Paris - a personal travelogue

Paris

 

Ahhh, Paris. City of light. The most romantic city on earth. fashion capitol of the world. All this and more, but one should keep an even keel as we consider the truth.  I have been to Paris four times.  That in itself should say something about the bottom line of my feelings about Paris.  Yes, I love the sound of “enchante” rolling off my lips as I discuss the pretensions of a glass of a nondescript single vineyard Beaujolais. I can do this with the best, but in none of my “le voyage d'inspection” did I come as a wide eyed honeymooner, student, nor member of a tour group. I therefore feel I can give you a somewhat more realistic idea of just what Paris is about, at least in my recount

First off, Paris is about smoking, dogs and, I guess in a related sense; shit.  The French must love the latter because even their word for it; “merde”  sounds so much more civilized than our words like poop, “ca-ca,”  crap, and our endearing add-on tag shit .  While Americans love to incorporate the word in so many different ways of disdain… bullshit, shit-faced, “Oh Shit !,” and other graphic handles on life’s happenstances, the French seem to want to revere it.  “Merde” slips off the French tongue with such a myriad of inflections that it could constitute a vocabulary in itself.  It almost sounds like something you’d want to step in.

The Parisian bridges are edifices of glory over the Seine and adorned with ornate lighting.  I think you’d better stick to walking on them as well, because a walk along the ill lighted balustrades of the river will invariably result in stepping in dog crap.  I am convinced that every resident of the city owns a dog. They are everywhere. Whether a brasserie, café, or bistro, you will share space with dogs.  Patron dogs, proprietor dogs and sometimes passerby dogs.  And the people of Paris must think small plastic baggies are déclassé, as no one seems to have the least inclination to clean up their crap. It’s everywhere.  Plazas, courtyards, boulevard sidewalks, even intersections. I mean, who but a Frenchman has the audacity to let their pet take a dump in the middle of a pedestrian crossing.  How else does it get there?

Diverted in thought, I am transported to Galleries Lafayette , the Marshall Fields of Paris,  where I step up to the counter and charm (enchante’) the counter stewardess into wrapping up a small parcel of merde in their signature red and white box with red ribbon which I gently place as a tribute to Paris, next to a bench nearby Rodin’s “The Kiss”  statuary  in the Tuilieries Garden.  So appropriately Parisian. Stylish. Always stylish.

Then there is the smoking.  You have these chic women who could easily walk from the street onto a fashion runway. Not just one or two, but all over, like pigeons in a public square. And they all have a “ciggy” that they take studied puffs on.  Not just the women either.  I have never, other than Olivia deHavilland, Marlena Dietrich and perhaps Liberace (but only in private)seen people affecting a long cigarette holder. But Parisienne women do.   Elegant puffs, casual draws, nonchalant inhalations. I have to hand it to them, Parisians court lung disease with more style than I could possibly muster.  Perhaps it’s another bastion against odors. 

Yes’m, while Paris is the City of Light, it is also the city of stink.  Many days Paris is overcast with a smoggy haze.  It smells.  An urban stench.  Even the hill of Montmartre peers out of a circle of pollution surrounding it.  And if you utilize the many tunnels, built to facilitate rapid transportation within the city and like the one Diana” met her demise in, the odor is even more concentrated. Like passing a Midwestern American pig farm in summer’s heat.  But the urban smell emanates not only from cars and industry, but from the city dwellers themselves.  You would think that the place that glorified the bidet and perfume would be fastidious in their hygiene.  Thinking that would be a delusion. It is not true. A ride on the city Metro subway system will verify the truth.  French men do not bathe regularly nor use deodorant. And I swear the French invented perfume to cover the stench of an unwashed skin.  There is something to be said about sitting next to a couture-draped creature with sultry shadowed eyes, a pouty mouth and the waft of a cigarette masking, just slightly, the aroma of Jean Patou roses and B.O.!  That “something”  refers back to the American exclamation used several paragraphs back. 

Paris eats. Sometimes well, but always, again, with style.  They say “cuisine gastronomique” to categorize the Paris temples devoted to the worship of food and wine.  The guiding credo here is that, in Paris, the size of the portion is inversely proportional to the price you will pay, and also the size of the plate.  Again, sense would lead you to believe that if a restaurant was going to skimp on what they serve you in actual food (not withstanding “decoration” that they are very very big on. You know, things like “bouquetièrre,”garnishment, and small sides (Petit côté). (We’d say “dragged thru the garden”.) Anyway, you’d think if the portion was miniscule, that the place would put it on a smaller plate to make you think you were getting more.  Hah !, not the French. You get an egg sized entrée on a plate that grandma could have used to serve the Thanksgiving bird. A salad you can’t eat (because they wash it in local water you know!) And so many goblets, glasses, cups, flatware and other “table-takers” that all must fit on what we would consider bar tables. No wonder they serve everything in courses.

On my first trip to Paris I visited one of the cities’ most famous restaurants, “Tour d’Argent,” a four star (since relegated to two) edifice with panoramic windows overlooking the River Seine and Notre Dame.  On my last visit there late in 1998, I wanted a revisit to see if my memory was accurate to the current reality. I had two friends with me that I was escorting on their first visit to Europe. I am incorporating this story here as it happens to embody all the foregoing  caveats I have covered before.

