Killing Time 'Til the Next Escargot - Paris Our Way

'To err is human. To loaf is Parisian.' - Victor Hugo

So this was the Blonde’s weekend – I was at her bidding. There would be no tantrums or sulks on my part; there would be no museums, galleries or wandering round crusty old stuff. We would eat well, as is clearly illustrated in this journal, but after that…well, we would just wander. Cities like Paris can cope with this sort of plan; its native elegance, the surfeit of dramatic architecture, the central thread that is the Seine binding it all together, it is a wanderer’s dream. Since the Tomato arrived we haven’t really had the luxury to do just that and we were looking forward to the aimlessness of it all, combined with the odd linger over a glace or browse of a rive gauche book stall.

The weather played ball; spring arrived and positively demanded that we make like the Parisians who had burst onto the pavements in their understated elegance. Parisians dress down for the weekend in outfits I would consider perfectly appropriate for job interviews. I’m not sure whether that says more about them or me but the Blonde has certainly been looking slightly more disdainful of my wardrobe since. I can’t help it; me and ‘pressed’ just don’t mix.

So this is not a journal about Victor Hugo or museums although the famous author would understand our approach. We saw the d’Orsay and the Louvre but stayed firmly outside. You won’t read about the multifarious architectural delights of Notre Dame, St. Sulpice or Saint-Chapelle here either. We came, we saw, we looked for a nearby café to satisfy the caffeine cravings. This is a journal to supplement your more traditional tour itinerary – for lunch, for dinner and for just soaking it all in.

So - to complete the quote from the summary and try and encapsulate our approach to Paris:

Everything ends this way in France - everything. Weddings, christenings, duels, burials, swindlings, diplomatic affairs -everything is a pretext for a good dinner. - Jean Anouilh

Quick Tips:

We arrived in Paris of a mind; from the moment we landed at Charles de Gaulle I had but one image occupying my thoughts. Well, maybe two. I could see that the same visions tortured The Blonde too. The trifling annoyances of getting to the hotel and checked in would hold us back from realising our desires for just a little while. We were on French soil now – the national imperative to eat well had to be obeyed.

We needed steakfrites and we needed it now. Well, maybe not straight away – you can bring us some snails first.

I don’t think I’d had a snail before I met The Blonde. I have a rose-tinted memory of my first escargot experience; a warm night on a patio in Beaune; the heart of Bourgogne, home of some of the finest snail specimens. It was an epiphany (I’m somewhat prone to those in France) and I’ve never looked back. I haven’t quite reached The Blonde’s dedication to the gastropod-consuming cause (perversely, I occasionally consider other entrées) but I am a changed man. Happiness is a warm, garlic-drenched snail.

So look for a menu that includes escargots - they taste of the garlic butter they’re drenched in and, if served in their shells, you get to play with some fancy specialised cutlery which must always be regarded as a plus.

In addition to the restaurants described here I would warmly suggest, nay insist, that you make time to walk the streets of Paris. I have described the routes we took but half the fun is plotting your own route through this magnificent city. Following the Seine would take you past sight after stunning sight while carving a route north-south route might take in the bohemian, dramatic, opulent, and chic in quick succession.

Make the city your own.

Best Way To Get Around:

We flew in to Charles de Gaulle on a Friday evening and took the courtesy bus to the RER station which runs services into the Gare du Nord. Be warned, there are two train stations served; you don’t want the SNCF train station which will take you just about anywhere in France except Paris. You want Roissypôle which has frequent services to the Gare du Nord. Check the board at the station; there are some direct trains that take 30 minutes while others will give you a more leisurely introduction to the stations serving the banlieus (suburbs) of northern Paris. These take twice as long – and the banlieus aren’t so pretty.

For the moments when walking loses its appeal, or the need to consume steak overtakes you, then the Métro is there to take the pain away. There are 14 intersecting colour-coded lines and, while some station names will give you some clue as to where you are heading, a map that combines the Métro and the streets above is a useful addition for your pocket (this one would be cool) – the alternative is a complex exercise in cross-referencing and guesswork.

