GourmandeMom™

The Elegant Paris Business Lunch - for one (or, "dorky moments for this Paris trip, part 1 of many")

It is a bad idea, I knew this, to arrange for more than two meetings in one day in Paris. But time was limited after the Easter holiday, which included Monday. I had only two business days available before I left, Tuesday and Wednesday, so I pushed the envelope. 

Tuesday's schedule included meetings at 9am, 11am -- then a 1pm lunch meeting and a 7pm apéritif.  It was risky to so heavily schedule, but I carefully planned all transportation routes the night before.  It would be do-able: leave the house at 8am to get up north to La Villette; leave around 10:15 to get to Batignolles for 11am, then use the same metro line from edgy Batignolles to super chic Avenue Matignon for a business lunch about international technology collaborations. No problem.

After much emailing the night before the 9am meeting, the 9am interlocuter could only do 11h30.  Alas, that last-minute schedule change, after weeks of planning the day, just could not work.  Desolée.

So at 10am, I skipped down the rue de Bièvre into the sunny and cool Paris morning, enjoying the ample time I had to soak up Paris on the walk across over the Seine to the Hôtel de Ville métro stop. 

It is not a short walk, but it is an awesome and very familiar walk.  I descend the steps into the métro stop, confident in this familiar routine on a familiar route, use my last métro ticket, and await the train.

Odd.  Why are the times for the next trains on the info panel all X'd out. Then I see the sign.  Line 1 closed, and for a critical part of it.  Dang.  I knew it was closed the day before; just did not register that it would still be closed on Tuesday.

Well, there goes that time cushion. I think not enough to time to get an Uber. I think taxi.  But where?  

I briskly make my way to the only potentially sure thing that came to mind: the taxi line at Boulevard St. Michel near the quai.  I am no longer feeling chic.  Or cheery. Walking, walking...walking briskly over across the bridge, back to the Ile de la Cité, where just minutes before I had been so light on my feet for a perfectly planned day of perfectly executed optimal transportation routes.

What luck.  A taxi, just sitting there, not in a taxi line at all. I leap in, expresssing great relief, and tell him the street name. 

I did not understand hardly anything from this chatty delightful driver.  He was speaking a mix of French with something else with a non-discernible accent.  The scenic drive took us down the rue de Rivoli, up around l'Opéra, through the streets named for Europe in the 8th.  He shared his opinions with me on (1) God; (2) man's inabilty to accept the lack of control in life (the weather); and (3) the power of music for man's soul (he used to be a violin player).  At a break in that line of thought, he pointed out a café he almost bought. 

I arrived at the most charming (albeit with grungy edge) little corner of Paris on the Place Docteur-Félix-Lobligeois, in front of the appointed meeting place.  

I am enchanted by this new littler quarter.  [See article about Batignolles here.]

It was soon 12:30, time to get to the 1pm meeting. The lunch venue selected was The Berkeley, an elegant but not intimidating little restaurant on the sublimely quiet Avenue Matignon.  

It was easy and so fast to get there.  I sigh with satisfaction, pleased with my transportation successes, overcoming adversity.  Yep, look at me, manhandling Paris. And here I am, nice and early, at this little slice of dreamy Paris elegance.  

I speak with the hostess. I do not see his name there for a reservation, but she says no matter.  I can seat you. Why, yes, thank you, that would be lovely. She offers to take my coat.  Why yes, thank you. Lovely. 

I am ensconced at a table for two and sink into the comfy chair. The front windows of Le Berkeley are all open to the street on this gorgeous day.

There are business persons all around, not surprising as the area is full of law firms and venture capital firms.  The women have superb shoes.  The men look so relaxed and urbaine.  

If I had had enough life experience back when I was 14 in San Angelo, Texas, when I was dreaming about what Paris must be like, and what some imagined version of me might be like in Paris someday, this is exactly the type of place I would have imagined. 

The first person to inquire of my needs asks about my water order.  I go for the carafe of water, per usual.  But no one is keen on getting me free water.  Fine.  But I am not paying for water.  I will pay for wine though.  I order a nice glass of white wine to wait for the other person.  That order arrives quickly.

It is now 1:15.  I call the business lunch date on his mobile, which was on the last confirming email.   

As soon as he heard my voice, I could tell.  He had forgotten.  He was appalled.  We schedule for the next day: same time, same place.  He was so horrified.  I say no worries.  A demain.

But what to do now.  

Leave?  Ask for the check after just one glass of wine, though I am sitting at a table at which one may only dine, not just imbibe?  

Does it appear so obvious that I was, you know, sort of stood up--even though sort of accidentally?  

I decide to stay for lunch.

I send a lot of emails during my non-business meeting lunch for one, while enjoying this entrée of quinoa and tuna.

When I was done, I got the coat myself, used the lovely ladies room yet again, and headed out.  [We did reprise that business lunch the next day.  The conversation was much better.] 

That 7pm apéritif meeting, at a certain club on the Champs Elysées?  I was right on time.  Only one problem: They would not let me in.  At first.  To be continued. 

 

Pros and Cons of Solo Travel, Solo Paris: That NYT Article "Solo in Paris"

I awoke this morning around 6:15 am and, comme d'habitude, checked the email on the iPhone while in bed.  Among the emails was a Facebook message from a friend in Paris, sending me what he pronounced as a good article on Paris in the Sunday (today) edition of the New York Times. I read the whole article in bed. I liked it so much that I was inspired to get out of bed for the sole purpose of getting my own hard copy of the NY Times, which is delivered to me at home on Sunday mornings (tempting to kick this expensive habit, but mornings and articles like this keep me hanging on).  I slipped on the organic cotton skirt that I purchased in a heat-induced delirium at Austin Psych Fest yesterday and headed outside to get the paper that was there, as hoped and expected, on my sidewalk.

I made coffee, sliced some Poilâne bread for toast, and settled in.

I already knew the story because I devoured it in bed at 6:30 am.  I knew I already 150% agreed with the author about the unique pleasures of being in Paris alone.  It is a luxurious, decadent experience.  

"I went alone, to live in the present.

I sliced through an oyster with my cocktail fork, loosening it from its shell. A pulpy Utah Beach, it was brimming with lemon juice and its own slightly salty liquor. I lifted it with a thumb and forefinger, and tilted it to my lips."

I know I know. Say no more.  It's utterly delicious having Paris all to yourself (when all is right with the world (the right shoes, enough money, good weather)).

A lot of places the author explores are the same places I have sought out or stumbled upon, including the Musée du Quai Branly, experienced not from the front entry, but from the more quiet entrance/exit from the rue de l'Université.  I found it accidentally at night many years ago.  There is, or was then, a garden in the back of the building, lighted up as if a swampy marshland on a cool night had met the Northern Lights.  

You just cannot plan for the poetic moments of strolling about Paris on your own.

Now planning for options in Paris is ok.  That's different.  You can pick what feels right for the day rather than just trudging on with a planned itinerary.  (E.g., Am I in a hipster Bobo mood, a Montmartre village-esque mood, or a Left Bank (i.e., rue de Sèvres/rue de Rennes/rue du Cherche-Midi) type of mood today?  These are very different experiences of Paris.)   

As the author noted, she felt like heading north, up to Sacré Coeur.  But she appropriately avoided the crowded tour buses making the rounds and opted instead for streets leading up the hill, now filled with increasingly chic storefronts among the more traditional ones.  Among the chic ones: Sébastian Gaudard.  [We checked it out on the 2012 girlfriends trip to Paris.  Put your cameras away.  They will usher you away most likely.  And you would not want to be banned: M. Gaudard (who is, sigh, so very easy on the eyes; see these images) does have the best baba au rhum ever.] 

On a brisk run one morning in the summer of 2013, I found my old neighborhood from those students days in 1985-86, near the Parc Monceau (pictured here thanks to a lucky Hipstamatic moment).

A friend noted a while back that I needed a lot of "Liz time," and I'm finally getting around to admitting, years later, that he was right.  It is especially true with Paris, but it also is a longstanding, entrenched compulsion.  Since the age of 17. 

After a first trip to Paris in my junior year of high school, I considered myself well-equipped to do Paris on my own.   So by the time the next trip rolled around the next year -- a generous high school graduation trip from my parents -- I just left the group.   We were moving as a herd (more than 2 or 3), and I just could not take it. I left to go do my own thing. No memory of what I did. I just remember the liberating moment of realizing I had métro tickets: I could go anywhere I wanted!   

