Wednesdays, Thursdays...

My parent’ visit to Paris is in part to see Paris, in part to see me, but is largely characterized by a quest to find a conciliatory gift for my sister Caroline, who unfortunately couldn’t make it here because of school. On Wednesday, I met my parents in the Marais for phở at Trésors d’Asie: they were not disappointed, and with the sudden onslaught of colder temperatures, the soup had a regenerative effect on our spirits. From there we went to Montmarte to search for a) a bag, b) a sweater, c) a scarf, or d) anything at all that seemed to say “Caroline.” There were some whispers, but nothing really definitive, and so we headed back to the Metro and sped over to Saint-Germain, where the shops were a little less boutique-y and a little more commercial, but equally full of exciting fashion. An interesting statue we saw on the way...


With the temperature dropping and our patience thinning, we searched madly for a café to refuel with caffeine. We finally ended up on the narrow Rue de Buci, which is packed with cafés, but we settled on the reliable Paul. What happened next is kind of a blur: at some point we returned to my parents’ hotel, where I took a long, hot bath. Then I passed out for about 2 hours (or so I’m told), leaving me barely any time to find a dinner place! Luckily, my parents had already researched Le Petit Pontoise, a family run bistro near the Seine, but walkable from the Pantheon.

My mother had an incredible lamb. My father had a baked camembert (the brand... President, it was baked in the packaging, a small disappointment) with a honey-almond crust and a roast chicken with mashed potatoes. The wine wasn’t as good as some of the others we had tasted. It had a modern looking label and boasted of its autumn-ness, but it was a little yellow-taily to me. I had a tuna carpaccio, a duck magret with forest fruit, and a fatal baba au rhum for dessert. Very alcoholic. Setting this tiny sponge on fire does not burn off the generous ocean of rum it’s swimming in. I was spinning.

Thursday, one might think I was in for a break, since I couldn’t see my parents at all as I had class in the evening, but this week our conversation session took place in the 20th Arrondissement, over a very decent Moroccan dinner in a restaurant with live entertainment. The woman singing jazz on the stage was a friend of our host, who knew a lot of the customers as this was the area in which she had grown up. Let’s face it: the meals were nothing compared to the array of flavors I tasted at Le Souk, but for the prices and the entertainment gratuit, I couldn’t complain. I'm storing this location in my pocket for another visit. Afterward, we went to the Bastille, but were overwhelmed by the scene and smartly decided to move the party back to our dorm. We drank and watched the daily show online and laughed uncontrollably until 4 in the morning.

Oh, Food!

My parents are visiting this week, which means I am in gourmet heaven. Not to say my parents served an amuse-bouche before every meal in my childhood, but I think a lot of my appreciation of food comes from my upbringing. Although they didn’t introduce me to blood sausage (I may never forgive the lost years of that potential indulgence), they did a good job with bringing unconventional cooking home: from dumplings to tagines, my mom was a regular at Williams-Sonoma.

Now that they’re in Paris, it’s safe to say we’re going absolutely fou over the food here. They came on Sunday, just in time for lunch at a French bistro, and dinner later that night was Moroccan/Algerian and essential crêpes at the Bastille. Yesterday we feasted on falafel in the Marais, then saw Notre Dame and had a boat tour of the Seine (to orient ourselves/rest our feet).


We then schlepped to the north (of Paris) to have some genuine Alsatian cuisine. Today, I unfortunately missed lunch, but dinner more than made up for it. We returned to the bistro scene, and nearly had to be rolled out of the restaurant. I collapsed on the bed in their tres chic hotel by the Pantheon, watching a dubbed version of The Incredibles, or, en francais, Les Indestructibles.

After that summary, here’s a blow by blow account of some of the excellent restaurants we’ve visited. Mind you, these are only the first three days.