As this was a birthday treat for the Blonde, a laissez faire attitude to booking the hotel was not an option. I erred on the side of caution and plumped for a personal recommendation; good friends of ours (the sort with impeccable taste – old friends of the Blonde as you might expect) spoke very highly of the Hotel Langlois and, while it cost a little more than seemingly comparable places, there is a time and a place for 'making do' and taking a chance - and celebratory weekends are not it.

Situated within a minute or two of the Place de la Trinité (Trinité Métro), the Langlois is housed in one of those elegant 19th century terraces that line many of Baron Haussmann’s boulevards. The location is great; it falls in the 9th arrondissement with the shops and restaurants of the grand Opéra district a few minutes walk south and the bohemian eclecticism of Montmartre 20 minutes (and several steep flights of stairs) to the north.

The hotel is spread over six floors with the ground floor given over to a guest lounge/breakfast room and the lobby. At our friend’s suggestion (more of an order really), we had requested room 62; one of two rooms on the street side of the top floor. After a reassuringly smooth and friendly check-in in we squeezed into the tiny grilled elevator that was squeezed into the stairwell and made the shaky ascent - and when I say ‘tiny’ I mean it would be best to only share with those you know, or want to know, intimately.

Having stayed in Parisian hotels before I was not expecting the amount of space that greeted us when we opened the room door. A wide double bed, tiled fireplace and imposing walnut wardrobes gave it an air of tired grandeur. There was room left over for a TV, small bistro table and chairs in the window, and an armchair. In contrast the bathroom was petite but perfectly adequate with a powerful shower over the bath. Clean, spacious, and comfortable; all my fears were allayed. The Blonde had a smile on her face and that was before we discovered a major perk of being up on the top floor.

We had a view, and not just of the elegant apartments opposite or a fire escape, a proper view. Looking left down the rue Saint-Lazare we could see the striking bell tower of Trinité while, shining brightly straight ahead of us, was the magnificent Sacre Coeur in its imposing position on the butte of Montmartre. I spent many a happy moment hanging out of the window, just gazing. It’s that kind of view.

Suffice it to say we were very comfortable in the Langlois and would heartily recommend it for location, space and comfort. Having taken against hotel breakfasts some time back, I can’t comment on their provision but there are plenty of places nearby that are much cheaper.

www.hotel-langlois.com 

So there we are, on the Paris Métro, heading for St. Germain. The Blonde muses over the well-thumbed guidebook that I’d given her as part of her ‘Paris Birthday Pack’ and casually glances through the entries that are near Odéon, our destination.

‘This one sounds OK’ she says, holding out the guide for me to read the one line entry.

‘Excellent, let’s go there’

And so we stumbled across the oldest café in Paris. Anyone who has pretensions to being a ‘foodie’ worth their salt would know that ‘Le Procope’ was steeped in history and have it high on their list of worthy Paris dining choices; they would know that Voltaire and his Enlightened companions had debated the evening away in its sumptuous salons, that Marat had fomented and plotted revolution amidst its elegant tables and Napoleon, as an underpaid junior officer, had left his hat here, in lieu of paying for his lunch. We knew none of this which is, somehow, far cooler.

Spread over at least three floors and numerous interlinked rooms, Le Procope is laden with character and period features. Floor-to ceiling windows pour light into the elegant salons - everything glitters except the waiters dressed in black, busily putting paid to the ‘rude’ stereotype as they glide from room to room.

The dishes on offer are as traditional as the surroundings with the cheapest set lunch menu, at €26 a head for two courses (choose either a starter or dessert to accompany your entrée) offering all the we might desire. The Blonde opted for her second consecutive plate of escargots, the delicious little devils being served in their shells while I went for soupe a l’oignon. The fact that I had eventually had to take a knife to the cheese-coated crouton that sealed the dish might give you an indication of the dish’s substantive nature.

