Thursday we had to take two trains just
to get to
The chunnel
crossing was anticlimactic. I wish it were made out of plexiglass
so you could look at fish or something.
The cab ride to the hotel was exciting.
There is the Notre Dame cathedral! The
Another great thing about our hotel was
that I could just tell them where we wanted to eat and voila! A reservation!
French people really do say, "Voila!" with great frequency and I find
it adorable. So we were able to get into Roger a la Grenouille
that same night. Luckily the French eat really late.
Roger a la Grenouille
is a little hole-in-the-wall down a dark alley, which was recommended by a French
chef I know as having the best frog's legs in the world. My French is really
limited, so in confusion I lapsed into Spanish. It turned out our server spoke
fluent Spanish! How lucky can you get? I started with pan-fried fois gras with spiced bread and
grapes. I will fantasize about this dish for the rest of my life. It had a
perfectly custardy consistency and a fruity, sweet
sauce.
Bob started with intensely garlicky
frog's legs. They were like gourmet hot wings. I could imagine drinking beer all
night while munching on those things.
I made an error in reading the menu
that had more to do with exhaustion than any language barrier. I read
"Terrine of oxtail" as "Tureen of oxtail". So I was
expecting a comfortingly warm stew and instead got a cold slab of meat stuff. A
Terrine is kind of like cold meatloaf. Gourmet French cold
meatloaf. I had eaten American terrines and didn't like them, but this
one changed my mind. It would have made a perfect lunch. But it was still too
cold for an entree on a chilly night. Bob had a filet, good, but tougher than
American filets. But the new potatoes and peas were fresh off of the farm.
We walked back from the restaurant
along the
Friday my dreams all came true. An entire day at the Louvre.
Where do I even begin? We saw all of the greats...Winged Victory, Venus de
Milo, The Lacemaker, and pretty much every painting I
have ever studied in a class. I have a few new favorites...Delacroix's Jeune Orpheline au Cimetiere and L'Aurore et Cephale by Guerin (which is
unusual because I dislike Rococco). The Mona Lisa was
like an obligatory check-mark on the list. It is so far away, and behind such a
thick glass, that any depth from the oils or any possible impasto is utterly
lost.
The one painting I was really there for
was the Raft of the Medusa. When we finally found it, it was next
to Liberty Leading her People. Both paintings are
so huge and spectacular, I was just so overwhelmed by it all, I had to just sit
down and weep. The raft of the Medusa just so starkly illustrates the
transition from life to death, and from hope to despair. Or if you choose to
look at it the other way, you move from despair to hope. As you stare at the
painting, you can feel the subjects' emotions...the will to live, the need for
rescue, that visceral scream of, "I'm here! I'm here! I'm
here!!!"
There was a class of kindergarteners
being lectured in French in front of the Raft, then
they moved over to
I needed a break after that, so we
stopped in the cafe. For 20 Euros we split a pre-packaged sandwich from
one of those plastic triangle containers and a frozen pastry. I had been
photographing our amazing meals for posting on a restaurant review site, and Bob
asked, "Aren't you going to take a picture of it?"
I went looking for Ingre's
Odalisque and discovered that French people do not understand my accent at all,
even when I am just saying a simple word or the name of a famous painting. After I finally wrote down the name, and the gathered museum staff
all said, "Oh! Odalisque!!!"
Unfortunately I found out that it had been in a special exhibit and was still
in transition.
We had spent so much time at the Louvre I didn't have time to change before catching
a taxi to dinner. I was embarassed to be wearing
By now I had realized that no French
people could understand my French accent, so I had begun communicating only in
mime. Luckily, French people speak perfect mime. I pointed at "Crab"
on the menu and mimed, "Hit it with a hammer?" The waiter mimed back,
"Yes. Hit it with a hammer and big chisel." So we ordered langostines instead. they were
much more tender and sweet than the ones we had in
As the name would suggest, Au Pied du Cochon is famous for trotters,
or pig's feet. I am no stranger to ham hocks, so I was cool with that, and
even looking to be a little daring. I was checking out an assortment plate
of trotter, ear, tail, and brawn. Brawn? What the hell
was brawn? I gestured to the waiter, and he produced a small porcelein pig, clearly kept on hand for this very purpose.
He pointed to the snout (brawn), foot, ear, then very clearly pointed at the
pig's ass and said, "cul".
Now I know that in Italian, culo means asshole. I
came on this trip with the intention of stretching my culinary boundaries, but
there was no way I was eating pig's asshole. I mimed, "Long, curly thing,
or little round puckered thing?" He was very clear that it was the long,
curly thing, and I was now this waiter's new favorite person because
I had mimed "pig's asshole" to him.
When my plate arrived, it was just a
big bunch of meat coated in a light dusting of breadcrumbs (pig's asshole,
delicately seasoned in a light coating of breadcrumbs...it's very thinly
sliced). But there was no long, curly thing. The tail was straight, and looked
way more like a pig's penis than anything else (pig's pizzle,
in a light dusting of breadcrumbs...very thinly sliced). I did read once that
pig's penises are curly too (my brain is full of ephemera). I chose not to mime
"Big, giant pig's dick" to the waiter, and instead gestured,
"Pull it and stretch it out straight?" All of the waiters laughed
really hard and copied this movement. Now I was really wondering if they had
given me pig's dick.