And for the girlfriend trip in April 2012, each of us very independent and set in our ways on travel, the girlfriends asked how I would handle traveling with them in Paris.  It is a sign of good friends that they knew me well enough to ask.  I did have ample Paris time to myself that trip, but I also had glorious days and meals with the girlfriends.  

Traveling with friends means someone can watch your stuff when you go to Les Toilettes.  And someone can call your phone when you think you've misplaced it (which is like every 5 minutes for me these days, ever since the iPhone was stolen last summer in Paris).  And someone can be there to affirm and agree with you that yes, Verjus, at night, can create the most perfect dining experience of just right food, charming and engaging staff, wine pairings, a simple and exquisite cheese array, followed by an after-dinner, after-hours investigation into scotch down at the wine bar.  But everyone should leave enough time to just explore and experience. And you should read that NY Times article in today's paper if you don't quite get that yet. 

 

Paris Update April 2014: top 3 best & worst things (trip no. ... 26?)

Though 2 business days and 1.5 holiday days are not enough to get immersed in the things I typically do in Paris (e.g., check out new urban infrastructure projects), this trip was long enough to remind of some of the best and worst data points about Paris noticed over recent trips.

(Paris is in bloom, so pretty, but that also means pollen, which creates so not a pretty feeling)

the "best" list

Number 1:  Hand dryers.

This data point continues to impress me. Paris bathroom hygiene technology has come a long way in the past 2 decades.  Back in the day, there were sad feeble motorized hand-drying contraptions whose output was a faint breeze that took minutes and minutes of standing there whilst water dripped down your arms.  High-power dryers are cropping up in increasing frequency now.  I have dripped water into the sleeves of too many black turtlenecks too many times.  I still love this trend. 

Number 2:  Taxis

They seemed to be more abundantly around and about this trip.  I found them when I needed them out and about. It helped that Maureen alerted me to a prime location where taxis are, typically, outside of late night and big public festivities (Nuit Blanche).  I do not dare discuss with them the Uber controversies, though I always seek out updates from Uber drivers.  I had some really good taxi drivers this trip: from the moment we left Gare Montparnasse to arrive at rue de Bievre, to the G7 taxi's perfect timing picking me up at the rue des Deux Ponts, Ile St. Louis, for the drive to Roissy-CDG for the return flight. You only need half-hour notice though I learned from him.  Because I was under the impression on Easter Sunday for a few hours that I had lost my iPhone...another story...I did learn this nice bit: there is a city-wide lost and found number for lost items in taxis.

Fortunately I found the phone in my gigantor purse during mass at Notre Dame so did not have to live with the very real possibilty that I would never get an answer to that plea for help via email to the web site.  But here it is nonetheless.  

I wrote this kind word about taxis, however, before I saw this piece about France now mulling over the idea of banning chauffeur apps, which would include banning Uber entirely.  France.  You just kill me sometimes.

Number 3: New places discovered, old places renovated 

New Places

Funny how you can walk down the same street for years and never notice a little sign that points, subtly, to what I now know is the Mémorial des Martyrs de la Déportation.  I had a few minutes to spare to get back to the rue des Deux Ponts.  I took advantage of being one person (they limit how many people go in) and got up to the front of a not-yet-formed crowd of people.

I had no idea I was getting in line for such a powerfully moving space.  The symbolism and poetry the architectural design embodies -- for this memorial to the 200,000 people deported to Nazi concentration camps in WWII -- make this worth a view.  Go quietly and humbly.   Read the writing, carvings really, on and into the walls.  The writing is red-hued to refer to the blood shed in this horrible moment of French and world history. 

 Hard to see, but there is that red-hued carving into an exterior wall: 1945. 

Renovated Places

From the sacred and serious to the frilly: The Pick-Clops on the rue Vieille du Temple has gotten a face lift!  It is all freshened up while keeping the cheery yet not-too-perky charm of the old.  Love it even more now.  (But, to be clear, not for the food.)  Glowing reviews include pictures that confirm the change from dark red awning to this bright white and yellow canopy, extending over a bustling terrace on one of my still-favorite streets in Paris. 

If I were back in the Marais for any extended period of time, I would make this my neighborhood place...

...That is, when I am not at my new favorite, le Petit Fer à Cheval.  

the "worst" list

Number 1:  United Airlines 

One's transportation getting to Paris counts as part of the Paris experience.  I'm about done with the folks at United. They took away premier access for me. They took away the Houston-Paris flight (2.5 years ago), meaning I now have from Austin only Dulles, Newark, or Chicago as options for the connecting flight over.

Choosing Newark this time for a change...never again.  Chopping that trip into two legs of 4-8 hours is no bueno no more.  Must figure out a better way.  And probably on another airline.

Number 2: Those *%^*#%$#@ locks

I'm in a pretty good place in life despite challenges in the marital status space.   But the locks.  Seriously.  Not all of these persons are showing their love. It's now surely a game  of one-upmanship.  Check out the bike lock jutting out, now permitting still more locks to attach themselves to this impromptu, arbitrary expansion of the bridge.  And the locks are encroaching on other bridges now too.  

It was cute for a time.  But cut them off now before the bridge falls into the Seine. Time for a new crop of fresh locks and new young loves.  For a more studied analysis of the situation, read the recent HiP Paris Blog entry on this topic. 

Number 3: What is happening/has happened to Candelaria?

It used to be great.  A little secret for great Mexican food that I shared with some friends.  I too anxiously looked forward to catching it at the right time (i.e., when the 8 seats were not taken), and having those tacos with hongos and spectacular cocktails.  It is overrun now.  And not in a fun way at all.  I may give it one last try though. Maybe on a Sunday late morning, when the international hipster crowd is still asleep.  

I hear there is a Mexican food place on the rue St. Honoré to check out.

Next time.

Boozy Walks in Paris ... A Memoir and a Map

The best thing about a walk down (a hazy) memory lane for my favorite boozy walks in Paris is that they span some 30 years and, thankfully, show an upward trend in classiness.  You can re-create these boozy walks if you like, and then enjoy the Euro lifestyle fact of no problems for driving: just best of luck finding a taxi. Don't get me started on the Taxi versus Uber thing. 

1.  "The First Time."

That first time was the early 1980s.  The age was 16.  The beverage was cheap red wine.  In a cheap pizza restaurant off the busy, sort of tacky, drag that is le Boulevard St. Michel. I remember red tables and cheap paper placemats.  I remember a pleasant numbness and a sense of my life being so awesome as my other rule-breaker friends (we had snuck out of our hotel) stumbled back. Tearing up a little just thinking about that first time.  

You could re-create this boozy walk by an upgrade:  maybe the goat cheese and cream pizza at Pizza Sant-Antonio (drizzle spicy olive oil on it too) on the picturesque Place du Bourg Tibourg  in the Marais, accompanied by a much higher grade of house red in a nice half carafe.  

2.  "I Love Me a Good Wine Bar/JYF Year of Excess."

The year was 1985, the first part of my Sweet Briar Junior Year in France program. The place was Au Sauvignon.  This lunch was a pivotal gastronomic moment. An upgrade in the red wine for sure -- this was a wine bar after all, but little did I know of such things as "wine bars" back then.  I was just 20 years old and from San Angelo, Texas (San Angelo way cooler now).  I happened to order a glass of "le St. Emilion," and this "tartine" thing on this bread called "Poilâne."  The choice for a tartine was the chèvre.

Revelation: This tart delicious cheese and this fine wine thing all combined.   One glass led to another. We must have purchased a bottle or two because Boozy Walk No. 2 involves a clear memory of clanging bottles in a  bag as we held onto each other walking back for afternoon classes.  Au Sauvignon is still there. Poilâne is still there.  But for those Poilâne tartines the crowds tend to gravitate these days toward Cuisine de Bar.  Amazing what those people can do with a toaster.  

3.  "I love you Serge!/Pamela Popo Part 1 (circa 2011) and Part 2 (2012))."

My Serge Gainsbourg thing derives mostly from the myth of the man and his embodiment of classic, iconic images of Paris.  Smoky sultry bars, jazz, decadence. 