Having made requisite reservations months in advance, we made ready to experience what was acclaimed as Paris best.  View, history, food, wine, service; this night was to be special.  Mike, one of a married couple I was travelling with, was ill.  He chose to ignore my implore not to eat mussels in an outdoor café (washed in local water, you know!)  and had spent the day admiring the French plumbing in our suite. But now, intrepid Mike was determined to also experience this event.  I chose to utilize the Metro to go over as it would give them indication of how most of sane Paris travels. (The insane drive cars). This was a BIG mistake. Crowded to the maximum, Mike had misfortune to be next to a Parisian who either was on the way home from a day working in the sewers or had not bathed for too long a time.  The odor was pungent and ripe.  The Frenchman’s arm was raised as he grasped the handrail above the seats. Standing next to him, Mike faced his armpit at a distance he could count pit hairs. Mike’s mussels hadn’t had their last word and he rumbled and grimaced in nausea.  We tried to jockey him away but the car was too crowded.  Luckily, we arrived at our stop and got out.  Mike’s wife Petra had on stiletto heels, and the streets in this older part of Paris were cobblestone. Trying to discern dog poop on darker streets while negotiating the uneven pavement in heels was a challenge, but it was only two blocks.

Now, Tour d’Argent is on the sixth floor of a building on the Seine. You must take an elevator up to the restaurant.  On the ground floor is a tableau of the table as it appeared when the restaurant served the Czar of Russia. I don’t give a “merde” when. (See how much nicer it sounds?!)  I remembered it as on my first visit. What I didn’t remember was the plastic cover with a patina of dust covering the historic table setting. Now there was also a shop of souvenirs to take as memory of the occasion.  At least they had not yet fallen to selling Tour d’Argent tee shirts.

French elevators are a reluctant concession to the Iron Age.  I think even in modern buildings they are made to accommodate one fashion model and a small poodle.  Mike Petra and I could barely fit and hoped the climb could be rapid enough to get us to the exit in one breath because we were as sardines so well packed that breathing was an effort.  The restaurant is renowned for its signature pressed duck and I had visions on our assent of perhaps this was the modem for pressing the duck. They would load a dozen in this elevator and in the time of an assent, voila; they would be compressed into plate sized morsels. I didn’t work out the cooking part but then it wasn’t a long ride.

Into the temple we awed supplicants came.  Royalty, Heads of State, celebrities and the titled wealthy had gone before us. We were mere interlopers.  Mike immediately inquired as to the “salle de bains por home” (men’s bathroom) You know, I have to admit, those French have such a lyrical way with words.

Anyway,  Petra and I had instruction to order so we were seated.  Perhaps Petra looked like a French woman because, first, we were seated at one of the coveted window side tables with a view that would literally take your breath away.  A lighted Notre Dame and the Seine River with the Bateau Mouche excursion boats drifting by, all festooned with lights.  Unfortunately, tourism took its toll from when I had been there before. All those Kings and such along with a history that went back to before our country existed meant that this was now an iconic edifice and every tourist dinner cruise passing below would shine a spotlight as the guide recounted the historic site.  While this light was a fitting tribute to those of us that felt we were among royalty, it also shined right in our eyes.  Not once, but every time a new cruise would pass, on would come the spot.  I supposed we should have smiled and with studied nonchalance, basked in this knowledge that on this evening we were among the privileged.  As poor Mike was heaving his guts in the loo, this old man with a blue cornflower in his lapel kept coming on to Petra at our table.  The fact is that we later found this man to be the owner of Tour d’Argent, Claude Terrail, who had been making tableside appearances since 1947.  I guess it’s a great honor for him to pay us attention, but to us it was an interruption and Petra felt uncomfortable. 

We had our classic duck and got our unique number they provide with every duck order.  We ordered a simple Rhone wine that cost about $80 there, and had dinner sans Mike, who arrived in time for dessert that was a chocolate compilation the recipe of which I think someone brought back from Heaven where they served this to people like Mother Theresa.  The bill for our party of three, remembering that Mike only had a dessert and coffee, was $800US. 

One last hurrah.  Throughout our meal I had noticed a group of Japanese  men at the table next to us had ordered a special bottle from what is one of the world’s biggest (and most expensive) wine lists.  They left their table before us and curiosity compelled me to see what they had drunk because I could see the “Romanee Conti” neck label indicating that it was prestigious.  The footed wine bucket was right next to me, so I quickly pulled the bottle out to see that it was a bottle of 1972 La Tache, one of the world’s best and a stellar vintage of it at that.  It had cost that party more than our entire dinner check and it had about an inch of dregs still left in the bottom of the bottle.  I quaffed the remainder of my pedestrian little Rhone and tilted that sucker into my, and a rather pale but enthusiastic Mike’s unused glass. We both sipped the remnants of a bottle the likes of which we would never ever have the likes of in our lifetime.

In that moment, with lights shining in my eyes, all memory of dog shit, cigarette smoke, cramped elevators and all the other diminishments I have recounted here evaporated.

This was, after all, Paris, city of lights; and in this moment, I was in love with her. Mike would have definitely disagreed.

-Jerry Wendt;  work in Progress galley- October 2012, 2205 words

The view. Seriously. The view. There's hardly a better view of Paris than notre dame from the back, at night time when its lights are on. The restaurant is on the 6th floor of a building perfectly placed to enjoy this view. Of course with large windows to not miss any.The food reaches the perfection that is expected for the price. The wine list is bigger than any book you've seen before. The wine cave is 800 square meters (approx. 8000 sq. feet) of french red wine and a second floor for the rest

 

 

Tour D'Argent.  One off the most famous, romantic and oldest restaurants in Paris. We sat at a windowside table like this