Our last full day in Paris. We all slept quite late and were slow getting out. As I was waiting for the water to boil, A woke up and climbed into my lap for her morning snuggle. "I don't want to leave," she said, "I've gotten used to it here." Indeed she had, and Z too; they strode through the subway, dodged dog poop, and chose their morning pastries like regulars. Or at least what like I imagined regulars would do. Could we really live here? Subsidized travel, lots of free or quite inexpensive entertainment, memberships to various cultural entities... there would be costs I could not anticipate, and ones such as housing that would probably be sky-high, but it was more of a possibility than San Francisco or New York. Of course, all would depend on our income; somehow, it always does.
The first order of business was to get a couple of postcards mailed that the kids had made as therapy for the partner of an old grad-school friend of ours, someone none of us had met. The kids wanted to go to the shop on place d'Italie where the woman behind the counter had been particularly friendly, but I convinced them that it was getting late and we were going to have a good lunch, and they could have pastries later in the afternoon if they wished.
Line 5 all the way to Laumiere, two stops before La Villette, and up the wide, tree-lined Avenue de Laumiere, in the sunlight, to the northern border of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont. I had thought N and I had visited this park in 92, but it was completely unfamiliar; perhaps I was thinking of Parc Guell in Barcelona.
At any rate, the park was clearly constructed out of some sort of quarry, and the mountain which rose in the middle was clearly concrete, and the ruined temple on its top clearly fake. But the kids didn't mind; they liked climbing through the concrete "grotto" to the top. The high ridge to the south, with the usual apartment buildings along bordering streets, pretty well hid most of the city; the only recognizable landmark was Sacre-Coeur to the northwest.
We had promised the kids a playground, but the topography seemed too extreme to permit one, and all we could find were sunbathers. We finally found a small one, which the kids quickly exhausted -- a good thing, too, as it was eleven-thirty and we had a noon reservation.
We walked along the south rim of the park and along rue de General Brunet to Place de Rhin et Danube. The street was lined with "villas", narrow perpendicular lanes with two-story row houses along either side. Again, it had the feel of a smaller village rather than the grand city of Paris.
Retracing our steps along the main street, we arrived at Le Restaurant d'Eric Frechon. This was to be our blowout meal, a 200F menu. The dining room was not as elegant as L'Oulette, but the servers had similar manners, that sort of artificial coolness which I found quite affected (though, given the choice between that and "Hi, my name is Candi, and I'll be your server tonight," I don't honestly know what I'd prefer). We were seated at a table by the window, shuttered against the sun, and away from the other early diners, who were mostly but not exclusively businessmen.
The menu and the wine list were on vertical stands on our table, and they swiveled so that everyone could consult them. After we had ordered (the server offered a "plat special" for the kids, but N said it wouldn't be necessary, they would share a menu), a small dish of rillettes de canard was brought to the table, quite excellently seasoned, and A pronounced it her favourite to date. But the server reappeared and took away our plates while N and Z were in the bathroom and A was still partway through her last slice of bread; she had to hold her food in the air to finish it.
Bad sign, I thought, but hoped that the kids' good behaviour would win us some points. Both N and the kids had croustillant de langoustines (crayfish in a filo twist), with sauce basilic (ie pesto), shavings of Reggiano, and roquette (arugula). I had, paying a supplement, a small portion of fois gras d'oie served with braised arugula and a cooked fig. The reduction was stunning; I couldn't tell what was in it, but there was a star anise and a cinnamon stick (no, I said to the kids, you cannot gnaw on it) on the plate. There were no half-bottles on the wine list, so I ordered a full bottle of Saumur-Champigny, which arrived suitably cool, and was quite a nice accompaniment.
The kids polished off everything on their plate but the arugula, which we ate, and when the server reappeared to provide our cutlery for the main course, Z chirped, "Why am I getting a fish knife? Oh, yeah, we're having fish!" The waiter grinned broadly; another fount of Gallic reserve shattered by Z's charm.
The kids had filet de Saint-Pierre (which I'd bought and cooked in Venice) accompanied by sauteed snow peas and girolles (chanterelle mushrooms) -- all of their courses were split onto two plates in the kitchen. N had roast cod with a millefeuille of brandade de morue (salt cod and potato puree); and I had, at the waiter's recommendation, thon mi-cuit (half-cooked tuna). It arrived with a topping of chopped fresh tomatoes, olives, and capers, which I recognized as an Adriatic preparation; very nice, but also something I had made at home.
For dessert the kids chose, once again, cherries cooked in red wine and spices. When the server brought theirs he said, "Pour les petites gourmandes". N had a financier with raspberries and rhubarb cooked into it, and I had a peach poached in white wine. All three came with intense vanilla ice cream, with lots of little specks of bean.
It was a very nice meal. I could detect only two other tourists, an Asian couple; there were a few parties of elderly women and a few mixed tables. The place was about three-quarters full when we left. It was not twice as good as Astier; still, 200F is less than thirty-three US dollars; we would find it difficult to dine in that style for that much, tax and tip included, in San Francisco or Berkeley.