When I first started meeting up with French friends Anne and Romain, who used to live across the street from me in Austin, we met up with their just as hip friends at Pamela Popo.  

As reported in  previous posts...when your friends know the owners of a cool place, nice things happen.  You are introduced to  wonderful things, such as the Panpan Cucul.  We decided "spanky spanky" was the best translation in English for this mint-infused pale pink cocktail.  I would revisit that boozy walk in April 2012 with The Girlfriends Trip To Paris. 

(The Serge connection: "Pamela Popo" is the name of a Serge Gainsbourg song. Listener discretion advised.)  

Enjoy your cocktail(s) in the quirky Mid-Century-esque decor in the comfy lounge downstairs with friends, or sit outside and sip alone, immersed in your social media.

4.  "The $50 (each) Cocktail Buzz."

On one last night in Paris my new friend Maureen decided we should get out and have a nice cocktail.  We started at the Ritz, my choice, because I thought it would be cool.  Only the Hemingway Bar there was cool.  Everything else, non.  For such reasons it is closed for massive renovations.  I did not realize the signature cocktail there was $50. 

Then there was the piano bar at the George V.  Then there was the Plaza Athénée bar (this hotel also closed now for renovations).   As previous posts mention, Paris is so Paris because of this contrast: the high and the low(er) end:  old, as in classic, and new and hipster and genuine.  A boozy walk is just as delightful after an afternoon down in the 11th at natural wine bar La Buvette ... or sitting for hours at the bar at the Plaza Athénée.  You can still check out La Buvette, or any other of the natural wine bars, and as these other luxury hotels are getting facelifts, maybe check out the W. Or Le Meurice. 

5.  "La Dernière Goutte/Down to the Last Drop."

Every time I am in Paris I try to fit in a food tour with Meg Zimbeck and Paris by Mouth. So should you.

Meg has perfect pitch in picking cheese/wine pairings with her friends at La Derniere Goutte.   For that summer month in 2013, I was able to fit in only one Meg event: a "dégustation" of cheese and wine pairings in the back room at La Derniere Goutte.   Our group from all over the world was so charming (one couple I met knew my rock star primary case physician at Austin Regional Clinic!).  We got louder and louder. We "spit" or poured less and less into the giant blue pitcher on the table for that purpose.

Though there was plenty to eat ...

---I was very, uh, suffering the consequences the next day of a bit too much of the good thing (i.e.,  array of exquisitely delicious new red wines and cheese pairings).  I was so caught up in the moment -- Paris, new friends, Paris, red wine, Paris -- that I bought a case of Côte-Rôtie and had it shipped home. Still waiting for the perfect client event to open the box.

I walked all the way home to the edgy 11th, up north of Bastille, because Paris was so heartbreakingly beautiful that afternoon -- if not a little hazy.

 Actual picture taken on that walk home. 

 

 

 

 

 

The Single Person's Life Lessons * Valentine's Day 2014 * France

My trainer had been asking me a couple of weeks ago, repeatedly, what I am doing for Valentine's Day--and telling me she needs to find me a date--though she knows full well that date is a four-letter word for me, way down low on the priority list, because like my situation with Excel spreadsheets, I (i) am hopelessly terrible at it, and (ii) have neither the patience nor mental energy or motivation to work on improving said lameness.  And I would not have even thought much about this at all, but for her mentioning this at every one of our recent 6am workouts.  Good thing that with all this "snow and ice" in Austin we have had to cancel some workouts, leaving some breathing room from the "let's find Liz a date" conversation as my abs are burning from plank walks with push-ups. And in these critical lead-up days to Valentine's Day, she has been sick, further diminishing the opportunities for having to listen to this.

Luxembourg Gardens, Paris, January 2013

Years and years and years ago, in the early post-divorce stage, my [awesome] therapist back then mused out loud if my renewed France focus, bubbbling up around that time with intense vigor, was an escape from dealing with all that other, harder stuff.  I'm not saying it is, she said, just wondering.  Right.

As much as I loved chatting with said therapist, it was finally time to leave that nest. Eventually some equilibrium was attained, and eventually I started to notice le 14 février kept coming around, again and again.  And because of that annoying repetition, two years ago I chose to leave for a business trip to France on that day. That meant I enjoyed a Valentine's Day dinner meal contained in small plastic dishes, covered with foil, comprising mashed potatoes perfectly formed to the foil container and mushed into and around an unnaturally formed piece of chicken covered in a gelatinous brown sauce.  The red wine was from a little plastic bottle.  

I did this on purpose, thinking I'd wade on into pathos confidently. Whatever.  It makes for a nice little vignette, barely, but the more important thing is I ended up in Paris.  Where there is no barrage of Jared's commercials (or that Turbo Tax commercial this year that makes me weepy with that sweet little couple getting married, and all the adorable couple moments of carefree togetherness the commercial goes through to get to the point). 

Walking over to, or maybe from, the Ile Saint-Louis, in the snow, January 2013

Only now, years later, I am willing to admit that said therapist may have been on to something.  For many many years later, I would find myself questioning the personal life such that I thought my lodging in Paris for a business trip regarding the agricultural sector should envelop me cozily, like a big hug, and that would mitigate wasted energy in that arena.  The fluffy down comforter in the studio was indeed super soft and comfy, but that escapist lodging choice turned into the place where I would stay for 30 hours straight with some vicious norovirus, but for a few minutes for the walk down to the high-end Monoprix on the rue du Bac to buy crackers, toast, more crackers, something close to ginger ale, and a bottle of bleach to sanitize for everyone else's protection the cool whites and greys of that very chic, little studio near the Serge Gainsbourg wall.

A small portion of the Serge Gainsbourg wall, 5, rue de Verneuil, Paris.

Some people reflect on their lives and how they are doing on all fronts--professionally, physically, spiritually, emotionally--on their birthdays or the start of a new calendar year.  For me, that day of reflection tends to be Valentine's Day, perhaps because it has been such a longtime nemesis.  This year, like last year, and much like last year's 2013 musings, I am not going anywhere for that day, which is not just fine but also very necessary given the overload of fun this past weekend squeezed into a working weekend.   

On Valentine's Day Night 2014 I will probably be cozied up another way: pondering the new mantras for the year, and dealing with that other thing I'm really bad at--if not Excel spreadsheets per se, learning how to use Quicken, finally, and tackling a year's worth of bookkeeping for 2013.  

Fortunately there is a little bit of France in the fridge to help with all that: a bottle of Taittinger.  

 

 

 

 

 

A Love Affair Worth The Carbs: Me and my Miche--27.5 Years Of Pain Poilâne

Somewhere during the 1985-86 school year, my Junior Year in France, I started my love affair with that rustic crusty miche of bread goodness made only and exclusively (then) in Paris in a tiny charming bakery on a sort of tiny street (the rue du Cherche-Midi) on the left bank of Paris: Poilâne bread.  

When I took the plane back home to Texas in June 1986 after 11 months of student life in France, I was laden with the most ridiculous items, which never would make it onto a plane these days.  I had about 6 carry-ons.  But the most precious item of all, which I clutched closely to my heart for most of the trip home: a "miche" of Poilâne bread.  

In that heavy, dense miche was embodied all my happy memories of a student life in Paris.  Even more charming about a whole miche of pain Poilâne: each one is emblazoned with a giant P, for Poilâne of course, but for me that beautifully swirly font also evoked another P-word: Paris.  

On this last trip in November 2013, after lunch at the Cafe de le Nouvelle Mairie over near the Pantheon, it hit me.  Why not head toward Poilâne and bring back my own miche.  [Would sure beat the $40 or so FedEx shipping price for getting that miche over here from France when I am feeling indulgent and order a miche on line.] 

And so on a cold, rainy day in Paris, my last day there, I made my way to the rue du Cherche-Midi. Customers do not have to buy an entire miche.  Indeed, it takes days and days if not weeks to finish one. There is a nifty device the salesperson can use to cut off the correct requested amount of a miche.  My turn.  I nicely ask for une miche.  An entire one?   Oui, s'il vous plaît.  I look around. I notice there is more than bread and chocolate and butter cookies on the shelves.   