SUNDAY
Lunch at Le Brasserie Balzar, a bistro in the heart of the Sorbonne university. My parents were jetlagged, so we skipped wine in favor of some cafes, which impressed them tremendously. My mother had a steak au poivre au point, and shared a plate of frites with my father, who had a succulent roast chicken. I had seared scallops on a bed of leaks in a delicious brown sauce that had just a hint of citrus. Addictive.

We went to the Bastille for dinner at Le Souk, which boasts its authenticity with barrels of spices lining the entryway and by dressing its waiters in Moraccan garb. My parents each had a tagine, my mother’s duck was especially sweet and savory, and I had a seemingly unending bowl of couscous, accompanied with a pitcher of vegetables in stock. Along with our meal the waiter recommended an Algerian red wine that was sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. A hit.

MONDAY
We went to the Marais and had falafel at L’As du Falafel, which had less of a line on weekdays. We walked across the Seine to L’Ile Saint Louis, and as it started to drizzle ducked into Le Flore en l’Ile, where my parents had two D.I.Y. hot chocolates, and I had a café with unbelievably rich dark truffles on the side. We also sampled some sugary macarons, and walked out of there visibly shaking. A puppet store on L'Ile Saint Louis that I really would like to get something from...


It was quite a walk to get to L’Alsaco, but probably well worth it. Now I don’t need to go to the Rhine to sample Franco-German food. Cute tablecloths and a painting from a fable on the wood. Alsacian beer called “Meteor.” Herring and a cold white cheese dish with onions and cumin called "Pikalakass." Everything came with a hot potatoe. Sausage, sauerkraut, and huge chunks of ham. Dessert was a blackcurrant pie for my father, a mirabelle pie for my mother, and some beautiful smelly cheese for me.


TUESDAY
Just dinner today, at a restaurant just around the corner from the Pantheon called Parraudin. More bistro faire: appetizers of chèvre profiteroles, sausage from Lyon, and escargot. My mother had lamb and potatoes gratin with a cheesy crust. My father had beef bourguignon. I had duck in a creamy, earthy mushroom sauce. Accompanied by a 2004 Medoc, which was simple and smooth. I got dessert despite my better judgement. My île flottante was foamy meringue peaks floating in a vanilla custard-y creamy liquid. My father had profiteroles filled with vanilla ice cream and drowned in a chocolate syrup that went perfect with my dessert. My mother had an apple tart in a thin crust of what looked like phyllo dough, topped with a tiny scoop of vanilla.

T+2:00 I’m still full.

Thrifting

With the euro being as low as it is, everyone wants to go shopping. I started out at Les Halles, thinking that the mall would be a good place to see some French fashion. However, I don’t see the point in buying something from H&M here, even for just a couple dollars more, if I can just get something similar in the States. And they had ugly stuff anyway. I ran and hid in the Marais.

Thrift stores in the Marais are an all-day, all-night phenomenon. Filled with young people, it’s a tight squeeze making your way down the cramped aisles of these tiny stores. I’m sure there are good finds, but unfortunately I woke up late, missing the chance to buy that oh-so-perfectly bizarre cocktail dress at Free P Star. There were some promising looking cowboy boots at Vintage Design, but I decided to hold out for my glass slipper.

It’s tiring work, but luckily I found Café Finkelstajn where I had an amazing sandwich on a poppy-seed roll: corned beef, onions, pickles, red pepper and tomato. And a magic sauce that made my stomach smile. I followed it with a raspberry tart that had almonds in its cakey crust. I went from zero to
ten in the three bites it took me to finish the whole thing.

Afterwards, I met friends Paul, Morgan, and Ethan, who were in the mood for hot jazz. Or any kind of jazz. The concert near the Bastille they had originally planned on was cancelled, so we hopped on a random bus which decided to take us to a different concert in the 20th at a place called the Jawad Kfé. It was empty when we arrived 5 minutes before the 9:00 set. We sat around drinking leffes until about 10, after the band had all arrived. There were 6 more people in the audience and us. Basically a private show. It featured the pianist, a youngish guy who was very expressive, putting his whole body into playing. Plus a bassist, and a drummer who had played with Dizzy Gillespie. For the last song of the first set, the pianist asked if anyone in the audience could sing, and a bald man volunteered; he scatted, belting it out, turning red in the face and pacing around the room to the beat. Afterwards, we talked to him, and he spoke about his theory of the world and of improvisation. It was a little abstract, to say the least. He talked about throat-singing in Africa, and even gave us a little sample.

