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Some
of this year’s weird public art in the
Tom,
with more public art in the
Walking
south through the
This
year, the statue of St. Clotilde is surrounded by
Geraniums
in the
The
Louvre, where Henry James’ American spends a good |
Tuesday, September 11 On Saturday evening, Arnold and Mareen took us to a
restaurant they’ve been going to for 30 years – Auberge D’Chez Eux, at 2
avenue Lowendal in the 7th arrondissement. It is one of those exceptional places that
looks merely nice. But looks can be
deceiving. This is the kind of place
where European heads of state will dine together when they happen to be in
town at the same time, according to The merely nice looking appearance is, I think, a
deliberate disguise. One look at the
menu tells you that something’s up. It
is a bit pricey, and it is gourmand.
The cuisine is of the Perigord region, I believe. Tom and I each ordered the dozen escargots
for a starter course. Ah, heaven. These escargots were a match for the best
ones we’ve ever had, those of Tom Johnson, the Arnold and I each ordered the coquelet (young male chicken) which was cooked with a multitude
of very fine wild mushroooms. You’ll
never taste a chicken as “chickeny,” as Julia Child used to say, as a French
chicken, and the young male chickens are at the top of that most “chickeny”
list. Savory, soft, tender, bursting
with flavor. The mushrooms were even
more so. Mareen had the frog legs for her starter course. She told us that in For dessert, we shared the round of desserts, and
Arnold and Mareen shared an order of fresh peach soup. It was all fabulous. After dessert, We were having such a great time, at this point the
gentleman at a nearby table was cheering us on, especially about the flaming
plum liquor. As superb as the
meal was, the very best thing about it was the company of our dear friends,
Arnold and Mareen. We love them so
much. Tom is working hard now, and we are down to just one
computer so there won’t be so many journal entries this month. I can’t believe we only have 19 more days
here. In the evenings, we’ve been going on some long, long
walks, covering a lot of Parisian territory.
Then we settle down to a late dinner somewhere. I mean late – 9pm or even 10. I also go out for newspapers, bread, and whatever lunch
ingredients I need. On Sunday, finding
a bakery open in this ancient, touristy, high-rent neighborhood is a bit of a
challenge. Finding a copy of Le Parisien, if I don’t get
out early enough, can be even more difficult.
I know that the bakery on rue Mabillon across from the Marché St.
Germain is open on Sundays, so that’s where I went on that day, even though
their baguettes are too airy and full of holes. (Getting a proper baguette is more and more
difficult because young people just don’t want to learn to be bakers anymore. Who wants to get up at 3AM every day?) After buying the baguette, I had to make a big circle
through the neighborhood to find a copy of Le Parisien Dimanche. It
was futile. But as I was rounding the
corner off of boulevard St. Germain onto rue Bonaparte, a 60-something man,
nicely dressed but with wild Einstein hair and mustache, exited his sleek
black car that he’d just illegally parked.
He saw me with my baguette and his face lit up with hope. He asked me please to tell him where I
purchased the bread. I was so happy to
be able to do so, albeit slowly in my slow French, because I know how
frustrated he must have been. He
thanked me profusely, hopped back into his car, and headed for rue Mabillon. Every time I go
out, it seems, someone asks me for directions. When I’m walking alone, the questioner is
usually a very young woman. My theory
is that I must look like her mother, and therefore I am approachable. Last night, as we walked together, a very
young man stopped his bicycle to ask us where the nearest Vélib’ station
might be. Do we look like the kind of
people who would ride bicycles in I’m reading Henry
James’ The American now. Last night, as we walked along the rue de
l’Université in the St. Germain area, Tom pointed out a shadowy old, massive hôtel particulier that matches the
description of the grand old manor that the protagonist, Christopher Newman,
frequently visits when he goes to see the de Bellegarde family. It tickled me that such a place actually
exists still. I amused Tom by guessing
some of the outcome of the novel. He
wouldn’t tell me that I was right, but he was so surprised and amused, his
dimples gave it away that I must be right. Here is James’ initial description of the home of the
de Bellegarde family: The house to which he had been directed had a dark,
dusty, painted portal, which swung open in answer to his ring. It admitted
him into a wide, graveled court, surrounded on three sides with closed windows,
and with a doorway facing the street, approached by three steps and
surmounted by a tin canopy. The place was all in the shade; it answered to
Newman's conception of a convent. |