I realize that Apollonia has done much more for Poilâne beyond carrying on her father's dynasty, as the New Yorker reported in this article last year.  She lost both her parents in a tragic helpcopter crash in 2003, but carried on the buisness, just as she was leaving for university (Harvard).  I felt the tragedy for the family, and a daughter losing her parents; I also wondered if this was the end of an era, a legend. What will happen to the bread?  

Apollonia is a rock star in my book.  A great poster child for shutting down any stereotype about the French not working hard.  

At the boulangerie that day, I can see she is branching out, while keeping the bread intensely old-world and rustic (takes 6 hours to make one loaf) and yet continuing to make it in such vast quantities that crazed people like me myself and I can order it direct from France to arrive via FedEx chez nous.  

This is the one I brought home with me last month.

Now they have these elegant pocket knives.  I did purchase one.  I'll wrap it for myself and put it under the tree.  (One good thing about the aging process: I will almost forget it is there and still be delighted to find it Christmas morning.)

But more eye-catching: these fabulous bags.  Imprinted into the fabric are rustic woodsy bits, like twigs from a forest, or the style of that paper in which each miche is lovingly wrapped.

I reached for one, confused on how I would choose just one to take home with me when each one was so lovely and distinctive.  Once I saw the price, I was able to step back and just admire. Some other time.  (It was about the price of once night at a luxury apartment.)  But good job, Apollonia.  Love the bags.

My miche and I got back home intact.  It is like 1986 all over again.  Except I am mindful of the carbs and am, thankfully, wiser though much older. 

Despite the vow I made to make this one last, I got out the last chunk of it from the freezer today.  Something about 27 degrees in Austin and listening to Paris jazz on the radio via TSF jazz, has me remembering, as only someone older and wiser would:

What am I waiting for?  Life is short. Carpe diem. Eat the bread already!

And so I will.  Bon appétit.

Worst (yet best) Trip Ever to France (my cold, the cold, my work, loss of all matching gloves)--and that's a good thing

As I read in between drafts of motions a few articles about trends in French gastronomy, including this piece in Slate about the lack of French female chefs in France, I recall it is a seasons of thanks. I am reminded to thank my parents for fostering this "French thing" I have going on:  from that costly Junior Year in France, which got me life-long bragging rights to say I took a class at the age of 20 (infancy) in French at one of the French grandes écoles--Sciences Po in Paris; to educational French class trips to France while still in high school (educational especially in getting to be friends with Côtes du Rhône at an early age); to their staying with my son whilst I have gone off in recent years looking for ways to "figure out" France for business (it will take a lifetime) and my place within that culture as experienced here back home.

I am grateful to be able to say that this was not an "awesome" trip in terms of sublime moments walking up and down the Seine, and that is just fine.  That is what makes it a great trip. It was an exhausting research and business intelligence-gathering trip.  Amidst that "worst trip ever" (because of so much work and not enough time walk around and be wistful and eat at Frenchie To Go or le 6 Paul Bert, etc. etc.), it was a maybe best trip to date, and there are many stories to come:

Enlightening Insights (hopefully blog posts) To Come From The Trip

1)  The Loire Valley

The Loire Valley in the fall is something to behold.  Rolling green hills covered with spots of bright gold, red and orange.  Producers described for me the tiny microclimates so unique that just one hillside can produce its own particular type of grape for a particular type of wine, and it can do so because of the time of day the fogs rolls in, creates moisture on the mushrooms growing close to the ground, then that all goes away for the sun to shine on the grapes just the right amount of time per day at certain times of the year.

 

Yes, imagine dinner parties outside here with wine pairings, with wine made from the grapes you can sit there at dusk and gaze upon.  

And then a walk down some trails to the river... 

2)  The natural wine movement in France and some of the people behind it

I met Kenji Hodgson and his wife Mai, not pictured here, at a wine-tasting in Paris that was celebrating natural wines of the Anjou region.  They up and left Canada to lease some land in Anjou to make wine the natural way, through their company, Vins Hodgson.  Kenji was patient with my schedule to fit in a visit to their cave here in Le Breil 49380.  (Need GPS to get there.)  Kenji and Mai share the cave with Damien Bureau, pictured here on my left, who is the man behind a very fun and tasty sparkling wine (un vin pétillant) and maybe the most darling wine label ever. 

 

You could not have two more different experiences in the Loire Valley: an afternoon at Soucherie....

 

And a day learning from passionate pioneers in a relatively new wine movement--the natural winemakers, just down the winding road a few miles, guys sharing some space in a old barn to make some interesting and truly lovely wines.  

 It's all part of today's wine culture in the Loire Valley.  And it's all way good.

 3)  Gentrification in Paris

Paris is changing, opening up to more English spoken everywhere and trendy small hipster joints all over.  (The business culture will take more time...) And some have wondered whether hipsters are ruining Paris.  Case in point: a Paris friend's longtime neighborhood "mom-and-pop" boulangerie in the bubbling-over-with-change-and-renos 10th arrondissement was recently closed in favor of a more sleek and thoroughly updated boulangerie, combining épicerie type wares with candies and pastries (i.e. as in a patisserie). 

Jury is out on whether all this is good.  For example, where did mom and pop go who had the boulangerie before this one?  Did they cash out at a great price such that la retraite will be a sweet deal indeed?  Don't know. Will check out Liberté next time, as it is near ever-delightful Le Verre Volé.  Until next time.  

 

Hazards of catching a cold in Paris...especially on a Sunday : Why I heart "publicis drugstore" Champs-Elysees

Not much is open on Sunday in Paris (but for the publicis drugstore!!...see below)--it is part of what makes Paris nice and calm and tranquil--but this is not so great when one is sick, home at the apartment, with no groceries. And it is freezing cold outside.

It helps that clients let me borrow their apartment, where the towels are huge and warm and fluffy, the sound system fantastic, and the huge kitchen better equipped than mine in Austin.  But I cannot eat them out of house and home.  I had to go shopping.

As I wander aimlessly with swollen ears, red eyes, sore throat I see the Arc de Triomphe in view as I walk up Boulevard Hoche.  I have seen absolutely nothing open but for two cafes on Boulevard Hoche/rue du Faubourg St.-Honore.  And then it dawns on me what the Arc de Triomphe symbolizes.  It means that salvation is near. It means the publicisdrugstore is just right there.

What is this drugstore you may ask.  To anyone visiting Paris, I think it would look super cool and hip for many reasons.   It is no mere "drugstore."  It is part designer boutique with gorgeous leather purses, scarves, baby clothing...part really fantastic bookstore, complete with a chic little patisserie with gourmet chocolates, and now a "steakhouse" with burgers, etc., and the high-end l'Atelier (Etoile) de Joel Robuchon. I still love this place.  But I cannot stop at the bookstore anymore. I end up bringing too many heavy items home. I have many, many books from here from years past.

More important to me on this trip to le drugstore:  the coffee bar, the bakery, the high-end to-go foods: salads, yogurts, quiche, pizzas (like goat cheese and sausage); chocolates, pastries, teas....you get the picture.

And for someone with a head full of stuffiness, those to-go foods included, halleluia...soup.  Choice of pumpkin and zucchini.  I went with zucchini.  The soups are right there next to the sushi and the seaweed salad.

I was so happy at this big score I had a hard time making good choices. I ended up with a large cafe au lait consumed on site; 2 small pains au chocolat--one of which I consumed there--eggs; une baguette tradition; slice of quiche lorraine to warm up later; some gourmet tomato sauce for my pasta I still have from Angers; tea--for sure; butter cookies and some tiny chocolate cookies.

If you are in Paris and need some Hooters sauce for your wings you may be cooking up at home, or some Stubb's bbq sauce, you can get it here.

But le drugstore also is, most importantly, one of the few open almost all the time drugstores (7 days a week; until 2 am).  There are some 24-hour pharmacies in Paris, but not so close to me--though that link shows one down the way--but this one was here, warm, playing great music, and near a coffee bar and gourmet food store.

I have a talk with the pharmacist about whether my nose is more runny or stopped up.  I say it's both, but more on the side of stuffy.  She hands over what I need.  I get that and more toothpaste. Somehow the toothpaste I selected was 9 euros. Ouch.  

Which brings me to the closing point.  This is not the place to do your regular grocery shopping.  I do not even want to think on what the price was for those emergency food items.  (I averted my eyes when I signed.)  Important thing is: I can stay in all day, nap, have soup and bread, and tea and cookies.  And work on my work.  

