LETTER FROM PARIS #2

I am not the only one who rushes to newspaper columns about food in faraway places. Sometimes it is simply to confirm that you are really a great “foodie” and consistently make all the right choices. The most boring person is the one at a dinner party who thinks he is the life of that party because he has eaten in all the best places.

Among the common misconceptions about Paris: it is virtually impossible to get a bad meal, and prices are always high.there even though prices are always high. In fact, a recent issue of the Life section in the Globe and Mail had all the Francophiles drooling. There were three columns about how to enjoy Paris, from an apartment so you would be "living" there instead of a mere gaping tourist priced in the 2500 aeuro a week range, and chickens you can buy for something like 25 Euro. This will not appear in my blog. I am enough of an inverted snob to avoid expensive for the sake of being different. The difference really for me is that I am not looking to be chic. I am not trying to “discover” a new celebrity chef for whom two Michelin stars is inevitable just as inevitably his prices will corrode you bank account..

Today is our first day in Paris, Rachel is wide-eye but still too shy to say much in French. Her grandfather is chattering away, especially because about eighty percent of the flight got on in Quebec City and, at least those I met, spoke only French. It was like a feast for me. I trotted it all out and actually understood about half of what was said in response to my deceivingly good, almost accent-free French. (It’s all a case of being good mimic.)

Before I get to the food, I have to salute all home exchangers, at least the ones we know. The three of us tired and hsppy, were at the airport by Henri and Michele. There were too many of us, plus luggage, to fit into Henri’s car. My wife and Michele took a cab with most of the luggage. My granddaughter Rachel and I rode with Henri. I chattered excitedly in French. I sometimes get the feeling that I have so little time left before I become incompetent, that I have to cram it all in,

Rache is blown away by being in Paris; just the thought of it is enough to make her tremble. I ask her if she is feeling cold. “No Papa, I always shiver a little.” She is not very forthcoming but I don’t have to ask. Her wide-eyes tell it all.

Tired as we were, she deserved an introduction to Paris. It is about a 15 minute walk to the Arc de Triomphe. It is a fitting introduction, If you were dropped from Mars to one place in Paris that would all at once define grandeur, pomp, history, and more than a little French hubris – it would be the Arc. Rachel doesn’t tend to be effusive, but she has other ways. Aside from her shivering, which implies either cold or excitement, she shows very little. Maybe she’s 13 and it’s cool to be cool. She took several pictures which her school has asked for. And she was startled to see that it was so big. Seeing it through her eyes I realized for the first time, how grand it really is. There is boarding up in places. They seem to be doing things to the high relief sculpture that embellishes a lot of what is so very French in Paris. At the head of the Champs Elysees there were fewer of the usual midsummer tourists, but there were; plenty of women (forgive the racist tone) - who were tzigane or Romany. A photographer, who had tried to get me to pose for a picture (these guys can spot a tourist a mile away), warned me. But we all know that tourists are vuknerable, whether it is Barcelona, where we have already been robbed, or in Toronto where I hear places like Yorkville are full of pickpockets.

We trudged back for lunch courtesy of Michele and Henri. This is the kind of thing that makes Pasris for me. Not Maxim’s or celebrity chefs like Alain du Casse, or Joel Rubichon to name drop two. You may have found that because Paris also has some very mediocre restaurants, that there are surprises. Just behind the Immeuble in a quiet street is a little brasserie that is only open for lunch. Shirley and Rachel had Capelletti (sorry about the spelling) scrumptious little meaty circles in a tomato herb sauce and a lot of grated cheese. The rest of us had had quiche, which was not outstanding but it was simply damn good – the eggs not rubbery the lardoons teased into the mixture. Their pastries were more than adequate, tarte au pomme, chocolate cake, and an interesting kind of gateau aux pommes.
The place won’t be rated by Michelin and it won’t make it into next week’s food column in the New York Times. It is not especially chic but it is very warm and welcoming. The hostess had only two small bottles of Pelfort left. Alas. I was thirsty and the French brew a very good biere brun.

Just a few minutes ago Rachel and I came back from a visit to the boulangerie that Henri insists is the best in Paris. They have refrigerated showcases with salads and quiches to go. We’ll eat in for 20 Euro.

Finally, I understand that the café at the corner, at the end of the driveway to the apartment, is as close as the area comes to a “local.” I will adventure there and try to impose myself on a few willing Frenchmen.

Tomorrow we do, mostly for Rachel, a two day hop-on-hop-off tour. In my inadequate French I said “monter et demonter.” Henri didn’t laugh. He said it’s “monter et descendre.”
Demonter is what you do to a car engine that makes it end up in pieces.