A selection of wines were available by the carafe – good value at €8.50 for half a litre which is, of course, a very sensible amount of wine to share at lunchtime. Lacking such sense we had two. After a full and detailed inspection I can vouch for the Côte du Rhêne.

For the main course the Blonde went for Trout in a butter and herb sauce accompanied by seemingly simple boiled potatoes that she raved over – the fish itself proved to be a little too oily. I had a variant of boeuf bourguignon, served with fresh tagliatelle. The meat was tender and perfectly balanced – Le Procope prides itself on slow-cooked dishes that preserve flavours to the full.

The rarely straight-talking Voltaire once said of Le Procope ‘wit alone could substitute for an invitation’ which, seeing as the restaurant love to quote this in their publicity, I take to be a compliment. There is something of the formal ‘frozen-in-time’ living history about the dining experience which makes a visit something of an event. It may not appeal to everybody but the food’s great and, well, when in Paris...

We knew La Taverne was a successful choice from the moment we walked through the door. The decor of the large, multi-levelled dining room reflects the Alsatian orientation of the menu (that is, many of the dishes are native to Alsace rather than being made from large angry dogs). From the ceiling hang auberge signs displaying the region’s Germanic past with flugelhorn motifs and hunting trophies suggestive of a country tavern. Polished clocks are everywhere, as are chandeliers. The result could easily have been a confusing mess but is, in reality, quite theatrical and fun. It just makes you smile.

La Taverne worked some sort of magic on us. We may have been primed for a good time anyway; a day together sans fils is a rarity and, however delightful the little blighter is, a revitalising pleasure. The Blonde and I, grinning like buffoons, were seated at an intimate table amongst other diners who seemed equally pleased to be there. Our collective feeling of well being infected all that approached. On another day in another place these tables would have been too close and their occupants too intrusive, particularly when the nearest neighbour ordered a seafood platter that cast an eclipse-like shadow over us. But not that night – that night it was how bistros were supposed to be and we were part of this cultured Parisian scene.

We ordered aperitifs while perusing the extensive menu. Amidst all the bistro staples (steak, duck, and seafood platters of various gargantuan sizes) were the dishes typical of Alsace and the Alpine region. The Blonde quickly settled on Magret Canard for her main course while I wrangled over which protein laden speciality would serve. I was tempted by the skewers of assorted meats – brochettes - served hanging over your plate (I’m strangely drawn to dishes that require special apparatus) but, after much internal debate, opted for one of the four choucroute dishes on offer; the Strasbourgoise.

We both ordered chevre chaud for starters, cooked in artistically fanned filo parcels. They were delightful although I did miss the almost ritualistic swapping-of-plates ceremony that usually accompanies our meals. Equally fabulous were the main courses. The Blonde’s duck elegantly slid off the bone the moment she waved a knife in its direction and it was pronounced delicieux. My choucroute was equally well appreciated. Better known by its German name sauerkraut, the pickled cabbage is a surprisingly tasty accompaniment and, adorned with three different sausages and other pork cuts, the whole is robust and fortifying, leaving you all set to march up a mountain or, alternatively, collapse in bed.

With a litre of perfectly good Côte du Rhône to wash it down, €79 was a small price to pay for such a wonderful evening. Still beaming, we rolled out into the night in search of a bar where we could drink too much and tell each other how clever we were for picking La Taverne.

By way of my extensive preparation for the weekend (ahem), I had made a speculative click or two on t’interweb thingy and found a bistro close to our hotel that came with a recommendation or two. The suggestion that we go for Le Bistro des Deux Théâtres was met with the appropriate level of appreciation for my foresight, rapidly qualified with ‘as long as it has snails…and steak’.