Speaking of which: it is time for lunch.

What Gives, France? Or, Why Le Bistrot Paul Bert's "petit faim" offering is food for thought

What is happening to France, its food culture, its very identity.  Talk of lower bread consumption.  More people going to the gym.  More snacking.  More bad food habits. The loss of the closed-for-lunch to enjoy something more satisfying than a quick sandwich.

Nothing to do with France per se; but I had a lovely sit-down lunch at Mettle last week.  Frank, our server, was a rock star.  He did not even mind my detailed order about how my double espresso should arrive (piping hot).

And now I learn that one of the most talked about restos in Paris, le Bistrot Paul Bert, is offering a snack time food offering in the late afternoon, which they are calling “un petit faim” (for those being just a little hungry/with a little hunger).  From 2 pm to 6:30 pm, Tuesdays through Saturdays.

Paris!  France!  What has gotten into you?!

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVED this idea immediately when I first saw Wendy Lyn’s posting it on The Paris Kitchen this weekend:

"UPDATE: Great news! In addition to lunch & dinner Tuesday – Saturday, Paris’ favorite classic bistro Le Bistrot Paul Bert will now stay open throughout the afternoon offering a “Petit Faim” menu (little hunger menu) from 2pm to 6:30pm.

A country terrine (9€), Jambon de Paris with salad (12€), omelette (10€) with cèpe mushrooms (15€), duck foie gras on toast (16€), sauteéd eggs and ham (9€), cheese plate (9€), a daily-changing hot plate of the day (14€) and desserts like their famous Paris-Brest, crème caramel and Baba au Rhum (8€)."

I love this offering because as I map out my eating-out calendar for only 4 November days in Paris (arriving on a Sunday, leaving the following Thursday), that leaves only two full days of eating at many of the worthwhile eating places in Paris.  This is because, of course, many restaurants/bistrots are closed on Sunday and Monday, making those days challenging (but by no means impossible) if food is a priority on your Paris stay. 

This news then, finding out that I can get in for a little taste of something at this much-praised old school-ish food heaven that is le Bistrot Paul Bert  (and right down the street from my rental digs in the 11eme) and avoid worrying how to work it in on the limited lunch and dinners on two days...well, it's a huge relief.

And what timing to see this bit of food news--about institutionalizing (high-end) snacking--just as other changes to French culture are underway, or at least talked about with more frequency.  I learned this tidbit from The Paris Kitchen just one day after we discussed in my Business French class the forces that are underway to do away with the (currently almost complete) ban on Sunday openings for retail stores in France (including Paris). Again, what is happening to France?!  [This is part of an immense demographic, cultural, socio-economic shift, as this recent article on this same topic notes.]

Sure, it’s annoying that the shopping paradise that is BHV is closed on Sundays.  But I appreciate more the why it is closed and what that means as a metaphor for the pace of Sunday life, even in such a huge and cosmopolitan city as Paris.  The very limited retail activities that are allowed to exist on Sundays in Paris, and all of France, means the day has a tranquility to it than we in the US do not even realize we are missing.

I try to plan trips around being in Paris on a Sunday.  It is, in theory, a day for family.  For cycling.  For meandering.  Or sitting in the park.  Not running to Target to get a headstart on the week. The pace just seems slower.  I relish it.  I deal with the restaurant "situation," with many/most being closed on Sundays and Mondays, by embracing the structure this provides to restaurant planning.

So although I love that I can knock Bistrot Paul Bert off the list for a meal (if I could even get a reservation), because I can stop in and get a “duck foie gras on toast” snack one afternoon in between meetings, I still have to wonder. 

What has gotten into France.

I get that change is good.  Change and iterations thereof in all facets of daily life are inevitable.  But those changes that wreak havoc with the very core of one’s identity...those changes I’m not so sure about.   Once BHV is open on Sundays, I will know the end of the world, or France as I know it, is nigh.

 

Woman Shocked To Learn That Food Consumed In Foreign Country (France) Also Has Calories, Just Like At Home In The US (and so begins 21-day purification/cleanse No. 2, post France)

It is time: time for a detoxing purification--a cleanse--of the mind and soul and body with no caffeine, no alcohol, and no bread, rice, etc.  

For just as I still apparently do not fully grasp how the Euro is real US money out of my US bank account when the US credit card is used in a foreign country, I also cannot seem to wrap my head around the fact that even though one is enjoying exciting food opportunities and exploring poignant corners of Paris for obscure wine bars, all that food and wine fun will still turn to fat, just like in the US--unless it is monitored strictly and mitigated with frequent running or cycling routines.

So I saw Eleanor today, who is the practitioner rebuilding my adrenal system and naturally balancing ye olde hormones.  Today's visit was for her to get me set up for another 21-day detox/purification regime.  

I did the first cleanse/detox/purification back between Thanksgiving and Christmas 2012.  Recall it is a "cleanse" with a lot of vegetables, some cleansing supplements, and with the protein intake still high and good (protein shakes)--with actual protein added back on Day 11.  Last time I did it, I felt like a million bucks: I slept like a baby, had tons of energy, thought big creative thoughts for work, and felt calm and at peace.  I drank like a gallon of water a day. Friends told me my face looked great.  And I lost 10 pounds.  Sign me up for all of the above, like now. 

We first talked about the usual array of things with which Eleanor helps me tremendously: how I was feeling generally, hormonally speaking mostly, and how I was managing work load and social and other commitments to try to slow down my life. She was forgiving and understanding about the 4 weeks in France and was glad I had a great time.  (Though when she travels, she has a lot of protein bars and protein shakes.)

Cute little proscuitto cups for the Austin Angers Music reception chez moi, for Germain Kpakou.  It's like using bacon as a bowl pretty much.  Filled them with healthy diced pears tossed in lemon juice.  See the recipe here.

Then she asked me:

E:     So how much do you weigh now?

GM:   Uhhhh...Let's just say [...].  

E:    No, really, how much?

GM:  I don't want to look.  I haven't looked.  My jeans barely fit, ok?   Let's leave it at that.  But I am doing much better than the day of my return when I resorted to yoga pants and tennis shoes for the trip back home.  And I'm working out again, and swimming, etc.

E picks up the scale in her office, telling me it's best to weigh oneself in the morning, naked, after going to the bathroom.  I coud not agree more.  I figure she is going to tell me to weigh the next morning at home and take note so we can track how I do this time around on the cleanse. 

She tells me to follow her, out into the lobby.

GM:  Seriously?  You're actually going to weigh me?  Here?

E:   Sure.  I won't tell you if you don't want to know.  Now get over here.

GM:  Oh fine.

E:  So we take off a couple of pounds for it being the middle of the day and other extraneous extenuating circumstances and there you are.  

GM:  Well, that's not so bad.  Bad, but not that bad.  I'm glad we did that actually. Brutal, but feels good.

Being on the cleanse is like going to a uniform school.  You don't have to decide what to wear every day.  With this, I do not have to think too much on what to eat everyday.  I make a protein shake.  And/or I head for the veggie drawer and consume the day's plastic bin of lettuce with enormous quanities of cruciferous vegetables and a great olive oil-based dressing.  Or roast some vegetables.  Or grill some asparagus with lemon and butter.  It is not deprivation of all food by any means (don't forget the no caffeine and no alcohol, which includes wine--that is deprivation).  But it does take some strength of will.  Apparently I thrive on structure.  In small intense doses.

I already can't wait for the last day of when there is no more such structure and I will break the cleanse with the first post-cleanse glass of red wine.

Last time the breaking-of-the-cleanse was at Justine's for escargots and red wine.   And that is sounding pretty good for the next one too. In like ... 22 days.

 

 

Austin's New French Resto Arro ... Off the mark ... or just a cranky me?

I've been thinking long and hard about why I had such a visceral dislike for my experience at Arro Friday night--despite the fact (or because of the fact) that I was so looking forward to a French food fix in my hometown after 4 weeks in France.

Walk home one evening in Paris, post dégustation of wine, cheese with Paris by Mouth at La Dernière Goutte

Some elements are easy to identify.  