Actually, the pig's tail, or whatever
it was, had the most meat on it of any of the uhhh,
"parts", and tasted exactly like ham hocks. The pig's nose, which was
my waiter's favorite, had just a few little nuggets of meat, but it
was way better than ham hocks. I just hope that stuffing really was
breadcrumbs. The pig's ear was all fat and gristle, useless for anything other
than freaking people out. The trotter had way less meat than a ham hock. It was
tiny, but I noticed that plates containing only the trotter had much
larger ones. It was good, but I felt really ruthless attacking the plate with
the vigor required. It was kind of labor-intensive. Bob had some mystery cut of
meat that was fantastic, and much easier to eat than my big he-man plate.
We ordered creme
brulee and a dessert platter. The creme
brulee was in a wide, shallow dish to maximide the shatteringly thin caramelized sugar. Bob's
dessert platter had a teensy crème brulee,
blackcurrant ice cream with a hint of violet, mango sorbet, a peach quenelle
and a brownie. It was topped with an adorable little meringue pig.
I realized that I had left my camera in
my coat, which had been checked. I mimed to the waiter, and he brought it to me
so I could photograph the dessert plate. I mimed, "If an order of trotters
comes out, I would like to take a picture." He mimed back,
"I am a pig. Take a picture of my foot." As we waited for our taxi, Bob said,
"I will never forget the sight of that fancy French waiter dancing around,
waving his foot in the air and snorting like a pig."
Saturday we split a quick baguette with
cheese at the local bakery. I told the lady at the counter, "Fromage". She just stared at me, confused. I summoned,
"Bob." He said, "Fromage." She
said, "Ohhhh. Fromage!"
We walked over to the Notre Dame and
took some pictures. There was a big white tent in the center of the square with
DJs chattering away. It looked like a promotion, so I ignored it until
I noticed a giant mixer. I dragged Bob inside, and the tent was full of
confused tourists wondering what was going on. Bob asked, "What is
it?"
I saw rows of baguettes, and totally
panicked chefs feeding puff pastry dough into a giant machine. "It's like
the French Pillsbury bake-off!" What a great thing to stumble
upon! We watched the competition for about a half-hour before heading over
to the Centre Pompidou, the modern art museum.
Outside of the museum, there was a
really gnarly 3-way bum fight. I whispered to Bob, "Do you think that this
museum is modern enough to have performance art?" He said, "No, I
think that's a genuine bum fight." The Pompidou building was once
very contriversial, as it looks like the builders
forgot the walls. It is a series of exposed pipes and beams. The escalator
looks like a giant habitrail, and as a child I always
dreamed of living in a giant habitrail, so I rather
liked it. They were having a film exhibit, called Le Mouvement
de Images, so in addition to the anticipated Warhol and Braque paintings,
there were Man Ray and Legari films running.
Bob had specifically wanted to see
their exhibit of German artist Hans Bellmer, which
didn't really interest me. The warning at the door read:
PLEASE BE AWARE THAT SOME OF THE
DISPLAY COULD HURT THE SENSIBILITY OF SOME VISITORS
Maybe this won't be boring after all.
I can say this, Bellmer definitely had vision. Sometimes this vision is as
grand as defying the nazis by opposing their concept
of the perfect form with cool distorted doll-puppets. Sometimes this vision is
as prurient as an obsession with anuses, drawings of children making out with
old men, and women's breasts tightly and painfully wound with twine. Sometimes
the vision is vaguely Dalinian with repetitive
phallic shapes and people made out of bricks or with the art-school
figure-drawing lines still showing. The level of detail in his drawings,
smaller and smaller and smaller, hints at madness. If nothing else, he was
prolific.
We had
They brought an amuse-bouche, which is always a nice touch. We got a tapenade, while some of the other tables got "mushroom
cream" in a shot glass. We both started with crab ravioi.
Wow. I was disappointed to find that the "froth" craze is still going
strong, but nonetheless it was a lovely, buttery froth. Plus, there were langostine tails mixed in. Bonus.
Bob had rosemary-scented lamb. I normally don't like lamb as it is too
gamey. This was the first time I had ever eaten non-gamey lamb.
I had the foi
gras. It was gigantic and delicious in a delicate
sweet sauce with tropical fruit. Alongside was a surprising slice of french toast. Gourmet
chicken and waffles. The french
toast was stuffed with a cream-cheese type cheese, only better. It was
perfection. And my doctor would have slapped me in the face if he had seen that
plate. I couldn’t get a picture in focus, and Bob said, "That's because
the picture just slides off of the grease."
The young French couple at the next
table was celebrating the girl's birthday. Bob mumbled, "Serious
jewelry." I looked over as she opened the ornate box to find a diamond
necklace. She was clearly upset, and he was desperately trying to fix the
problem. He pulled out a small catalog, showing her other necklaces she could
trade it in for. Bob asked, "Why is she so upset at such an expensive
gift?" I peeked over and noticed that her left ring finger was bare. I
replied, "Remember the Christmas when your office gave you cufflinks
in that nice jewelry box, and I saw the nice jewelry box, and then you told me
it was cufflinks, and I drove around the block for an hour?"