Looking back on the evening, these people truly provided us with a one of a kind experience. They might be crazy, drugged out broken musicians, half-mental, half-genius. Still capable of turning out some seriously decent jazz. Whatever I saw last night was genuine.

The Loire Valley

It had already been a busy week. I (finally) got my Louvre student pass, ate Thai food made me nostalgic for Hyde Park, sampled marron ice cream (au rhum) at the old-school Berthillion on L’Ile Saint-Louis, and our class watched Le Retour de Martin Guerre. Starring Gérard Depardieu (but when he was young, so its ok…), it’s about a trial of one of the first identity thefts that was so popular, our teacher called it the 16th century’s O.J. Simpson. C’était très bien.

Yesterday, we were up at 6, on the road by seven, heading to the Loire Valley. I got more than 2 hours of sleep, so I was in good shape. The road to Blois was something like 2 hours; one must take a bus since there’s no train stations near the town. At first site, Blois is strikingly similar to Poitiers: lots of hills, lots of cute shops for clothing, local bars, brasseries, and cafés. My friend Paul explained to me, that this was just what Europe looked like. There were some differences…


Like the Loire River.

It was shallow and you could see the fish disappearing and reappearing amidst river plants. It’s calm, mirrored surface perfectly reflected the town on either side. The illusion was capable of taking our breath away, we spent nearly a half hour there admiring the view.

We were then given a tour of Le Château Royal de Blois: a frankenstein-of-a-building, with the remnants of different kings sewn together, fusing separate histories. One king added to his predecessor, and sometimes added by knocking down, so that there are four visibly distinct styles. Reliefs of porcupines and fire breathing salamanders checker the walls, the emblems of Louis XII and François I, respectively.



The most breathtaking aspect of the château is its view. We stood there again, almost dumbstruck, gazing at the town beneath us, the church errupting from the red roofs, and the wide river. So many pictures to be taken, I photographed the same thing over and over, and still couldn’t effectively capture it. We were persuaded away only with the prospect of lunch.

At L’Orangerie, the exciting avant-garde menu was unfortunately offset by rude service. Okay, we're American students, but they took our plates away as soon as we put our fork down, even if we weren’t finished. They stole the bread out from under our noses.

The menu was really a treat, even though it left some people hungry with its tiny portions. Melon with a spicy beef jelly, ground lamb stuffed into zucchini, tomato and eggplant, and the dessert: a crumbly apple tart topped with The Most Delicious Vanilla Ice Cream. Finished off with tiny cakes, strawberry merengues and un café, the meal was near perfect. Just the service, s’il vous plait.




We were bused to Chambord, which was more isolated than Blois. It barely had a town outside of the majestic Château. Our guide there was a little more grating than the one we had at Blois, who let us wander around the building at our own pace. Here, we were given a mind-numbing and rigorously paced march around King François I’s masterpiece. The place is so big, I think we barely saw a third of it, and had no time left to explore on our own. There were more salamanders on the walls, chosen for their ability to withstand fire, and a beautiful double-spiral staircase. One could watch people starting at the top, and mysteriously disappearing, as a different group climbed up what looked like the same staircase. The twists and turns wore us all out, and we were collapsing as we reached the bus to take us home.

However, once we got back, we were surprisingly refreshed. Up for a little more updated version of France, we went to a club on the Champs Elysées called Six Seven, where everything was free for les filles until 12:30. There was a mixed crowd of young and well-dressed, young skanks, old and well-dressed, and old skanks. A triple-act strip show began with a mad scientist who inflated a long balloon from his crotch.

