Wednesday

It is a day without a plan. The only items that had forethought to it were dinner and breakfast. The rest evolved, responding in turn to changes in the weather and changes in my level of energy.

Breakfast -- on the late side. Ocean kept me up until 2. It was with great difficulty that I stretched my arm out of bed and picked up the laptop at 8 and I stuck to reading stuff on it until well after 9.

The clouds outside came back and though there's talk of later clearings, it's only talk. Still, I leave behind the umbrella.  I may live to regret this recklessness, but then, Paris invites a degree of recklessness: eat butter, walk alone at midnight, drink wine with lunch, ride a bike without helmet (not me, but everyone else), leave umbrella behind.

For breakfast, I step outside and note that there is what might be called a drizzle by some. On the other hand, people are funny: here, it is not unusual to see someone take her dog out for a walk in a bag.






I scoff at the umbrellas and walk over to the Rue Madame without one. To this cafe bar:






With a very serious, this morning, client base.






Well, except for me...






They serve Poilane bread here  (arguably Paris's best) and that's reason enough to order it for the morning meal: a tartine (which is a slice of baguette with heavenly butter slathered on top), some jam, and a coffee with milk. I worry that I'll regret passing on the croissant and so I order that as well.






Yes, piggish. What can I say. I left behind a little of each. Maybe they have cheepers out back who will appreciate it.

I then cut through the Luxembourg Gardens again.





And I buy the commuter rail ticket for Friday's ride to the airport at the Luxembourg Gardens RER stop. It's close enough in time for me to be thinking about it. And for me to fret:  I must fill these last days in Paris, I must! Alright, I'm motivated to walk to the Right Bank Marais neighborhood. I want to span the corners of Paris and not remain glued to the neighborhood that I inevitably call home.

I leave behind the area of the Sorbonne University... (These are surely Sorbonne types. I'm almost certain one of them is an American. Want to guess which one and why?)






Over the river. First thing I see is a guy toting his Christmas tree home without the bother of a car.






And this gentleman -- I think he is quintessentially a Marais neighborhood guy. It's always dangerous to stereotype, but in Paris, may I remind you, we live dangerously.






Step aside now! This woman's in a hurry!






And this gentleman is protectively moving his girlfriend out of harm's way:






And this one? Well, she smokes and she wears black. That pretty much makes her a French woman through and through.





Close to the Place des Vosges, there is the Credit Municipal de Paris -- a bank that offers small, low-interest loans against inexpensive valuables (it celebrated its 375 birthday a couple of years ago by forgiving the debt of its poorest customers, making headlines around the world for this gesture). I see that they have a small exhibition in its gallery rooms. You could say it's the French counterpart to yesterday's Garry Winogrand exhibit. Here, they're displaying the photos of Jean-Philippe Charbonnier and the title of the exposition is "An Eye on Paris." So of course, there's no one in the gallery. The French are all ogling Texas and LA and NY (the French faves in America!) over at the Jeu de Paume. Paris, through the lens of a French photographer? Yawn.

For me, it's gold! Not even silver -- pure gold. (In case you think that this is just the usual excessive enthusiasm I seem to reserve for this city, I want to remind you that I visited three photographic exhibits in Paris last March and remembered/liked none of them especially much.) 

To celebrate my successful day thus far, I again shop for my little granddaughter (the one that hasn't been born yet), prompting Ed to later mutter something about babies and grandmothers and the ridiculousness behind it all, but I can tell that he is not altogether being serious.

It's now nearly 2 in the afternoon and I just want to ride the metro back to my apartment and put my feet up. Too many hours of walking.

And I do ride the metro back.
















But my plan to pick up some quiche or sandwich at the bakery and take it home gets knocked down when I pass the Danton Cafe by the Odeon Metro stop. So many happy looking people inside! Wouldn't it be nice just to sit among among them and order, say, a croque-madame? (That's the French term for a grilled cheese and ham sandwich, with a fried egg on top. At the Danton Cafe, it's actually called a Croque Mademoiselle, which is the first time I've come across that sweet diminutive.)






I finish with a coffee.






This really is one of Paris's surefire hits for cafe food, for nimble waiters and for terrific people watching.






And by now the sun is trying to assert itself in wisps here and there, but I'm not fooled. There is rain in that sky (I tell myself) and I do not have an umbrella so wouldn't it be just fine to retreat to my little apartment on the 6th floor and rest? 





I walk home and finish the afternoon by working on my photos.