Element 1.  Really loud club music. Unclear if Arro is trying to be a club or bar that serves food, or if it is aiming to be a restaurant.  I've been noticing the music now everywhere I go.  They turned it down for us, as I started pouring for myself the bottle of wine I had just purchased as the bar (anticipating a long wait for our group of 3), as I needed something fast to distract me from how awful the first impression was with the music.  That wine was my new recent favorite, however, which I was thrilled to see as an option: Clos Siguier, a natural wine from Cahors (France), which has been my recent go-to at Vino Vino. 

Same walk home as above.  My motto for my life these days it seems..."All you need is wine."

Offerings were stupendous: the duck confit was almost my choice.  I (and my two dining companions) opted instead for the very reasonable $25 "menu" or "formule"--French style, picking a starter, main dish, and a dessert.  

What happened next was Element Two of a not-great night, and the focus of gastronomic debate with friends and introspection in the days following.

My starter was the French Onion Soup, a classic, and one for which I have fond, strong feelings in terms of how I like it given my experimentation with various recipes over the years.  As my friends' Herb Salad starter arrived, which they loved, I received a white soup bowl with a plate on top of it.  On top of the plate was a portion of a baguette -- about the size of that small 6-inch Subway sandwich -- covered with melted cheese.  I looked up, dazed and confused, at the server.  Uh, so, what's the deal here with the cheese bread on the side?  

Answer:  It's so the bread does not get all mushy in the soup.  Or you can break it into pieces and put it in the soup yourself.

Ok, well, I thought that was sort of the point of French Onion Soup -- the challenge of toasting the bread just right so when it is broiled with the Comté or Gruyère on top you have that pleasing combination of textures: the crisp crust of the bread, the rich stock of the soup, the bite of the hot cheese.   I ate it, sullenly, under protest, but noting the soup itself was nice.  Not as strong and bold as I like mine, but with a sweetness, showcasing the obviously well-caramelized onions.

Element 3.  The bread situation.

As one would expect from a place that is owned by the same folks who own the place that I think has the best baguette in town - Easy Tiger (which I told Meg Zimbeck of Paris by Mouth... hope she stops by and checks it out while she is visiting family in Georgetown/Round Rock this summer) - the bread could steal the show. Charging people $2 per person to have a bread plate (served beautifully, true) on the side though ... me no like.  I get that something this artisanal and gorgeous cannot just be the side, not for those diners who may not care enough to notice how superlative it is.  Surely somehow a bread serving can be built into the pricing, along with that mysteriously delicious, not-ordinary fluffy salted butter that accompanies it.

Despite the onion soup bust (for me), the bread sur-charge situation, and the nightclub music beat, dessert was exquisite.  

Melissa and I ordered the Rosewater Profiteroles. (See the Arro menu here.) True, these were not classic profiteroles: with vanilla ice cream or a creamy filling inside and hot dark chocolate sauce (Benoit in Paris comes to mind), but I was forewarned on the menu not to expect that.   Indeed, I ordered them because they were so intriguing ("Rosewater Profiteroles .. pistachio ice cream, raspberries, black pepper").   Maureen ordered the Dark Chocolate Pot de Creme -- another one of my favorite stand-bys, but this one was at another level, with "apricot brandy milk liqueur and cherries."  

I am not "a dessert person."  The Arro desserts could turn me into one. Bite after bite I marveled at the profiteroles: the combination of the spice of the pepper against the sweet lightness of the ice cream and the inherent ethereal nature of rosewater. 

Over the next morning's workout, Melissa and I debated the deconstructed French onion soup and my whining, still, over this big let-down (for me).  Classics are tweaked and revised and reinvented the world over.  This is how innovation pushes the evelope in culinary terms.  What was my big deal?  

I honestly don't know.  That loud music, the high ceilings that make the music bounce around all over, the really young dining crowd (not us). It just hit me in the face all wrong.  Not sure why.  Justine's is deafeningly loud, but I love that place.  There the music is vintage jazz. Maybe it works because the music fits the space, the food, the diverse crowd.    

Maybe Arro is still just finding its way, its people -- and the right soundtrack for the space and those people.  Just not sure I'm going to be one of those people, unless it's a quiet Saturday and I'm at the bar, listening to jazz, having a glass of that Clos Siguier and a slice or two of that exquisite bread. And maybe a bite or two of that chocolate pot de crème.

 

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. 

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.

 

 

More Refined Palate Gets Picky About Dining Out in France--but I probably need to stop helping all the Americans in Paris who are eating badly (Le Relais Gascon; Montmartre)

Last night while "dining" out in Paris (loose term; so not good--it was just consumption of food for energy...but I knew what I was in for), I realized not everyone cares that they are eating badly in Paris.  

I also get now why my French friends seem so, at first glance, or a first interaction over food, "critical."  Critical here mean discerning, analytical.  A huge cultural difference between "the French" and "Americans" is how we deal with analytical methodologies.  In France (generally), it is appropriate and expected and part of the cultural fabric to opine on the cheese, the bread, the meat - and call it bad when it is bad.  Or simply offer a suggestion that perhaps it is a little too ripe, or not ripe enough, or a little overdone on the baguette.  Etc.

We in the US tend to be, generally, more polite.  We agree sometimes for the sake of polite conversation.  Sometimes.   But now I get it on the food part.  Once you have been immersed -- and I feel that way going into week 3 -- into eating a different way, in a region (Loire Valley) overflowing with exquisite local, local produce and wines, you start to discern fine differences.  Differences between this wine and that wine; differences between this wine with that fish, and that wine with this charcuterie, etc.  And of course the astounding differences between good bread and bad, factory-produced bread.

 Terrace at current favorite restaurant...outside of Paris: le Favre d''Anne.  Rainy noon time so could not dine outside.

I know this is because of such meals at Le Favre d'Anne in Angers, beautiful sparkling wine appreciation time at Bouvet Ladubay, and surprisingly great service and food at the Provence Caffe in Angers after the theatre.   Last night I realized I finally understood what the foodie French call "industrial" cuisine.  

I did not get into the nearby really good restaurant, MIroir, for dinner here in Montmartre (the no reservation thing).   I knew it was a longshot. I went early and tried to use the "une personne, toute seule" (this really is what they ask me; it is translated literally as "just you, all alone?"), as a selling point.  No go.  Off I went to select a random place on the Rue des Abbesses.

I like to think of myself as the French culture wiki for foreigners.  I hope to be a good ambassador for Texas and the US in being a good tourist in France -- even in hard-to-please  Paris -- and I hope to help make France -- even Paris -- more approachable, manageable, and enjoyable for the uninitiated.

And at this time of year in Paris, there are many uninitiated.   

The Saturday flea market "brocantes" in the Place des Abbesses.  Photogenic wares.

I randomly selected for dinner Le Relais Gascon.  It had a cute, lively outdoor terrace area.  All I wanted was something in the red meat category to keep up the iron and protein intake. 

On my left, I see a woman having French Onion Soup for a starter.  That's never a good idea.   It is way too heavy to include over there in the "entrée" column. It makes sense though when I figure out she and her hubby are American.  And next to them, another couple, super happy, without a word of French, using all sorts of US colloquialisms that I know have to be impossible to understand for the server.

My food arrives. It is industrial cuisine.  I expected this.  Nothing special.  Just meat, some type of reconstituted sauce, and some onions thrown in for good measure.  I am not outraged.  I am just glad for tasty enough red meat and vegetables.

I look over, and the woman who started with the French Onion Soup is having served to her one of the enormous salads that I have seen coming out of the kitchen to many people.  The whole top layer of it is covered in thinly sliced (yummy-looking) sautéed potatoes.   I then later hear the woman on the left starting to discuss with her husband her choice for the French Onion Soup before the big salad.  

I just have to intervene in their conversation now. I am really concerned about the quality of their food experience in France and their impression of "French food."  I do not want them going home to the US thinking this meal was an example of French cuisine.  There is good cause for this concern because the hubby was having a "cassoulet" that did not even have a crusty top layer on it.  It was all soupy with some sausage floating around (I was looking on in horror). This is so wrong.

I tell them, once I apologize for butting in, as I could not help overhearing the conversation: "You realize, right, that this is not good French food?  I mean, places like Miroir over on the nearby street, that's the good stuff.  You generally need a reservation."   And yes, typically with a big main dish salad like that, it's too much if you are having onion soup as a starter. Usually not done that way."