How times have changed...

Sleepy Sunday

Understandably exhausted from the previous night’s shenanigans, we decided to skip the morning market in favor of falafel in le Marais. The Jewish Quarter on Rue des Rosiers is the only place still bustling on a Sunday, when the rest of Paris shuts down. This past weekend was Sukkot, so rabbis shuffled through the narrow street holding lulavs and etrogs, weaving in and out of the throngs of people lined up for falafel.

Conclusion to the Controversy of the Century: The King of Falafel serves the exact same falafel as L’As Du Falafel. They are identical. And yet, the line outside of L’As is three times as long. Waiting is for the weak, we got two perfect falafels at The King and searched, face in pita, for a place to sit. These babies are loaded with the works: Israeli salad, hummus, red cabbage, tahini sauce, fried onions and eggplant. Wipe your mouth, you’re drooling on the keyboard.


The next important thing on our list was coffee, so we wandered (all the way to the Pompidou) until we found a satisfactory café that was open and friendly. I bought a pastry from a bakery that was bigger than my head and filled with Orange Plaisir. Happy tummies.

We started out thinking we could afford a relaxing stroll to the Cimetiere de Père-Lachaise, but sadly, as we reached the gates we found it was closed. Heads hung, we looked into a guidebook for dinner plans. On our way, we walked down La Rue du Faubourg-St-Antoine, which hid beautiful courtyards behind hole-in-the-wall doors. I think we might have trespassed, but I know where I want to live when I grow up.


Dinner plans were demolished. How was I to know the Grands Boulevards would be so… grand? Très commercial. Theo thought that Le Chartier, despite the excellent prices, seemed snooty, so we headed towards the side streets. At the end of a particularly dark one, a neon red sign read “Les Noces de Jeanette.” Ahh, character. A good menu, a good wine list, and quiet, with only a few couples there; the place had just the right amount of class to make you nervously excited about the prospect of eating there.

I had try blood sausage again, and to my delight it was prepared differently here. Ground up and served on a bed of mashed potatoes, it tasted like meatloaf on steroids. Theo’s steak was saignant and topped with a sweet sauce that managed to not overpower the meat. For dessert, we decided to be daring and order framboise à l’eau de vie to go with our raspberry mouse cake. It was like drinking perfume. It was like getting punched in the throat by a gigantic raspberry. However, it did expand our appreciation of the fruit in our cake. Job well done.

Some Tourism

I know that I’m only in Paris for a limited time and I shouldn’t be repeating myself. But I just had to get some phở again. This Saturday, I needed to spice up, wake up, and get a start on what promised to be a full day. I ended up putting my foot in my mouth when I ordered the special phở instead of just sticking to what I know. The soup was filled with bizarre hard dumplings that I now fear were once attached to and very much the prized possession of some unfortunate (male) animal. There was also skin. Delicacies were placed in a neat pile on my napkin. I have no shame.


Theo and I saw the Eiffel Tower, because it was unbelievable that I hadn’t yet. Took the necessary pictures, dropped the necessary jaws (it really is very big), and star-gazed at the menu for Le Jules Verne. Across the Seine we visited Le Palais de Tokyo, which was having several bizarre exhibits. There was a Baby-Disco, a wooden box filled with dancing children, who didn’t even realize they were being avant-garde. They were just there for the pizza.

An art-anthropology exhibit of British obscure culture grew on me the more I looked at it, but it was a struggle to understand the point of anything. I think it was the mock-anthropological study aspect of it that got me: like, what kind of museum was I in, anyway? That was followed by a survey of 1960s rock in France, complete with a model of a sleazy studio. Authentically grungy. The best exhibit was on the strange electronic music produced in the Soviet Union by a melange of musicians and scientists. Think theremins, but also think electronic pulses that are only finally “mixed” into music inside your brain. Very cool stuff. Unfortunately, they only had videos of these instruments at work in their day. All of the weirdest ones were destroyed.

