Paris 2007 -- part 3/5

[lagilman]

Thursday:

A late (for me) breakfast of coffee and croissant in a café on the Ile de la Cite, after which I wandered for a bit in the flower market, getting my hit of lilac and rose and wisteria and mentally calculating how much I’d spend to fill my hypothetical Parisian apartment (all 300 square feet of it), and wincing. Ouch. I ambled up and down streets without any kind of plan, just following my feet until my stomach took over. Lunch was at a creperie I’d wanted to try last visit – there were a grand total of seven tables in the space, but I was early enough to catch one. A buckwheat crepe filled with egg, bacon, and wilted greens that was fabulous and filling, and a glass of the house red, which was a good, if unexceptional match. Ended up talking to two women at the table next to me – from Albuquerque of all places, and about to leave Paris for a two week driving trip through Provence. I was properly envious. We did the usual ‘when Americans meet overseas’ dance of “you…liberal? Conservative? Can we talk politics?” They were also Readers, and went away with my card and list of titles. Heh.

Then I walked (yes, walked, for those of you who know Paris) to the Jardin de Luxemburg, pausing along the way to look at neat buildings, pretty windows, and whatever else caught my eye. It was a perfect day for walking – warm sun, light breeze, and although I had somewhere to be, I had plenty of time to get there.

(this doesn't really give you an idea of how gorgeous the space is, filled with trees and fountains, but it does show how amazingly popular and yet not-crowded it gets.)

After a restorative pause in the gardens, though, I wussed and caught the bus the rest of the way up to my destination, 93 rue de Glaciers, for our tasting tour at Gerard Mulot.

Probably the only way to describe this would be OMG. Really. OMG. A tiny store, turning out some of the most gorgeous chocolates and macaroons I’ve ever tasted. They have a larger store on the rue de Seine where they have food as well, but I never managed to get there. First we met the guy who makes the macaroons. By hand. Hands do the mixing, hands squeeze the pastry bag, hands do the filling. Labor intensive, and therefore expensive, but OMG the tastings we got proved it’s worth it. All natural ingredients – no preservatives or artificial anything. I am Spoilt for all else.



And then on to the chocolat. Ganache, fondante, beurre sale, flavorings and coatings…. And we tasted everything they were making, small bites all you could want or need to reach satiation, even two teenaged boys and their female relatives. *dies*

The photo here is a grandmere and her granddaughter who came in to buy a box of macaroons – clearly, a Very Special Occasion!

After that, I wussed and took the metro back to the hotel and rested up a bit. Went downstairs to Place du Ste Catherine and sat at a cafe, drinking a kir (finally!) and people-watching. I had planned to go to a local bistro for dinner, but it was so gorgeous out, and I was still so full from the tasting, that I ended up doing a picnic dinner along the Seine, along with half (it seemed) of Paris. And yes, a simple jambon et fromage baguette does taste better in Paris, especially when washed down with a half bottle of wine. I ended up chatting with the group nearest me, students celebrating the arrival of nice weather. They had about thirty words of English to my ten of French, but we all had wine, and so conversation flowed. Back to the hotel, exhausted but feeling like I’d gotten my full day’s worth out of the city.


Friday:

We were supposed to go to Chantilly today, but when I woke up I had a feeling – because I know my sister – that it wasn’t going to happen, so I put together alternate plans. Calling around 10 got “oh, I don’t think we’re going to…” Yep.

And so, dear reader, I went to the Louvre. For a few hours, anyway. I visited with the Flemish painters for old time’s sake (college memories fading to pleasant, with time) and then on to my true love – sculpture. I don’t know why I love sculpture so much more than paintings; maybe because sculpture is the moment, impulse and muscle, the action in static form, while paintings are more overtly crafted, overlaid with symbolism and intent (like a novel, in fact) and therefore feel too familiar, too much like work. Or maybe I’m just a three dimensional girl and there’s nothing deeper to it than that.

After the sculptures, I fled for some fresh air and lunch. But first I found myself in the underground galleries, in a perfume store where I got the classic compliment – mais non, vous parlez tres bien! To quote one author quoting another -- only the best butter. But she was nice, and helpful, and kept talking to me in French, which was a compliment of sort, rather than switch over to English. I discovered that they had not one but two summery scents that worked well on me, and it took another half an hour of wearing one on each arm to come to the decision that the first – a lighter, less spicy scent – “worked my skin’ rather than “just sitting there” (quotes not mine). So now I have a delightful, not inexpensive but not bank-breaking scent that reacts well with my skin chemistry, which is exactly what I wanted. So yay. And they gave me some sample vials as well “for your toiletries, weekend trips.”

I ate lunch in a sun-splashed courtyard at the Louvre, watching a toddler run with silent glee between her papa and the fountain, feeling very much like a lazy and indulgent cat. And it was only 1:30.