Oh, he says, "What I had was good: I had the cassoulet."   [I figure out quickly that I need to cool it and not say, uh, yea, I saw that nasty thing you were eating and let me tell you, that was not cassoulet.]   

Ok well, ok, as long as you are having a good time, I say.  We talk some about what they have seen and done.

Realizing they don't know what a cassoulet is, and do not realize or seem to care that they are having bad food, but are having a good time in Paris nonetheless, I am relieved. But I am alarmed because I am a little shocked that people come to Paris not really caring or thinking about the food.   

The sweet little Place Charles Dullin, Montmartre, with its theatre, just across the street from my building.

Their meal ends.  I watch as they try to settle up the bill without a word of French.   They are told no credit cards.   But how can this be. Surely the server is being really awful and giving them a hard time for the no-French thing.

But no.  The French woman on my right also gets the same rejection when she hands the server her VISA ("carte bleue" here).  She is stunned, rightfully so, and indignant when they say no credit cards.  She wonders where on earth they have this displayed to show their customers.  The server points to a tiny chalkboard sign behind the bar and some writing at the very bottom of the plastic menu. I am indignant as well.  This seems sketchy this cash only thing.  I chime in on this conversation as well.  

To make a point, I pay my bill mostly in change.  Good chance to get rid of most of those annoying centimes.  

The American using the colloquialisms says to the owner, when that couple learns this same information: "That's bullshit."  Very not effective to use American comebacks when you are in a foreign country. 

I have a nice conversation with the French woman.  I ask her where she is from (i.e., which part of Paris; whether she is from the quartier).  She is from the 15eme. She came over to this part of town to get some fabric.  

So you may want to avoid Le Relais Gascon if you are running low on cash.   Go hang out at Le Sancerre (not as "funky" as it used to be....but very "bobo" as they say: see here, e.g., or Le Vrai Paris.  (They take credit cards, surely.)  And I will try not to eavesdrop on your conversation and correct your dining experience.

 Apero time over at Le Sancerre, with good vantage point at the bar; no room on the terrace outside.

 

 

 

 

The Paris Tourist's Dilemma: Sundays, Mondays, and Restaurant Reservations (CheZaline, 11th; Day 5, Trip No. 18)

Paris can be tricky for food adventures because of the need to make reservations at most really good restaurants (keeping in mind "restaurant" does not include wine bars (many of which are fantastic eating options) or the omnipresent cafe). 

If you are serious about your food experiences in Paris, and you have been studying the blogs because of this interest, you need to just get over it and deal with the fact you have to make a reservation and plan your day accordingly.  Or just take your chances.  (As Wendy Lyn of the Paris Kitchen reports, some places are so difficult to get into they are not even answering the phone anymore to take your reservation---we're talking like 300 calls a day.)

[One reader of a certain blog complained on line about this practice in Paris.  She complained about how can she possibly know what she will be doing and when on a certain day to make a reservation in advance.  Another reader responded:  "When in Rome...when in Paris..."  Well said.]  

Take this reservation issue, and combine it with many cool places being closed on Sundays and/or Mondays in Paris, and you need to have a Venn diagram drawn up to figure out what to do and where to go and how to get a decent meal. 

Paris by Mouth, my go-to guide for where to eat in Paris depending on where I am on a particular day (it includes a nifty list of their favorites in each arrondissement), is indispensable if it is Sunday or Monday.   I look for where I am, or want to be, and check out what my limited range of choices is for that day.

And so it was on Monday, June 17, I found myself late, again, getting out of the apartment.  Emails took some time; the coffee ritual took some time; shopping down the street took some time.   Thus, I was still there in my eclectic hood that is the 11eme at the lunch hour.   The super hip elite spots of the 11eme were out of the question because of the day and the reservation thing (Bistrot Paul Bert, le 6 Paul Bert, Septime).

As I consider Le Verre Volé, over near Republique/Canal St. Martin, I realize I did not care to walk over there, and I recall they might require a reservation (that darn reservation thing again), even though they are "just" a (great) wine bar.  

I notice a never-before-read-about place on the Paris by Mouth list for the 11eme: CheZaline.  Sandwich place, unique, casual, the write-up reads: but what sold me was that (1) it was owned by a woman who was previously at the well-loved Le Verre Volé and (ii) it was about 45 seconds from where I was sitting in my apartment. Done.

When I arrive, nobody is there pretty much. Noon is rather early for the French lunch schedule.

This is no ordinary sandwich place I notice straight away.  

The case is full of abundantly fresh items -- evident from the fresh herbs overflowing out of practically every item in the case.  There are two very young, darling, quick-moving, efficient women running the show in this tiny place.  I am transfixed by the sandwich one of the women is making.  She makes a second one.  Hoping I can frame my question without drooling, because I was starting to salivate just looking at the sandwich prep, I ask her which sandwich it is that she is making.  She tells me, and I say when she has a moment, that is exactly what I would have as well.   It is escalope de veau - or breaded crispy veal scallopini - but this translation does not come close to describing how mesmerizing this sandwich is:  it just looked pretty.  Exemplary bread, fresh green lettuce and herb salad....

Did I mention the Paris by Mouth guide also touts the place for its simple, yet lovely and small selection of natural wines.  Another plus. And the New York Times reported on this little sandwich place's opening in glowing terms, as many other French foodie writers have as well, confirming just how lucky I feel to be living right around the corner from this place.  I love how the Paris food resource, Le Fooding, reports as a "plus" for this place the fact it is open on Mondays.  The Monday thing is an issue for Parisians as well.

Things I love about this place immediately:  sit at the counter inside, serve-yourself water from a pitcher that looks like an awesome vintage Saturday morning garage sale find, and a stack of clean shiny glasses for the water.  

But this sandwich.  One Paris write-up in Le Figaro of the place and what Delphine Zampetti, its owner, has done within the tiny confines of what used to be a small butcher shop, calls her sandwiches: "des sandwichs d’une nouvelle génération."   A whole new generation of sandwiches/sandwiches for a new generation. Indeed.

Bread is the ideal, for me, of a great baguette: crusty, chewy, richly colored baguette tradition on the outside, super crispy, yet thin crust.  The insides are perfect for absorbing the garlic and olive oil stuffs that are part of the mix of what makes this sandwich great.

The meat is an escalope de veau, as mentioned, but the secret "sauce" here is a mystery mix of tabbouleh, fresh herbs, garlic (lots), and finely, finely chopped hard-boiled egg.

I am not alone in my praise of this sandwich. In this blog by Rachel Khoo, she says this is the best sandwich she has had in a long time in Paris. 

As I sit at my prime seat at the counter (there are only 4 bar stools - get there early at an uncool hour as I did to get 1 of them), I watch the line form out the door around the outdoor tables.  Obviously the place is a huge hit.

Next time you are annoyed in Paris by the Sunday/Monday/reservation dilemma, consider it a challenge to think more creatively about where to eat.  

You may end up having the best sandwich you have ever had.

Parisians Cooking For You In Paris - In Their Homes: Paris Startup "Cookening" (Day No. 4, Trip No. 18)

Imagine the Airbnb platform.  Imagine if Airbnb were applied to the dinner party concept.  For those of you who don't know or don't do Airbnb (and frankly I'm not all that keen on it; have never figured out how to work it), this is Greek to you.  But this new non-restaurant dining-out concept in Paris can still work for you.   If you are a certain kind of world traveler, as in an interested-in-the-world-and-people traveler, then Cedric Giorgi's Paris-based food startup Cookening may be just the thing for you.  A friend and I checked it out this past Sunday night.  And it just so happened that the BBC was doing a piece that night for a technology show -- and filming us at a Cookening dinner -- about the "cookening" concept.  

(Paris, late June 2013)

Cookening, which just launched four weeks ago, is the brainchild of Cedric (and his co-founders).  The company, whose name connotes "cook" and "cooking" and "evening," has created a platform for travelers to enjoy a home-cooked meal, in a Parisian person or couple's home, with other guests from other countries.  Part of the magic here is the multi-cultural interchange and dialogue that occurs over dinner, including lessons about French gastronomy and the traditions that infuse everyday eating in France.  But of course a common language is necessary, or none of that can happen very well.  As our BBC friends did not speak French, English was spoken at our dinner.

Signing up for the dinner is easy.    