It was early, but we were determined to get into Chez Robert et Louise, and you’ve got to be there when it opens if you don’t have a reservation. Incidentally, this restaurant was featured on the very first episode of Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations. It's like a home kitchen, emphasis on home. We were placed at a table that already had three people sitting at it, but they were very friendly considering the cramped space. I guess it was understood that we all had come here for the same thing. Indeed, the majority of people in the restaurant ordered the dish that Anthony Bourdain made famous (and we even overheard his name a couple of times), which made me wonder about the rest of the menu… but not for long.

My first experience with blood sausage was, I’m happy to say, orgasmic. It really is good stuff, and this restaurant does it justice. I was licking the plate. We shared the infamous cote du boeuf for two, and remembered to order it rare. Saignant. Bloody. It’s grilled a couple of feet away from you on a huge open fire. It’s served with a simple salad and potatoes. It is an Experience. It is gone before you can say… anything really, your mouth is full.

Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the excess blood coursing through my veins, but I was in the mood for the nightlife. We headed back to La Fée Verte, but this time, just to sample their absinthe. We tried La Blanchette, La Maîtresse Rouge, Le Mansinthe (my favorite, if only because of the name), and Le Verte de Fougeroles.

Feeling warmer, we headed outside and I called my friend, Elyssa, who lives nearby. She took us through local bar scene, but it was too crowded. "Pop In" is more like Squeeze Out, and at "Zero Zero," an extremely intoxicated man kept trying to dance with us, only we didn’t notice until he was right behind us. Creepy.

The night ended up well though. We found our way to Le Café de l’industrie and sat down over some wine and cheese. Caught up on old times, planned for the future. You know, the usual.

Poitiers

The class’s excursion to Poitiers this Friday began at 6:00 am. Un café, un croissant, un 90-minute train ride and we were there. A chilly, hilly city I viewed with crusty-eyes and inevitable lapses in consciousness. A blur of churches. A picture of me in front of Michel Foucault’s house, that I don’t remember taking. Sitting in a mall, watching two girls open a chocolaterie, stirring vats of melted chocolate. These are the memories I have of Poitiers at 9 o’clock in the morning.


We saw a smaller Notre-Dame, L’eglise de Notre-Dame-la-Grande, with the history of the world from Adam and Even to Jesus in sculptural relief on its façade. We saw the current Palais de Justice, as well as an original wall from the first one. This is where Joan of Arc was questioned/interrogated (depending on who you ask) about her visions, and evaluated in her ability to lead the French army.


Most impressive was Le Cathédrale Saint-Pierre de Poitiers. A gigantic edifice at the base of a hill, it looms in and out of the narrow streets as you march towards it. The architecture plays tricks with you once you’re inside. The ceiling at the far end is five meters lower than it is where you enter. This makes the room seem longer than it actually is, at least when you first come in. If you walk to the front and then look back, the distance seems half of what it was before. I’m not sure whether this effect made people feel worse about coming in, or better about going out. At the very least, it’s impressively disorienting.


Lunch was a legitimate three-course meal at La Serrurerie, a place lined with knick-knacks that are more varied and more interesting than any Friday’s you’ve ever frequented, but a large window in the ceiling lets in so much light it’s impossible to feel cluttered. Even when you’re sitting with 30 Americans. (Speaking of which, you find familiar faces in unexpected places.)


First course was a scallop tartar over a cold lentil salad. I thought it was a bit conceptual: the pearly noix de St. Jaques laid over the grey lentils looked very oceanic, very sea-spray-on-rocks. I ordered a duck for the main course, but it came shredded and hidden under a mold of mashed potatoes. So what if the arrangement doesn’t make any sense? It was surrounded by a delicious and complex gravy which (of course) required seconds of bread to mop up. That’s the thing about sauces in France, no matter how rustic the dish, or how simple the idea, the sauce always has something extra to make it special and unique. Despite the mashed potatoes and gravy, you’d have to struggle to call this dish “American.” I think it was the first time in my life I couldn’t finish a tiramisu. The portion wasn’t huge, but it was rich. A generous layer of coco-powder on top almost killed me, and I had to proceed with caution thereon.

