Paris Journal 2007

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My dining companions at La Petite Chaise.

 

Our trendy rue du Commerce at night.

 

The Musée Maillol on the rue de Grenelle.  This is actually
a private museum, funded by a foundation.  Aristide
Maillol was a talented sculptor, originally from the
Pyrenees.  He started as a painter, then was a tapestry
designer, but succeeded as a sculptor in the late 19th
and early 20th centuries.

 

The almost-full moon over Invalides.  Notice the outline
of one of the cannons in the lower left corner.

 

Three guys working on their juggling acts on the Champ
de Mars.  The one with the batons spent more time
flirting with the brunette than practicing, but I think
that was his real agenda anyway.  I missed my shot of
the one with the pink plastic rings in motion.  Those
were cool.

Sunday, August 26

 

Yesterday evening, after working all day, we walked for an hour and then had dinner with Carol, Ron and Holly at that great old standby, La Petite Chaise (36, rue de Grenelle, 7th arrondissement, telephone 01-42-22-13-35), founded in 1680.  We were a lively, talkative, laughing, but not-too-noisy table of five in the upstairs dining room, which had four other tables full of English speakers (all of them American, I think), and one poor, dour table of young French people.

 

Tom and Ron each started with the six escargots served in a brown ceramic escargot dish with lots of melted herb/garlic butter.  Tom even let me have one of his snails.  We women ordered the gaspacho which is made there in the house.  It was great, and different, because it was a medium to dark brown, and puréed, so we couldn’t tell what the mystery vegetable was – the one that made it dark.  I’m guessing it was beet.  The serving size is quite generous, enough for two, really, if you can convince the server to give you an extra spoon.

 

The Americans to my left were not happy with their food.  I have no idea why.  They had the same thing I had, the filet de boeuf, which was absolutely perfect.  It was even tender, which is not characteristic of European beef.  I think the problem is that they ordered the meat cooked medium and they considered the steaks they were served to be undercooked.  I once again remind everyone that what is called medium in France is what is called medium-rare in most places in the U.S.  (These Americans looked out of place in that fancy dining room with their t-shirts, baggy pants, and backpacks.  Tsk, tsk.)

 

At La Petite Chaise, you can get the filet de boeuf with a pepper sauce, or with bordelaise sauce.  I ordered the latter.  It is a very rich, dark brown, reduction/deglazing sauce made with bone marrow and red wine, among other tasty things.  I was given a very generous portion of the sauce, I’m happy to say.  If Bailey’s can give me bone marrow, I’m going to make some bordelaise sauce when I return to Sanibel.  It is hopeless to try it here unless I buy a couple good pans with thick bottoms, which are quite expensive in France.

 

The vegetable usually served at La Petite Chaise is a cute little round disk of broccoli baked in a quiche-like (egg, cream) base, but with no crust.   I’m pretty sure I can replicate it, no problem.  I’ve been told that the French eat very little broccoli, and indeed I rarely see it served in restaurants.  But La Petite Chaise can be bold.

 

Also with my steak came some rich, yummy Lyonnaise potatoes.  There was too much.  I couldn’t eat all those potatoes.

 

Others in our group ordered the pork, lamb chops, and fish.  Everyone at OUR table was very pleased with their food.

 

For dessert, I had the light and creamy crème brulée.  Holly wanted to taste it, too, and I think she really liked it.  Everyone else ate dark chocolate torte in a crème anglaise sauce.  Very, very rich.

 

Straight ahead of me was a table filled by an American family of five, including three young women and their mom, all with very long curly hair.  Nobody at that table spoke even one word of French, but our server handled it extremely well.  We’ve been served by him a few times now, and of course we speak only French to him.  He is probably one of the best servers I’ve ever seen.  He was very attuned to what was going on at each table, but he was not obtrusive.  It is going to be a real shock to me once again when we return to the U.S. and we are confronted by a perky server who bubbles, “Hello, my name is Jennifer!  And I’M going to be your server!”

 

In between the ugly Americans in t-shirts and the family of five was a much quieter, well-behaved table of three Americans, all in their late 30s, I’d say.  The table of French people to my right seemed quiet and dour all evening.  I think they did not like being placed in what seemed like the American room.  But the fact is, Americans support many of Paris’ restaurants, making them viable.

 

At La Petite Chaise, the entire staff is warm and welcoming to everyone, even ugly people in t-shirts, baggy pants, athletic shoes, and backpacks.

 

While we were walking before dinner, we were stopped by a young French woman driving a ubiquitous hatchback near the Place du Palais Bourbon.  She wanted to know where the avenue de la Bourdonnais was.  Tom didn’t hear her right, so I repeated the street name to her to be sure I did hear her right, then I proceeded to give her explicit directions in American-accented French.  I love doing this.  The French are usually so surprised to find an American who knows la capitale so well.  Another reason I love these events is that it proves that some people, at first glance at least, think we are Parisian.

 

We walked again after dinner, but nobody stopped us for directions after dark.  Finally, we reached home by about midnight.  The moon was almost full. 

 

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