1.  Go to the Cookening.com web site.

2.  Note the countries and cities in which you may find a host at whose house you may dine.   There are possibilities in Spain, the Netherlands, and Italy.  Paris is the only city I am familiar with for this procedure, so I will refer only to how this works for Paris. 

3.  Once you pick the city, then you get to see the selection of various hosts.   There are profiles.  This is part of the "sharing economy" after all, where trust is important (as in the Airbnb culture), so it is important for folks to feel comfortable about where they will be eating and with whom.  There also are costs for certain types of meals at certain hosts' houses listed.  The hosts decide what type of meal they want to prepare, and then price it accordingly.  I knew I wanted to try out Cookening.com with Cedric and his adorable wife Jennifer, so I did not shop around at all on price.  The price for a dinner with him was 36 euros, total, per person (including the 6 euros per person administrative fee).  

There are other types of dining options, including brunch, a "tea time," or a simple "apero" (apertif time), with the simpler formats (such as tea time) available for a lower range of prices.

4.  Pick a few potential dates that work for you from the ones the host has indicated as available. 

5.  Wait to hear from the host and whether he/she "accepts" the invitation.  It is not a done deal for dinner until the host accepts.

6.  Once the host accepts, the payment logistic become relevant.  I was able to pay with a credit card, not just PayPal.  

7.    Contact information for the host will be given upon payment.   No binding agreement is reached, however, until you read the fine print and agree to the terms and conditions, of which there are many--not surprising, and for good reasons.  

Now the really good part:  the meal.  Dinner hour in France is more like 8 p.m., and believe me, when in France this seems very ordinary, and on the early side actually for restaurant dining. 

We began with an aperitif, a lovely tradition in the French culture of a before-dinner drink and some small tasty items.   It is culturally ingrained in the French that you do not drink without something to eat.  

Cedric and Jennifer had selected a Loire Valley sparkling wine, of Domaine de Portaille, which allowed for conversation about sparkling wines in various countries, this particular wine, and the beauty of the Loire Valley region. 

(Host and Cookening.com co-founder Cedric Giorgi...regaling us with a story about the meal preparation as we are about done with aperitif time)

Cedric had the menu written on a chalkboard and brought it out, post aperitif, to give us some history and context for the dishes.

The first course was lovely, light, elegant - yet rich.  A bavarois of salmon and asparagus.  The bavarois refers technically to the creamy fluffy interior, but there was a very fresh piece of thinly sliced but still substantial salmon molded over it to form a classic and very "French-looking" presentation.  Tasting proved it divine: rich and creamy, yet light and fresh at the same time. 

One of my very favorite French foods made it to the menu: confit de canard, or duck confit.  (There is an option on the site to select the foods you like and to indicate any food dislikes or food allergies.  I mentioned I liked foie gras and confit de canard.)

Cedric makes a beautiful presentation of of the confit and the accompanying potatoes, on this platter that we learn he and Jennifer purchased during a trip to Morocco.

More conversation ensues.  Including about the red wine especially selected -- whereupon we discuss the challenges to les Francais when they order wine elsewhere.  French wine is organized and named by region (Bordeaux, Beaujolais, Bourgogne).  In the US, ordering a wine requires identifying a particular grape (Chardonnay, Cabernet Sauvignon, Pinot Grigio).

The topics of conversation ranged from history of food markets in London (I invited a food historian, Robyn, to check out Cookening with me) to the French attitude towards foie gras and the making of a confit.

It is appropriate that portions are moderate because a French dinner has many courses.  I could have had more of that tender, tasty, moist duck, but pacing is necessary.  I did help myself to a small second helping of steaming hot ratatouille.

Next came the cheese course.  This generated a completely new converation, including learning about what types of cheese Cedric and Jennifer like and why, and how they selected the cheese for this cheese plate.  From another dinner guest we learn childhood stories about Middle Eastern food traditions and his own cheese-making experiences.

Still not done with the dinner!  There is dessert.  

Dessert is simple yet heavenly.  Strawberries.  But not just any stawberries. These are Gariguette strawberries, smaller and with intense sweet flavor.  They are prepared simply, with fresh lemon juice and mint.  The result is a tart, faintly herbal yet charmingly sweet little sauce over the berries.  (If you see these strawberries at a market in France, run, do not walk, and get some. Even if it means being a little pushy and overly assertive at the market.  They are really something special.)

Alongside the fresh Gariguette strawberries, a huge bowl piled high with freshly made madeleines.  I am reminded I should get out that madeleine bakeware at home.

More conversation, and slowly the evening winds down.  The BBC team sets up for some final scenes they need.  We start saying goodnight all around.  We all promise to catch up and follow up some other time.  And I am pretty sure we actually will.  

 

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Food, Family, France : A Jeu de Quilles Lunch in the 14eme (Day 3, Trip No. 18)

There are a couple of good reasons to be in the 14eme around the Alesia metro stop. First, my lawyer friend Bill lives there - could not wait to see the new baby.  Second, Hugo Desnoyer's boucherie is over around there.  Which means that the charming small well done venue of Jeu de Quilles is right next door.  And what do you know.  It was open for lunch.  And I was there at lunch time.  Why not.  I email Bill and tell him I will be a little late...

Tempting to order the Hugo foie gras, or some Hugo charcuterie, but these are large platters or portions for more than one person. I will stick with the menu of the day.  As I am nul with the wine, as we know, I just asked the kind man to pick some for me to go with the melon/feta/prosciutto.  It was that lovely white Beaujolais.   Next, I chose the "paupiette de poulet fermier." A "paupiette" is nicely succulent, boneless - perhaps thigh - with some light seasoning on the inside, no distracting stuffing here as is sometimes the case for this preparation, or so it seems based on tonight's research.  

Good call on that ordering.  Except that, channelling my Dad I guess, I dribbled some of that rich sauce onto my white shirt.  

It was as good as it looks.  Again with the wine selection done for me: a light red Beaujolais, so good and perfectly paired with this dish I had to ask the name.  I promptly forgot it.  

But all the while, more and more people are coming in.  Mostly families.  A family of 4 up at the prime table near the kitchen.  With their huge stroller with a new baby, plus the two little ones.  Another table with two dads with their kids just above toddler age.  The kiddos are eating some intense steak of some sort.  The family by the kitchen.  I was enchanted by them.  The mom, completely focused on the kids, and her conversation with her husband.  Promptly taking the baby out whenever it uttered a sound.  But effortlessly it seemed.  I observe all this on the heels of a great article, on point, that HiP Paris Blog did on French women/French mothers, parenting in France, and the role of family time in French culture.  We think we are family-oriented, but I was reminded again today that we were really have nothing on the French.  The article will address that.  

And recalling that I always feels guilty about these trips, even though they are work-related trips, I still feel a little guilty. I'm getting better.  It has been a rough year of mostly solo parenting - and not all of it great on my part.  

We have much to learn from the French parenting style - including the no guilt-parenting paradigm, which is nevertheless still extremely family focused.  This might suggest there is "balance" here -- a word I thought was wrongly used when we used it to deal with women lawyer issues ("work life balance") at big law firms.  There is no such thing unless you are thinking of "balance" as not a static equilibrium but the ebb and flow of sometimes self comes first, sometimes work comes first, and sometimes family comes first.  The balance just weighs in one direction more than another sometimes.

I was glad to pay a visit to a surrogate mom of sorts, the local pharmacist, to have her feel sorry for me and my horrific allergies: eyes burning red, nose running incessantly (which is no fun over lunch at Jeu de Quilles or walking down a major thoroughfare or walking up and down and up and down stairs in the metro stations...I did manage to hold on at lunch long enough with the runny nose and maintain some dignity to have dessert:  a scoop of chocolate mousse, with sprinkles of a crumbled pistachio macaron, raspberry coulis, and a tiny hint of Chantilly whipped cream.)

The kind pharmacist was as sympathetic as I was hoping she would be:  "Oh, yes,"

she said.  "It is everywhere. Welcome to Paris."  What she gave me worked like a charm.  It worked so well that I was able to hit some gypsy jazz, or jazz "manouche" at a club/restaurant/bar just 5 minutes away it turns out, at the l'atelier Charonne.

Sound bites available on my Twitter feed.  Eventually.

Does not look like I will make that guided tour of the Mosque of Paris tomorrow morning at 10h15, now just a few hours away.