Due to the complemetary kir and two or three glasses of wine that accompanied the meal, we stumbled out of the restaurant to find the sun had come out. We wandered in groups around Poitiers, some shopping, others napping. I for one breathed in the fresh air and admired a hilltop view of the city and the Clain river.

And the day was not over.

Mon copain, Theo, visited this weekend, which meant I had an extra incentive to Do Things In Paris. On returning home, I was hungry once again, so we made reservations at Les Temps des Cerises. I had been referring to it as "that socialist place" ever since my friends and I tried to get in one night, but I meant it only in the sense that it was owned entirely by its staff. The reservations were necessary, and the tables were all but communal.

It’s a shame though, when you get flustered in France, and you can’t remember how to order a rare steak or ask what kind of meat is in a dish. It was edible, but not fantastic. And the sauces… well, they were still “unique.” This time though, it wasn’t to their benefit. My… loin?... was dry, but the sauce had too much going on to make it work. Anti-climatic, right?

Not altogether. There was a dessert: espresso poured over coffee ice cream. We agreed it was nothing short of genius.

An efficient Saturday

I went to meet friends at the Marche d’Aligre: a square that fills with vegetables and second-hand goods on the weekend. It's surrounded by a warehouse of various meats and cheeses, as well as many other mouth-watering items. Trying to find anyone was literally impossible– the place was packed, so I bought some avocados and wandered/was jostled from place to place until I ran into fellow UChicago-ers.


I was pointed in the direction of cheese, and eager to experience some decent dégustation, I headed for the largest selection. I know how to work these fromageries: I ask for something strong, and then keep on saying “plus fort” until I taste something satisfactory. Unfortunately, there seems to be a connection between “plus fort” and “plus cher,” so I have no pictures of the delicious l’estivaz I bought, having already consumed the tiny wedge that I could afford. One shouldn't go to markets with too much money on hand; without a doubt, Reason will be sacrificed by the gourmet that lurks in all of us. What is on display, is just as soon in your bag: like the bright and cheery girolle mushrooms I don't remember buying...

Appetites thoroughly inspired, we headed to the Marais to find some lunch. Following an excellent recommendation, we arrived at Le Café Musée, where us rowdy Americans were seated in the basement. There was already an older couple (from Chicago!) down there, finishing up a bottle of red wine. The restaurant was a little pricey, but we all found excellent lunches in the plat du jour and appetizers. I had the mussels… and it was one of the best seafood experiences I’ve had to date. I love mussels, but never before have they had this melt-in-your-mouth quality. Our table asked for two additional helpings of bread, just so we could sop up the saltiness that was waiting at the bottom of the (fairly deep) cast-iron pot.

Heading home, we stopped by a patisserie we had seen/smelled along the way. We had a good time asking the girls behind the counter which ones they preferred and which were filled with what. I settled on something fluffy and filled with praline cream that they described, grinning, as “méchante.” Evil.


Afterwards, tired and full and happy, there was really nothing else to do but nap for the rest of the day. C’est la bonne vie.

Bangs for your buck

Vietnamese food, apartment parties, and ‘appy ‘our.

For our friend Ethan’s birthday on Tuesday, we were treated to an extremely fulfilling bowl of phở. Off of the Tolbiac metro stop, there is a boulevard of Asian restaurants: Chinese, Thai, and Vietnamese. I was craving something spicy, since the only thing I have to burn my lips is some dry cayenne pepper in the kitchen that I’ve been putting on everything short of cereal.

