LETTER FROM PARIS #13

Sunday in The Park with Shirley – with apologies to Steven Sondheim.

I can’t hope in just three months to educe from Paris what Adam Gopnik did\in 5 years writing for the New Yorker.

Today at Parc Monceau, and it really could be the most beautiful park in Paris, I remembered Gopnik’s hilarious article about the French and physical fitness. He wrote that he went to a health club to work out. He asked for a towel. They were aghast! They didn’t do towels. Gopnik went on about how the French do not, evidently, perspire. He made a few facetious conclusions about their dedication to fitness.

Adam should have been sitting with Shirley and me today. We do a lot of resting. Seated on a bench we watched “les joggers” stream by, each displaying a different level of perspiration through T-shirts and sweatshirts. I would be very surprised if somewhere there was not a towel waiting.

The park: trees everywhere. Chestnuts in blossom. The usual with the white flowers, the others with a flower as bright as an azalea. Is it a chestnut? The flower has the same shape.

There are relics of ancient times. There is a pond with the weeping g willow and surrounding neo-classical pillars. But somehow it doesn’t look contrived. It is exactly right. I am taking pictures constantly. The foliage, the grassy swards, and the houses, It must be the high rent district. The houses surrounding the park are mansions, perhaps divided into apartment now.

The French have a way of keeping the grass green. It seems that they rotate the areas, leaving some open for picnickers, and others fenced off, then I suppose, opening the fenced areas and fencing the open areas. The grass is very green, very lush.

Two young girls come by, and in English, ask if we want a shot of the two of us. Of course. They’re from North Carolina so we stop and chat about our friend in Charlotte (where she lives) and our cousin in Asheville. We tell them about home exchange. Like most people – they are intrigued.


Shirley, still trudging along with her cane, endures a walk of a little more than a block. We stop at the first restaurant we see: Café de Dumas. We get the surprise of our lives – the food is wonderful. While I’m on the subject: the French, who are nearly all slim, stay that way, they say, because restaurant portions are modest. That’s part of the tradition. Has it changed? Have they joined America (and Canada) in “more is better?” So far we have had some very large, un-French portions. (I look around and it is not because we are tourists. French speakers are getting the same.) First on Rue Mouffetard, we had salads Nicoise that were almost larger than the table. Rachel and I stopped on the sidewalk across from the Church of The Trinity and had more of the same. It was so huge she took a picture! Already told I think - Relais de Venise served second helpings of steak frites. Today was no different. Shirley had a monstrous club sandwich. I had a Greek salad which must have had twenty olives, at least fifteen cubes of feta, three different kinds of lettuce, plus the usual bell peppers, capers, and red onions. Both were good, but the best was yet to come. Shirley had a chocolate fondant and dipped each incredible mouthful in a little ramekin of smooth, rich custard. Mine was a Carpaccio Ananas with a coulis of red fruits. The pineapple was sluiced paper thin and scattered on top were scrumptious currants. It was accompanied by a scoop of sinful coconut ice cream. We are still marveling.

It is not unusual to stumble on something that exceeds expectations. The place does not have any Michelin stars, and is unpretentious, on a corner at 34 Avenue de Villiers not far from Parc Monceau. It was family time. Everyone was French, including two little boys sitting with a very patient mother and occasionally in their excitement, kicking the back of my chair.

The whole thing, finished with a double espresso and a café grand came to just over 60 Euros. A little steep when all we were thinking about was lunch. But for taste, service, and presentation, worth every sou.