As for the evening? Read on only if you are interested in food. I know how terribly boring it is to post descriptions of what went into your gut. We do it far too often and readers rarely like it. Indeed, I consider myself to be in the upper percentiles of those interested in food and even I tend to skim blogs that detail every ingredient of a beautiful dinner.

But I'm going to make an exception here because some of you may go to Paris and you will wonder -- where oh where should I eat? And for the Left bankers among you, I'll say -- Pouic Pouic is my favorite and Le Procope is reliable and then there is this and then there is that... And I'll wave my hand and say -- listen, just go and have fun and don't fret too much if the beef happens to be too tough for your liking that night.

But after tonight, I may also say -- make a reservation at Terroir Parisiene. (It's very casual. Don't dress up.)

I have considered going to this (5th arrondissement) restaurant for a long time now, but I thought it to be a touch smug in the description: it attempts to use, when it can, Parisian ingredients. Like, cheese from this area. Mushrooms, spinach, pears too. Mustard made here. Honey. Cherries that grow just outside the city. The list is long. 

And I thought -- why is this important? Isn't it just the French bragging about how they can respect local in ways that no one else can?

But I read yet again quite recently how this restaurant is no joke. It's just damn good. So I reserved and I went and I have to say that a couple of the dishes there were over the top good. Over the top! 

I actually bought a bottle of something there.





I had the affable waiter drag it down from a storage shelf. It's a syrup made from the poppies that grow in the area. They used it to flavor an aperitif (kir), but I thought it may have a million uses and I never saw or tasted anything like it. (Step aside, granddaughter  -- I need to fit in a bottle of poppy syrup!)

And now we're accelerating the speed of time (or so it always seems to toward the end of a trip). I have one more day left on this side of the ocean. To use it well, I must go to sleep before midnight! I must! 





 

Tuesday

To paraphrase Adam Gopnik -- a writer who lived in Paris for a number of years -- it's the everyday that's so beautiful here. I so agree. The parks. The boulangeries. The cafes where people eat lunch or merely pick up a quick espresso. These are the pieces that make up a day in Paris and you could bypass all the art and ignore the architecture and you would still walk away satisfied.

But I didn't ignore the art or architecture today. I packed it in. The sun made me do it!


Morning

Just as predicted, Paris wakes up to a beautiful, sunlit day.



(St Sulpice, as seen outside my window)


That does put a bit of pressure though. I can tell you right now, I'm not going to waste the morning reading the NYTimes on line.

I'm thinking, too, that I need to free myself to go out at night for dinners. Too many evenings of eating bits and pieces of stuff at home. On the one hand, it saves money, but on the other hand, I'm missing Paris at night. So, dinner out tonight and henceforth.

But that has consequences. I can't hang in there on one croissant until the ungodly hour the French open up the kitchens for their night time meal.  Maybe it's time to have a quintessential lunch omelet to tide me over. I google where in heavens I can get an excellent, best ever omelet here.

You may find this to be a ridiculous exercise!  But it's not a given that this classic French dish should be good. I've had many that were not. At the same time, I do think that when it's good, the French omelet is the best of the best.

The initial search points me to expensive hotels. No. I wont do that. But I then find an interview with Ina Garten (do you know her? The Silver Palate cook book person). She appears to have an apartment in Paris (don't they all...) and she proclaims that an exquisite omelet can be had at Cafe de Flore, which, coincidentally is a block from where I am staying.

Working backwards, breakfast will have to be cheap. How about here -- standing,  at a brass bar along with the locals?






It's the Cafe Raspail, right next to the Tuesday farmers market on the Blvd Raspail. It's a fine market, an interesting market, but I think I've given you enough market photos to last a while. You don't need to see more chanterelle mushrooms and root vegetables. I read somewhere that Catherine Deneuve is a regular at this particular market, but I can only remember her face from the movie The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, which dates back to1964. She's probably changed some. In any case, if she was there, I did not know it. I'll post, instead, a photo of this happy couple, going shopping together, hand in hand.






After, I allow myself another poke into the Luxembourg Gardens, from the southern end...





And then I take a peaceful little walk along the Rue Madame. I regard the street name as particularly lovely. It's the street of the Mrs. (I believe this particular mrs. was the wife of one of the Louis kings, but I'm not sure which one.)

I do encounter two animated madames.