We settled on a restaurant called Trésors d’Asie, and while my experience has been that restaurants boasting three cuisines means none of them are served well, this was a happy exception. If you are French-challenged, fear not the elusive mystery parts of the animal: the menu is half pictures. But I knew what I came for. And for 7,50 euros, it was more than a bargain. The phở came steaming hot, and accompanied by bean sprouts, hot peppers, spicy barbeque sauce and herbs. To my mouth-watering delight, the greens weren’t limited to coriander, but also included mint and licorice. These were not chopped up, but leafy and full, giving you a real hands-on experience in making the soup to your taste. Pouring in a teaspoon of the barbeque sauce made it sufficiently incendiary and by the end, alternating between soup slurping and mint leaf munching, my vegetarian friend Paul was tempted to try the broth. Several times.


The following night I went out with my friend, Elyssa, from high school and her roommate, Misha, who are living in the 11th arrondissement. They had extended their invitation to a soirée in the 20th to me, and I, forever looking for opportunities to improve my French-slash-not read any more about Charlemagne, promptly dressed up and boarded the metro. It was a birthday part of someone named Antoine, the first of several Antoines I was to meet that night. Elyssa and Misha’s group of French guys was well-rounded and good-looking. A tall, Lenny Kravitz imposter, a longer-haired, open-shirted, poet-like concoction, and a more collegiate, shoulder-bag wielding Mr. Darcy. The apartment was beautiful, and there was cold wine in plastic cups, the White Stripes, and lessons in French slang.

“How do you say awesome?”
“C’est…c’est de la bal.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means like, awesome, like the best: c’est d’la BAAAALL!”

Literally, “it’s some of the bullets.”

Also, “c’est un truc d’oof.” Which might be an example of verlan– a kind of slang in which words are pronounced backwards. “Un truc d’oof” is the same as “un truc de fou,” which literally means, “a thing of crazy.”

Things got sticky when I started talking to Mr. Darcy, otherwise known as Antoine no. 2. Gifted in at least four languages, he didn’t think much of my current attempt to expand my cultural horizons and started generalizing all Americans as egotistical, and having our heads up… somewhere. And although he kept insisting that he liked us, it was strange to hear such detest for American culture that, as much as we agreed with it, could not be pacified. We doled out the mandatory double kisses and left.

Apparently, it’s a necessary part of my education to go out to bars every Thursday night and speak French to a pretty art student named Léa. This week she took us to a very cute café in the 20th called Lou Pascalou, where we got croque monsieurs and two drinks for about 8 euros. Afterwards, I brought the group to the 11th to find some more nightlife. On a side street near the Bastille, we found a bar that had a terrible all-night happy hour. We staked out a table by the window, and felt very VIP as the night went on, especially as our friends were granted entrance by an increasingly strict bouncer. We theorized, gossiped and people-watched as we sipped mohitos until Thursday itself drew to a close.

Today we saw the basilica at Saint-Denis: a smaller, asymmetrical church with a crypt full of French kings. Our guide was young and amusing, but gave all the historical figures nicknames, which was strange. It’s not necessary to call St. Denis, “Dennis the Menace,” nor is it really helpful to call Suger, “Sugar.” Inside, the stained-glass windows shone with the afternoon light, reflecting colors on the walls. The stone smelled of its age. The air was cold and damp in the crypt, where much of the original earth was excavated and preserved.


Afterwards, there was a brilliant dinner in the 11th at a restaurant called La Fée Verte. A little more expensive, but for something a little more fancy. The name comes from the restaurant’s collection of absinthes, and their elaborate performance of the ritual, complete with spoon, sugar, fire, and water (distributed from something that resembled a Russian Samovar). I had rabbit served with a red wine reduction sauce and crème fraîche. The wine that was recommended for the dish was, I think, the wine in the sauce. I also took part in two delicious appetizers: a hot mess of cooked endive and chèvre, and a pasta pesto strewn liberally with some kind of unconventional mushroom. The (molten) chocolate cake that I (shouldn’t have) had was a (sinful) finish to a fantastic meal.

