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.
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