And, too, I pass a preschool joined to an elementary school. So I pause to look at the posted lunches for the week. Here they are:






I wont translate the whole thing, but the ministry has proclaimed that today, for example ("Mardi"), children from age 3 through 10 shall eat: a salad of chopped endive for starters, along with chinese cabbage with an herbal vinaigrette, then they will proceed to roast veal with a puree of butternut squash (which shall be organic), this will be followed by two cheeses -- emmental and mimolette (the latter, btw, was banned by our FDA because of the way it is manufactured -- the rind depends on some mite activity and the FDA appears not to like that), and finally, there seems to be a choice of two desserts -- a flan, either chocolate, or vanilla with caramel sauce. This is the main meal of the day for French kids. Supper at home is a light and simple affair.

As I make my way home, I pass my beloved bakery. Which pastry do you think I picked for myself for tonight?






Ha, it's a trick question! None of the above! As I'll be eating out, I limit myself to a few choice macarons. Four, to be precise. Selected from this bunch:






Afternoon

Well now, how about my own lunch? At the Flore, I really have to stick to just the omelet. It's expensive enough.






And it is excellent. Thin, rolled, with fresh herbs. And I have a first row seat allowing me to admire the comings and goings of the waitstaff which here is 100% male. (This is not unusual: the higher you go in the price category, the fewer women you'll find in the kitchen and among the waitstaff, both here and in the States.)



(a bevy of waiters)





(my waiter)


Okay, but lunch is not the sole afternoon activity. Today, I want to visit the second (and last) museum exhibition on my "I absolutely want to do this" list. It's a bit of a walk, so follow along, taking in some of the street scenes.


















The exhibit is at the Jeu de Paume -- right at the corner of Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries Gardens. So I am on the Right Bank of Paris now.











And you may regard this exhibition as an odd choice. But I'll say it right up front: I loved it! If you're in Paris between now and February 8th, do not hesitate!

But here's the real oddity: the exhibit is of an American photographer (Garry Winogrand) who took photos of people in street scenes, all around the U.S. (Well, actually in select cities: New York and L.A., but deliberately not San Francisco. He explains, in a documentary I watched at the exhibit -- people in S.F. are too obsessed with being regarded as cultured. In NY, LA -- they go about their business and do their own thing, not worrying about how they may appear.)

One consequence of going to an exhibition of an American is that the audience will be entirely French. The museum was quite crowded and it surely was fascinating to listen to the comments by the French on the depictions of America in the the 60s and 70s.

There is so much that I want say about both the photographer and his work! But I do understand that I can't raise your enthusiasm with words alone and unfortunately, this was the more common exhibit where I am not allowed to use my camera inside the museum walls.

I do sneak one photo, feeling that I didn't dishonor the exhibition, as the photo does not include any of the displayed art. Here it is -- a group of school kids. Maybe 14 yrs old. Their leader asks questions on what's different about the period in the photographs (the 60s) and now.


 


The kids throw out possibilities (car models! more cigarettes! hair styles! no cell phones!) and those of us who lived through those times have to smile at the way we appear to kids, looking back.

After, I walk back to my Left Bank apartment just as the sun sets to the west of the Eiffel Tower.






Evening


It took a lot of self prodding, convincing and chastising to get myself out yet again in the evening. Too, I had picked a place to eat that is easily a 45 minute walk from where I'm staying. (Though it is a pretty walk.)






But I need to branch out beyond my neighborhood in terms of eating choices. So I select a place that has a reputation for being market driven and affordable. The food here (Au Bon Accueil) is very good. It's seems odd that it should be so -- the eatery is right at the toes of the Tour Eiffel -- but it's tucked away from full view and it clearly does care a lot about ingredients and preparation so I'm very glad to have made the effort.

I am way too tired to give you more detail. Nor do I think you need it. I'll leave you with just a couple of nighttime classics, from my walk back home. On a day to day basis, I don't really think of Paris as the "city of lights." In my quiet neighborhoods, nighttime comes and the street lamps are illuminated as they would be anywhere else -- enough to keep you safe. But along the Champs Elysees, at this holiday season, all hell breaks loose and Paris does, indeed, sparkle over and beyond what you would regard as reasonable or conventional. Here we go then -- Paris, city of lights:

Monday

This evening, I walked over to the Luxembourg Gardens. In the Museum, located to the front of the park, there is a special exhibitions. These are nearly always outstanding. But the one there right now is the outstandingest of them all -- it brings together Impressionist paintings from all over the world to demonstrate the role played by the art dealer, Paul Durand-Ruel in supporting and pushing the art movement forward at the turn of the centuries.

It's just a sublime display and if you're in London this spring, or Philadelphia this fall, it will be there then. I highly recommend it! (Caveat -- the Impressionists make me happy and so I tend to enthuse about them, given a chance.)