From one end of the 1 line to the other – off to the Chateau de Vincennes. This is an amazingly important building (series of buildings) in terms of royal and military history, but I was going for the research aspects of it – yeah, I admit it, in the middle of my relaxing, get-away-from-stress vacation, I was doing research for a project. *is not at all ashamed* The castle at Vincennes is just outside of Paris proper, and was first built up in 1162 as a hunting lodge, hosted the births and deaths of several kings, was used as a prison for the likes of the marquis de Sade, Mirabeau and Diderot, was taken by the German troops and almost destroyed in 1944, requiring a 30 year restoration project to rebuild.



It currently houses a historical document center for the French military services, as well as the renovated royal pavilions, the 14th century tower dungeon that inspired the sequel to THE THREE MUSKETEERS, and a sainte-chapelle that is now unused but still gothic-ly glorious. I would have enjoyed myself much more had I not discovered, upon arrival, that the only way to see the insides was to take the tour – which was given only in French.

Thankfully, I know enough about the history and the building methods to keep me occupied during the actual tour, and I did understand some of it, but I’m sure there were wonderful color commentary I could have used in my research. Le grump.

Back to the hotel for a rest-up, and I’m off for dinner. No reservations – I have a few places in mind, we’ll see what happens.

What happened was that I stumbled upon The Red Wheelbarrow, an English-language bookstore about the size of my bedroom, and had a lovely talk with one of the two owners (and yes, gave her my card). It’s the ideal of the village bookstore – not so much shelves as piles and tables of books everywhere, so that everywhere you turn there’s a new discovery. They’re trying to find a larger space, but it’s tough. Anyway, she directed me to one of the places I’d been thinking of, so off I went….

Le Rouge Gorge, 8, rue St-Paul. A small corner restaurant, and as expected I got the ‘crap’ table for one. But it was by the door and across from the bar/kitchen, so it was prime people-watching space and I minded not at all. My entrée was a terrine de chevre that was excellent – light and creamy, wit cracked peppercorns and herbs, served over a shallow layer of olive oil. Bread came with it, but the temptation was just to scoop it directly with a spoon. I followed that with lamb ribs, expertly and excellently presented over glazed carrots and sugar snap peas. I put myself in the hands of the owner for my wine choices – they were decent glasses (a rose and a rouge) but nothing worth noting down for future consumption, alas.

I also ended up talking a bit with the couple at the table next to me – Australians this time (Sydney, to be exact). They were both freelancers as well – web designers for mostly corporate clients.

Finished dinner around 9ish, and decided that it was too nice a night to go back to the hotel, so I went off to Ile St Louis for the justifiably famous Berthillon’s glaces. Caramel ginger, it was, and mmmmmmm worth every single calorie.

And then… well, in my defense it was late, I was very tired, and things look very different at night….

Yes, I admit it. I got…not lost, because I knew where I was, and I knew where I wanted to be, but I just couldn’t quite connect the two in a simple and achievable fashion. Basically, on leaving Ile St. Louis (which is a narrow bit of land in the middle of the Seine, for those of you without reference points) I got turned around and ended up on the wrong bank. Once I realized that the neighborhood looked wrong, I turned around, but then got caught up in a large and chaotic gathering of inline skaters, who were congregating for their version of Critical Mass – taking over the street from the cars. In the confusion and police redirection, I ended up … okay, make it a short story and at least I can say that I’ve wandered the madhouse that is the Quartier Latin late on a Friday night in Spring.



(as an aside: the last time I was in Paris, I was with people who weren’t into going out at night, end of story. That frustration has now been soothed, and I was right: it WAS fun, if not something I could do more than once or twice a visit.)

I finally made it back to the right area, exhausted and a little woozy from imbibing, only to realize that in crossing the river I’d overshot my usual landmarks and although I’m only a few blocks from my hotel, damn it, I’m like the punchline in the old New Englander joke – “yah can’t get theah from heah, boy.”

So I got to wander the manic manspots of Paris, which I have to say is pretty much exactly like being down in the Village in NYC during the summer. Parisian women may dress better than other women, but gay Paris is in a dead heat with gay NYCers, in my observation. I would have been having a great time, but it’s almost 1am by now, my feet were killing me, and I really just wanted to fall over. So I wandered into a tabac and, with the help of a map and some helpful locals, determine that if I go down the street to the light and turn left, I’d be back where I want to be. *facepalm* I refuse to feel more than a little foolish, and what’s Paris for, if not foolishness?

Home five minutes later, having to ring the bell to be let in (there’s a way to let you know you’ve had a late night, huh?), and after soaking my feet in the tub with a vial of something left by the staff for just that purpose, I am sound asleep.

next: Social Saturday

(I will probably do a separate post with specifics of wines and restaurants later, if there's interest? Also, my photos will all be going online at some point -- you've only been getting selected illustrations here)