Sunday Bob woke me up with croissants
and intensely strong coffee, the Parisian dream. After wandering around a bit,
we went to Pho 67. I had a bit of a cold, and I heard
that Viet Namese food in
Home Ec
teacher: Be sure to wear you scarf. I can't think of anything worse than finding
a hair in your food.
Kid: I can. I can think of way worse
things than hair.
So, I removed the hair and kept eating.
Bob's "Sauteed beef and vermicelli" was
fantastic, with little caramelized bits of pork and lots of lemongrass. While
photographing it, I accidentally dunked my camera strap in my pho. Bob said, “That’s the risk you run by documenting all
of your meals.”
We had a hard time finding the Memorial
de Deportees, but I really felt like I owed the visit to certain
people that I love. Behind Notre Dame, there is a small park. Behind THAT park, in-between two bridges, is another, even
smaller park. In this smaller park, there is a small entrance leading to a
set of stairs. At the bottom of these stairs, you turn and enter a small
crypt-like series of rooms.
A hallway off of the main room is
lined with over 200,000 crystals, one for every French citizen who was taken by
the nazis and who never
returned. The crystals are subtlely lit, so they seem
to glow, and it seems like the light is emanating from thousands
of lost souls. In the center of this hallway lie the remains of one unknown
deportee. At the end on a hallway burns an eternal flame.
There are a few small hallways that
lead to barred-in cells, or to dead-ends. On the walls
are words carved in French with small English translations. They are quotes
about loss. I just read them and cried and cried.
On the floor in the center of the room
is a circle, which reads around the circumference in French: They went into the
earth and did not return.
As you walk out of the room into fresh
air, you feel like you are escaping. You do not realize how tight and cramped
the space is until you leave. You leave that space with such relief that you
cannot help but feel guilty for leaving behind all of those who could not
leave. You know that you can walk away when they could not.
All we could do was stand on the bridge
and stare at the water.
Then I heard the faint strains of accordian music. It was the stereotypical
"French" music that they play in movies. We walked over to the accordian player, and he was grinning widely with what
teeth he had left. His face was lit with joy. I looked around. Street
performers were juggling, children were eating ice cream, and dogs were playing
at the edge of the river. This square, once occupied by the nazis, was teeming with life ...almost, it seemed to
me at the moment, defiantly.
I realized at that moment what a
disservice it would be to the dead, to all dead, to squander the gift of life.
I realized that is not disrespectful to feel joy; it is a privilege. So we
walked over to the Berthollian ice cream stand and
ordered two cones. Bob ordered banana and I ordered cherry. We ate them while
watching a yellow lab play in the water. Bob wondered aloud what the
"Creole" ice cream on the menu was.
"Go get one" I told
him.
"You're kidding."
"No. Go ahead. Eat two ice cream
cones. Live."
We decided that after seeing a monument to captivity, maybe we
should see a monument to liberty, so we went to the Eiffel tower. I expected to
just take an obligatory photo, and leave 5 minutes later unimpressed.
I was so wrong. It really is impressive. It is huge, and the
girders make cool geometric shapes. It was awe-inspiring.
We stayed at the Eiffel tower longer than expected, so we made it
to the Musee de Orsay only
an hour before closing. You know how there are walking tours? This was like:
Impressionism - the running tour. We saw Dejuneur sur le Herb, and
As we walked back to the hotel along the
We ducked into a little Cafe, the Cafe Beaux Arts, and had a nice
cheese and charcuterie plate as we watched the rain rage outside.
Some of the cheeses were pretty stinky, but I loved the pate. We had a dinner
party to attend, and the hour was getting late, so off we went.
Festivals are a double-edged sword. As we walked away from the
parade, we saw swarms of police vans heading towards the parade. Apparantly taxis are not allowed to pick people up around
barricaded streets, so as the rain hammered down on us, one empty taxi after
another passed us by. We finally had to go back to the hotel and have them call
us a taxi, making us late for dinner.
There is a Bohemian gentleman by the name of Jim Haynes who
holds a Sunday evening dinner party every week for anyone who cares to show up.
Everyone pitches in 20 Euros apiece, and people come from all over the world.
This particular Sunday night had a Greek theme, and the food was
delicious. We started with a big Greek salad, not skimping on the kalamatas or feta. Then there were prodigious plates of
marinated calamari, fava beans, roasted red peppers, dolmas, hummus, baba ganoush and homemade pitas. I didn't even think I liked dolmas, but I guess I never knew anyone who made them
properly before.
There were between 40 and 60 people there. The small apartment was
cozy and did not feel crowded, thanks to large windows and a nice patio. I was
a little out-of-place at first, but Jim Haynes introduces people
around, taking care to match languages and personalities. First we hung out
with Ian, a nice British architect. We talked about the design of
Then I met a cool expatriate from
A passing party guest asked me if I was tired. "A little” I
replied, “I just spent an entire week here in the last three days."
