Advertisement
Published: September 21st 2009
Edit Blog Post
A Little Breakfast
My first full day in France began with an exercise in self-discipline: arising at 6 am. The most effective antidote to jet lag I've found is gently encouraging my body to adhere to its usual schedule, on the local time.
Breakfast in the hotel's tiny dining room was self-serve and I was its first guest of the morning. The coffee table held two thermal carafes: one with coffee, the other with heated milk. Into a cup I dispensed an equal quantity of both, making a mental note to set up a similar arrangement at home. Yogurt, croissants, baguettes, and cereal were on offer. And fresh orange juice, which you squeezed yourself with an automatic press that dropped a whole orange--like a pinball--into chute where it was sliced in two, the juice extracted into your waiting glass, and the empty halves tossed into bins on either side of the machine. I went back for a second glass just to watch the whole mechanism work again.
Going Out
The morning outside my window was dreary. Prudence advised an umbrella but--not wanting to tote it all day--I chose sunglasses instead, hoping my optimism would enourage improvement in
the weather. Perhaps it did: when I popped up out of the metro at the Madeline church, the sky had cleared.
In the soft morning sun, the streets and buildings of Place de la Madeline seemed freshly washed. Parisians strode briskly in all directions while I paused to watch a florist bringing his wares onto the sidewalk in front of his shop.
For the price of a hot chocolate, the brasserie
Le Paris London gave me a table to write while I waited for the Paris Pinakoteck to open the final day of its
exhibition of work by Suzanne Valadon and her son Maurice Utrillo.)
The cafe was sparsely populated with a few singles, except for a table of three American women talking at shout level minus one. They were discussing shopping in Paris, which I find very interesting to
do but not very interesting to
hear about. I suppose the French conversation I overhear wouldn't be interesting either if I knew what was being said, but one doesn't overhear much. The French tend to murmur in public places like cafes.
After the Pinakoteck
I am filled with pleasure and satisfaction, having just left the exhibition of paintings by Suzanne Valadon and Maurice Utrillo. Fascinated
from childhood by my mother's poster of Utrillo's
Impasse Cottin in Montmarte, and in adulthood attracted by Valadon's frank portraits of average women, particularly her lumpy, middle-aged nudes, I had searched the museums each time I came to Paris for examples of their work, but found not a single painting.
The exhibition at the Paris Pinacotheque pulls pieces from public and private collections around the world, juxtaposing the best work of the two painters. The
Impasse Cottin was not there--perhaps because only Utrillo's so-called “White Period” was represented--the time between 1910 and 1916 when he is considered to have done his best work.
I won't go into much about either painter--the link above has info if you are interested. Briefly, Valadon was a lovely artists' model, painted by and later mentored by Degas; Utrillo her desperately alcoholic son who produced a multitude of Paris streetscapes. (I am a little ashamed to admit my interest in this exhibition, because both artists are decidedly minor, but you can't help what gives you pleasure.)
With the Ladies Who Lunch
I had lunch reservations at
Laduree on Rue Royale, in the upstairs dining room overlooking the street. At Ladurre's pastry
counter downstairs you can purchase their famous macarons, available in several flavors, prettily packaged for you in a pale green tote. I've only tasted them with my eyes, but there is always a crowd at the pastry counter, so they must be good. I've heard that when a Frenchwoman wants to sabotoge a friend's diet, she brings her a sampling of Laduree macarons, knowing that once tasted, resistance is futile.
The cafe's upstairs dining room is hushed and elegant, with heavy linen napkins, beautiful tableware, and discreet service. Put on the nicest things in your suitcase, and bring your sister, your mother, your best friend. Or if you are alone, think of them while you dine.
My lunch was Salade Concorde: a scoop of baby spinach, drenched in dijon vinaigrette and corralled in a band of lengthwise-sliced cucumber, surrounded by slices of baked chicken breast drizzled with a basamic vinaigrette. A pot of blue tea. For dessert, tarte tatin (apple tart) with a side of impossibly thick whipped cream. Espresso.
Licking the Windows
After lunch, I shopped, browsing my way up Rue Tronchet to Boulevard Haussmann, where the two massive department stores--Le Printemps and Galeries Lafayette--seem
to go on for several city blocks. Both offer similar merchandise, but they feel different. The atmosphere of Printemps is like Bloomingdales, whereas Galeries Layfayette feels like Macy's. I won't bore you with a rundown of my afternoon in the shops but will just mention that I commemorate each visit to Paris with the purchase of a nice handbag.
Suppertime
Around dusk, after returning to "my" neighborhood in the 9th, I decided to try one of the small cafes in another covered passage across the street from my hotel: the Passage des Panoramas. I chose a tiny Vietnamese place run by a welcoming couple who placed me at a table in the passageway (to advertise they had a customer, I realized too late). They were very kind, but it was a poor choice indeed from a culinary perspective. I was the only diner, and the food was microwaved slop.
To eradicate the taste from my mouth, I stopped at another cafe down the same passage, this one promisingly filled with French locals. It was one of those skinny places with a bar down one side and a row of tables down the other, making for easy conversation
between drinkers and diners. And that is what we had.
As soon as the drinkers and other diners heard me ordering Ilse Flotantte and coffee in my execrable French, I became the subject of an interview. Where in the States did I come from? Why was I alone? Did I agree that the world was better off with Obama than (snicker) Bush? How long is an American vacation? (Expressions of scorn at the answer.) Did I not know that one takes coffee
after dessert and not with? (Expressions of sage acceptance at my assertion that such was my preference.)
To give myself a few moments to consume the dessert, I asked them some questions too--how their health care system worked, how they think President Sarkozy is doing, and whether they admire Carla Bruni--but they didn't seem interested in at all. It was like asking about the air they breathed. They'd had a few and were just looking for entertainment. I should mention that this conversation was in neither French nor English, but a simplistic mixture of the two, pronounced poorly on both sides. But it was cordial enough, and the entire place wished me a warm goodnight when I left.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.091s; Tpl: 0.011s; cc: 9; qc: 45; dbt: 0.039s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.1mb
tinka
non-member comment
enjoying your blog
We are lying in bed reading, enjoying, laughing, marveling at your entries! Encore!