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Saturday, July 10, 1999

We slept relatively late, having not planned to be anywhere before lunch. Since we were planning to walk north, I asked everyone else to meet me near the Gobelins metro stop, and walked down to Le Grenier a Pain (getting money from a cash machine along the way) for the last time, as they were closing that day for their vacation. Then I took the metro from Tolbiac two stops north, walked down a side street, and found them by the Chateau de la Reine Blanche, a forgotten mock castle now apparently no longer forgotten, as it was under renovation, a fact announced loudly on the hoardings.

We started up rue des Gobelins, munching on the pastries. It's a fairly normal major street as it crosses into the 5th arrondissement, until it fractures just before the Eglise St-Medard into a number of smaller streets, one of which is the market street Rue Mouffetard.

To my surprise, this market was not significantly better than the itinerant one on rue Auguste-Blanqui right by our apartment, and rather more touristy. In fact, the street seemed to be heading the way of Rue de la Huchette just near Place St-Michel, with many Greek restaurants, and multilingual signs.

A clownishly-dressed man offered the kids flowers as we walked up, and I gave him a couple of francs, having watched his antics while N was buying apricots and being convinced he was not being aggressive. This was the best cheap entertainment of the trip, for the kids played with them for a couple of hours, until they managed to leave them at lunch.

We left Mouffetard about the same time the market petered out, and cut across on rue Ortolan to place Monge, then up rue Monge a block to the baker S. Hervet, reputedly the best pain au levain in the area. It was a short distance from this intersection to the Arenes de Lutece, the remains of the Roman arena, looking rather over-restored. We had seen posters around town for a performance of Les Miserables (a dramatic version, not the megamusical) at this site, and imagined that it would be quite a stunning setting, but the stage took up only a small fraction of the centre, and there were rows of bleachers used rather than the benches of the arena.

We continued down the hill on rue du Cardinal Lemoine and attempted to buy kugelhopf at Patisserie Andre Lerch, but they were out - tomorrow, they said, though we never made it back. We also struck out at Nathan, the pedagogical toy store a little way down Boulevard Saint-Germain; our kids seemed past the age when most of the stuff would have been useful, and the store was so stiflingly hot that it quickly drove us back onto the street.

Straight up and across the Pont de l'Archeveche to the gardens at the back of Notre-Dame, where we stopped to drink some water (K was the one who carried the 1.5 litre bottle around in his shoulder bag). Having seen the crowds milling around the Parvis in front of Notre-Dame, the children were easily convinced to come another day, as early as possible.

Instead, we continued north, past the Hotel de Ville, and into the pedestrian section south of the Beaubourg. It was quite warm in the sun, and we tried to stay in the shade as much as possible. Our destination was the restaurant Ambassade d'Auvergne, further north on rue du Grenier St-Lazare.

This was an old-fashioned restaurant, with a dark overdecorated interior featuring Auvergnat motifs. We ordered three menus at 179F. Terrine de legumes and salade de lentilles de Puy to start. The salade, tiny green lentils in a rich vinaigrette, came in a bowl left at the table, and was enough for a main course for N and I. A took a fancy to it and had some as well. , Everyone had saucisse d'Auvergne and aligot (mashed potatoes with fresh cheese and garlic) for a main course (one extra for the kids); the server brought the saucepan to the table and theatrically pulled the stringy cheese a metre out of the pot a few times. It was fabulous; I got to eat most of Z's portion, as she has a considerable aversion to mashed potatoes due to industrial versions served at her daycares. We washed it all down with a bottle of Chaturgues, a very nice Pinot Noir from the Auvergne.

Dessert was a fresh strawberry and rhubarb soup with mint, apricot and raspberry sorbet, and mousse aux chocolat. The server, after chiding Z for not cleaning her plate, brought extra dishes for the kids, and left the huge bowl of chocolate mousse on the table. Z did her best.

After that, walking out into the afternoon heat was rather fatal, and our plan to visit the Musee d'Art Moderne quickly evaporated. We meandered into the Marais and to the same playground the kids had used after the Musee Picasso, where they once again climbed and slid while we vegetated in the shade. As always, the parks seemed well-patrolled; someone was actually checking the equipment for safety.

We continued on to boulevard Beaumarchais and down to the Bastille metro stop, where we took line 5 to Gare d'Austerlitz, changed to the RER, and zipped around the curve of the Seine to Javel, just north of the Parc Andre Citroen.

This was a bit of a disappointment; the touted conceptual gardens seemed a bit run down, and though the large greenspace was buzzing with people, it seemed to be in spite of the design rather than because of it. The kids enjoyed hearing what appeared to be a drum workshop, where a couple of dozen men and women pounded through preset routines. As part of millenium celebrations, there was a huge balloon moored in the greenspace, with a gondola that could take about a dozen people 200 metres up for a cost of 60F, but high winds had grounded it (not that we were interested).

We walked through the park and out the south corner to the metro stop Balard, then took line 8 north to La Motte-Piquet. Here we parted ways; the others took line 6 all the way back across town to the hotel, and I took it in the other direction, up to Charles-de-Gaulle Etoile. From there, it was a quick walk north to the Poncelet market and Alleosse, where I bought a few cheeses for our supper, and a Langres and Camembert for K to take back home, thereby endangering his health and that of his entire nation by smuggling in raw-milk cheeses aged less than sixty days.

Wine at Nicolas and back down to the Etoile, but I couldn't face taking the humid line 6 all the way back. So I caught the RER east to Gare de Lyon, walked down across the Seine to Gare d'Austerlitz, and took line 5 home. It probably took about as much time, but was a bit more pleasant.

Dinner was Hervet sourdough bread and Alleosse cheese: a small Rocamadour at N's request, which was a young, creamy, piquant goat cheese; a Beaufort d'Alpage, deep yellow and intensely milky; and a Briquette de Brebis, a flat rectangle of sheep's milk cheese with a white rind and soft interior. We had a Cotes du Rhone rose, chilled hastily in the fridge; it was more assertive than the Corbieres we had had previously, and I think K disapproved, though he was too polite to say so.

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