There was a funny photo policy at the exhibit: each painting had its singular instruction as to whether photos were permitted. Well alright then, but I happen to know that some of those paintings come from Paris's Musee d'Orsay, where the recent policy is that no photos are permitted of ANY work there. So here I was, photographing paintings that, in their true homes, remain off-camera. Go figure.

I wont bore you with my enthusiasm. But I will sprinkle a few paintings from the exhibition throughout today's post. Just for fun.






I wake up to a pretty day. I know it is supposed to rain in the afternoon (and it does do that), but for now, the skies look promising. I can tell! Right outside my window!






Breakfast. You know I eat quite the un-nutritional breakfasts in Paris. It's just the way it is. A pain au chocolat or a croissant and coffee. If I feel I can splurge -- then I'll add an orange juice.  I do consider buying groceries for a breakfast in the apartment, but that's just no fun. I'd much rather people watch!

Luck has it that right next to my apartment building there is a splendid cafe with a fixed price breakfast menu which gets me a coffee, a croissant and a juice. It's heaven! Especially since I remind myself that it's December and that Madison (back home) is in the middle of an sleet and ice storm and in this particular cafe they have the heat lamps going strong and so I can luxuriously eat my breakfast outside on the porch. The reason for the red glow over the croissant? It's right under the heat lamp.






Time to go somewhere. Anywhere, just go.

Shopping. That really has to come first because if I don't pick up the holiday items on my list, I'll feel sad. And so I spend more than two hours in just one department store, which is a total photo white-out for you as I take no pictures there at all. (Though here's one on the walk over -- with the Montparnasse tower in full view. It's the last skyscraper to have gone up in central Paris. People wizened up after it.)






Oh, I did want to add that if I got a dime for every woman in a fancy hat that I saw today, I would more than cover the cost of this trip. (Maybe.)











And then I am done shopping and it's time for lunch.

That is, if I'm to eat lunch. I could just eat bread and cheese at home but it is always more expensive to eat dinners out and so of the two, I choose lunch at a cafe. And bread and cheese later, at home.

I go to my favorite cafe in this whole complicated food-wise city. There's too much pressure to do food well here. There are phenomenal places and there are the usual indifferent places and you don't want to be so unlucky as to hit all the indifferent ones. So it requires work. If you don't do research (and I don't, because people are all over the place with their opinions about Paris), you can go by the crowdedness factor (unreliable in this city), or you can just keep going back to places that treated you well in the past. I choose the latter.






The Cafe Varenne is crowded and spirited and if ever you go there when you are in Paris, I promise you, you will have the best waiters, wishing you good cheer no matter who you are. I have gone there pretty much every time I am in this city and it is always like this.






And so I eat my big meal now. Broccoli soup that is the best broccoli soup ever, a piece of veal smothered in mushroom sauce. And for dessert, I ask for their most special lemon tart.
















Ten years ago, I would get a whole dinner in Paris for what I spend now on lunch. The prices are climbing and though it's not New York or London yet, it's gettin' there.

I walk home and it's raining a little. I put away the camera.

And now comes a frustrating pause where I go back to the apartment and notice that the WiFi isn't working. I do eventually track down the owners and I learn how to reboot it and it's fine now, but it took a chunk of time and poor Ed had to listen to me howl afterwards. I really am dependent on WiFi when I travel. It's far too lonely for me to be without it.






And this is when I set out for the Luxembourg Gardens. I go to the park before I go to the museum. (For one thing, the park closes at 4:30 in the winter months). Mostly, I need to pick up my calmness there.






A morning of shopping and an afternoon of WiFi troubles is enough to make me twitch. A stroll through this most wonderful park will always have me smiling again. Always.


















And now I'm at the museum. This is where it doesn't matter that the days end early now. An evening glow of outdoor lamps makes the visit to an exposition all the more special. As if you're playing grown up and are doing something so extremely decadent and mature as going to look at art at night. I even put on lipstick for the occasion.

The evening rolls to a close for me. I go to two stores - the grocer and the baker. I need to add cheese and an endive to my salads back home. And of course, bread...


 



...and pastry. From this tray, which one do you think I picked?






Maybe that's too easy. And if the perceptive reader noticed that it's my second pastry today -- well now, that's right. And yes, I know that I wrote once that I no longer have a pastry craving when in Paris. It's cool how our moods and desires can change, isn't it?






Here's my supper plate tonight. Yes, of course: I like pistachios, I like raspberries and I like meringue. Together, they create this pastry:






It's time to retire for the day. I'm enough sleepy that I will doze off on the couch if I don't watch it. Until tomorrow then!