.  Casual yet fantastic fresh, pretty, inventive food, in spirit and taste. And I will bring my best table manners when I go back as well.  And maybe get an earlier uncool reservation time.  Like 12h30.  

The So-Called Refined Palate Wolfs Down Finger-Licking Good Burger From Paris's First Food Truck: Le Camion Qui Fume

Around Jaures metro stop...around the quais and stairways to one of the bridges up and over the Canal St. Martin.

"Jazz brunch" at Le Reservoir this morning was forgettable.  When asked a week ago when reserving whether I wanted the 11:30 am or 4:30 pm seating, I figured that meant the music would have two sets too.  Silly. Getting there for 11:30 meant waiting an hour for the opening act...nice enough - not jazz by any means - and then finding out -- when I decided to bail because it was a beautiful day and this was lame -- that the music advertised for the brunch that day and the reason I did this in the first place, Soul Legend, would be at 2:30 pm.  No need to stay inside on a beautiful day.  

Thank goodness later on, after an adrenal-system boosting nap back in the studio, I stumbled on Le Camion Qui Fume's site when I was looking for Tombées du Camion, the darling store with its vintage wares displayed at the Saturday market in Place des Abbesses.

Back in David Lebovitz's writing about these burgers and this truck...I recall something about long lines of devoted groupies.  Le Camion Qui Fume (literally "the truck that smokes") is Paris's first high-end food food truck.  It took a while to convince the French public that a burger could be this good, and could be served this deliciously from a truck driving around Paris.  The convincing is all done now.

With Quai de Valmy, what the web site says is the site for the truck at 19-21h today, just a 4-stop metro ride away, and some edgy art center, Point Ephemere, being nearby for eating the burger and drinking some boisson, this was a no-brainer for the dinner plan.  

The very funky Point Ephemere: it photographs better than it looks in real life.

Like Franklin Barebecue in Austin, Texas, the Camion has stated hours for wherever they may be on a certain day, but when they run out of food, they are done for the day.

A burger is 8 euros.  A burger and side is 10 euros.  Include the cheap beer I got at the nearby funky venue of Point Ephemere, and the side of coleslaw I ordered at the Camion just to try it, and this was all of 14 euros thereabouts.

The Camion Qui Fume Drill.

Here are the steps to getting, enjoying, and savoring this burger. (Before leaving home though, bring more napkins.) 

Stand in line.

Place order.  This requires you to pick one out of the specialty burger items on the menu.  I picked "barbeque."   Here is the entire menu from the site:

BURGERS
. Classique : Boeuf Haché Maison, Cheddar, Laitue, Oignons, Pickles, Tomate, Mayonnaise
. Campagne : Boeuf Haché Maison, Champignons Sauvages, Oignons Caramélisés, Gruyère Agé
. Barbecue : Boeuf Haché Maison, Cheddar, Bacon, Beignet d’Oignon, Sauce Barbecue
. Bleu : Boeuf Haché Maison, Fourme d’Ambert, Oignons Caramélisé, Sauce au Porto
. Porc braisé : Porc Braisé, Sauce Barbecue, Coleslaw
. Végétarien : Champignons, Cheddar, Laitue, Oignons, Pickles, Tomate, Mayonnaise.
. 2 + 2 : double steak, double fromage sur un burger au choix : + 5€

Pay.  

Once another paper receipt is generated with your number by a little machine connected to the order-taker guy's iPad, go stand in another line to wait for your number to be called once your perfectly cooked dripping juicy burger and side are delivered to you in a brown paper bag.

While waiting, enjoy listening to the music in the sound system over the nice speakers embedded in the truck's awning.  I heard while around there AC/DC, Joan Jett, and Shooting Holes by Twin Shadow.

Scurry away with brown paper bag and find a someplace to sit.  

Take burger out carefully.  Observe its heft. It is really heavy.  There is a lot of meat in this burger.  And it is drippy juicy. I did not know a burger could emit so much in the way of savory sauce-like meaty juiciness.   I cannot believe it is only 8 euros. There is a five-burger limit per person (in case you are taking away for friends back at the office--I cannot even imagine trying to eat this more than a few minutes after it is made).

Notice how the well-formed thick bacon is critical to this burger.  Note the big chunk of it teasingly hanging out the side here.  It is really thick.  Like chewy savory pork fat thickness.  [It is, in many ways, like that spectaular cured ham that Melvin's Deli Comfort over in Austin serves on another luscious gooey sandwich, that croque monsieur, which also resulted in a lot of finger-licking during a taste teste.]

Enjoy burger while sitting on metal rail thing along a (not-so-pretty as other stretches) stretch of the Canal St. Martin.  

Start planning the upcoming week's eating around when the truck will be next. 

Take long walk to redress some of what you have just inhaled.  (My long walk included checking out the peniches -  or house boats, parked along the quais of the Canal St. Martin.)

I walk all the way back to the Montmartre 'hood.  [Note: Do not take this walk that tracks the Line 2 metro from Jaures to Anvers at night (the "Barbes" quartier). And this is not to say that I commend anyone to do this walk at any time.  It's not too scenic but for the gorgeous metro line that is above ground here and the recently refurbished Luxor movie theatre.]

There is something to be said for Sundays in Paris when the day gets off to a really slow start, builds up to people everyone on the terraces, kids playing, and very little is open.  

I am glad I had to change that return date back to Austin:  I have one more Sunday in Paris before heading home.