From the sleepy corner of the 19e, it was time to experience the harsh city, just to make leaving it a little less painful. We walked north through what seemed to be a Jewish enclave (men with yarmulkes on the streets, and a kosher Chinese restaurant) to the Ourcq metro stop, and took line 5 back as far as Gare du Nord. There we changed to the RER to go one stop -- hardly worth it undre normal circumstances, but this was the new Magenta station, one of two stations in the centre of Paris on the new RER E or "Eole" line, opened just a few days previous.
We descended along wide escalators through open spaces to the platform, lit by lights with curved orange triangular shades. The new train came, a double-decker, clean and sleek, and we sped through the tunnel to the Haussman-St-Lazare stop.
Up onto the street and into tourist hell. We wanted to walk the kids through the Printemps department store, briefly, and under the Art Deco glass dome of the Galerie Lafayette. Not so simple; the stores are mazes, the separate buildings connecting only on certain floors. Arju wrinkled her nose at the perfume section. The stores were quite crowded, and not just with tourists, though there were many wandering around, toting purchases. Eventually we found the dome, and then wandered for a bit through the food hall, more upscale and extensive than Au Bon Marche.
The kids started reminding me of their pastry promise. There was one address nearby I knew. So we fought our way out of the store, walked down by the old Opera (the streets nearby crammed with tour buses, presumably bringing people shopping), over to the Madeleine (the kids snapping pictures with their disposable cameras on the way), and down rue Royale to Laduree.
I have always felt that much of the appeal of this place lies in its posh atmosphere, which was lost on me, but there was no denying that the four macarons we ordered to go (cafe for N and I, pistache for Z, citron for A, 18F each) were exceptional, perfect in texture and with intense, forward flavours.
We were not done with our tour of the ugly parts of the city; down to place de la Concorde and line 1 all the way west to La Defense. We came out right in front of La Grande Arche, in full sun. I suggested that the kids and N wait on the steps of the massive building while I went to the supermarket in the nearby underground Quatre Temps shopping centre.
I thought it would be a quick trip, but I got lost trying to find the place, darting around and across endless streams of people (where did they all come from, and where are they going?) and when I did, it was huge and crammed with shoppers. It took me several minutes to find a carton of juice, and several more to find the checkouts and locate one that was not too busy. Fortunately, the nearest escalator up to the surface came out just to the right of La Grande Arche.
We gave the kids a bit of time at the nearby FNAC bookstore, and then it was time to head back, on a crowded train on line 1. But I got off at Charles de Gaulle - Etoile for my last trip to Alleosse.
Rue Poncelet was crowded with local shoppers, and produce sellers cried out their specials in distinctive voices, trying to catch attention. The cheese store had its usual line of three or four people continuously waiting in the narrow shop; I studied the window display and then went in and ordered, telling them that I was taking the cheeses home. Half a Brindamour, a Crottin de Chauvignol from Berry, Salers vieux, a Langres, a Camembert, and a small piece of Brie de Melun -- this last one they suggested I not transport, as it was a bit runny. I thought for a moment that I was in the Monty Python "cheese shop" sketch, but when I agreed to eat it the same day, they gave me some. They packed it in a nice carrying box, which regrettably we had to leave behind.
Back down to CDG-Etoile and on a crowded, old-style line 1 train, all the way across town to Bastille, then line 5 to home. The kids were playing happily, and N was busy packing. She had bought a considerable number of books, and it took some work to get them packed so that the luggage would be balanced. Our large carry-on became a checked piece, and we detached the small red daypack from the large red travel pack to serve as a second carryon. In addition, we had the huge Turgot map of Paris, and a bag of food and water for our lunch the next day and for the plane.
Dinner was leftovers, so to speak; fresh baguettes from Paul, but spread with rillettes, Brie de Melun, and whatever else we needed to finish off in the fridge. More Vin de Pays. It all tasted fine.
We had one more thing to offer the kids, and we got them to walk with us down the rue de Butte-aux-Cailles. There was a small creperie there; we thought we'd get them dessert crepes to go. But the young chef was busy with dinner orders; wedged in the narrow doorway, I held first one kid and then another up to watch her work, spreading the batter thin with a wooden guide, and then filling and folding the crepe with two long thin metal spatulas.
Eventually, they got their crepes (chocolate for Z, strawberry jam for A) and ate them as we walked down the street. The restaurants were all full of Parisians, with tables out on the sidewalk. We seemed to be the only outsiders, and we were neither ignored nor resented, simply accepted as another family out for an evening stroll (though it was past ten by this time).
The kids fell asleep quickly, and N and I relaxed briefly over the last of the Sauternes before turning in. We agreed that we had barely scratched the surface of the city. In Venice, a year ago, we felt we had done a pretty good job of covering the city in two weeks, and while we were not desperate to go home, it didn't seem such a hardship to leave. This time, though, we were not ready to go. There was still too much to enjoy.