L'Île de la Cité

Friday, we visited that famous island in the middle of the Seine, where much of Paris's government, past and present, converges in a great politico-touristique bonanza. First was the impressive Sainte-Chappelle, a chapel from the rayonnante Gothic period. It's rose windows were added later: still Gothic, but rather flamboyante. It's beauty is only underminned by the oppressive concrete administration building surrounding it.


The ground floor, originally for the regular folk that lived in Louis IX's court, is interesting because the ceiling is very low. It is the second floor that is the most impressive, largely because of the tremendous stained class windows. They contain the Old and New Testaments à la style comic-strip. Although it's more the idea that counts, since in order to read what happens at the end, you'd need to be 15 meters tall.


Our tour guide was almost too knowledgeable; armed with an unending supply of relatively contextual tangents, facts stampeded from her mouth, trampling our minds until we drooled trivia. I drifted in and out of her heavily French-accented English, probably more so as we entered La Conciergerie. First it was part of the palace, then it was a prison, then it fed folks to the guillotine... I paid attention for the bloodiest parts, and for the rest, examined the exquisite marble.

Lunch was at the very fancy and very kitschy restaurant, Au Pied de Cochon, where all the pig paraphernalia in the world reminded you what was on the menu. Luckily, we all had steak.

Which was followed by Notre Dame. A tour of the museum-ed excavations underground and an explanation of some of the sculptures that populated the front of the Church ended up capping the amount of history we could absorb in one day. Thus dispersed, we went inside.

It was very... spacious. Larger than Sainte-Chappelle of course, but somehow not as striking. For one, it was filled with people, many who seem to have travelled to Paris just to purchase a 2 euro candle and light it here. Very crowded. Because it still functions as a Church, it takes away (a bit, I think) the feeling of being somewhere ancient, somewhere preserved. Still, it's incredible to imagine the hands that built such a huge edifice, even way back in the twelfth century. Especially the sculptures on the façade - innumerable, and with so much detail - from the saints to the demons who pester them.


Saturday was La Nuit Blanche, where Paris stays up until sunrise, but I unfortunately do not have any wild stories to tell. I went to see a friend from high school and when my phone ran out of credits, I ended up spending the night at her and her roommate's very fantastic apartment. There were several spectacles I would have liked to see (this is not one of them), but a fulfilling evening of conversation can soothe all regrets. I could whine about how the subways didn't stay open all night anyway, or how I can see museums any day, but I'd be lying to myself for sure. Besides, missing it this year gives me another excuse to come back to Paris.

Class will be easy, wine and cheesy

So said all before they knew any better. Our teachers know we’re in Paris, surely they can’t expect us to actually work here. And yet, here we are: a book a night, gallivanting through Paris’s history at a breakneck speed.

A (well-deserved) change of pace this evening, when the school gave us a legitimate wine and cheese tasting. A local wine vendor, seeking our business no doubt, came and spoke about the regions of five wines (2 blanc, 3 rouge) and paired them with five cheeses. Most impressive was the first pairing: a sauvignon blanc from Touraine with a goat cheese from the same region (Sainte-Maure de Touraine). The wine was unbelievably crisp and had a “nose” of pears and white peaches, according to our sommelier. Before we sampled the cheese, our guide spoke about the importance of pairing wines with cheeses from the same area, but the experience itself was nothing short of magical. The two fit together like the pieces of a gustatory puzzle. My tongue danced for joy.

The best wine was the last, for sure, France’s famous Saint Emilion Grand Cru, 2003: a bold and woody red that was smoother than the first two. Sipping a slightly sour five euro wine from le Fran Prix now, I reminisce fondly about the miraculous Grand Cru.

My favorite white was a honey-scented Bourgogne Chardonnay, 2005. It didn’t pair as well with the goat cheese, but it was more substantial on its own. All of the cheese was fantastic: the orange-crusted Livarot was my personal favorite, and the memorable blue, Fourme d’Ambert was a close, close second. Apparently it has been eaten in Paris since it was part of the Roman Empire. Thanks Wikipedia!