Fear of failing my beloved tainted the short stroll to the restaurant - I could have picked the only bistro in Paris that had thrown centuries of convention out of the window - but the tension disappeared with one glance at the menu posted outside - escargots and bifteck were present and correct. My smugness took a brief nosedive when we walked in to find the place virtually full. Luckily, the courteous hosts revealed a postage stamp-sized table just behind the door and we were safe.

The restaurant forms the acute corner of a junction on the rue Blanche with the front door on the apex. The interior leans heavily towards the theatrical ‘boudoir’ school of interior design, not uncommon in Parisian bistros. Heavy velvet curtains in deep red, very low lighting and maximum use of dark wood combine to give a slightly claustrophobic feeling not unlike being inside a seedy bordello. I imagine.

The menu at des Deux Théâtres sticks fairly closely to the French bistro template. The prix fixe selection is slightly wider than most with five or six entrées and a similar number of mains and desserts to choose from. The evening price for three courses comes in at €34 which, given that an aperitif, a bottle of wine per two diners and coffees are thrown in gratuitement, is a steal.

We paid scant regard to the choices available other than to select a plate of foie gras as an alternative starter before setting about the serious business of relaxing into the weekend, a process that was ably assisted by the rapid arrival our selected bottle of George Leboeuf Cote du Rhone. The escargot (12 of the little darlings) and fois gras came in due course and were duly dispatched with lots of ‘mmmm’ noises and our best food-savouring faces. The steaks, á point as requested, followed although they were met with slightly fewer ‘mmm’s of appreciation. The steaks themselves were excellent but the accompaniment of a handful of chunky, English-style chips was unexpected and, well, just plain wrong. This meal had lived in our imaginations for several days and that picture featured thin, crispy frites, not these fleshy monsters. This was not the occasion for surprises.

I sought solace in the usual fashion - with a crème brûlé that cheered me up in that sugar-coated way I’ve come to know and love. We left after the coffees, sated and satisfied that our weekend had got off to the desired start.

Given the view we had from our hotel room window, there was never any doubt over our first destination on Saturday morning. The Blonde wanted to breakfast somewhere vibrant and colourful so we took a turn north off the rue Saint-Lazare and began the initially gentle ascent towards the artist enclave and village-in-the-city that is Montmartre.

The walk took us through the mildly sleazy entertainment district around the Boulevard de Clichy and Place Pigalle, home of the renowned Moulin Rouge. Before ten in the morning feather boas, louche artists, and scantily clad cancan dancers are a bit thin on the ground, mores the pity, and we made it to the first of the steep flights of steps that are the most direct pedestrian route to the summit of the butte without any distractions or absinthe.

Our route took us towards the Place des Abbesses where one begins to notice the change in architecture and character. The grand Boulevards with their ornate terraces gradually give way to simpler buildings and less uniformity giving the district an organic, accidental feel. The Place des Abbesses is worth a linger, assuming you aren’t quite as hungry and driven as we were at that moment. Abbesses Méro station has one of the finest examples of the art deco entrances that litter the city; it is also about as close as you can get to Montmartre using the city’s underground network (ligne 12 – dark green). On the northern edge of the Place there is a charming urban park that looks to be a welcoming place to linger. One of the walls bordering the space has been given over to a huge mural, decorated with the phrase ‘I love you’ in numerous languages.

A further thigh-straining street and staircase or two and we emerged in the beating heart of Montmartre that is the Place du Tertre. If you’ve ever been to Montmartre (and even if you haven’t) you will instantly recall this cobbled square; it’s the one jammed to the gills with easels and goatee beards. It’s the one where you get asked to sit for a portrait every ten paces. It’s the one where, on the first Saturday in spring from now ‘til forever, I intend to breakfast at Chez la Mère Catherine, soaking in the sun while sipping fine coffee and munching on a jam-smothered fresh baguette. Apparently once a favourite of Russian Cossacks, it is their impatient shouts of ‘bistro’ (meaning ‘quick’) that gave this type of restaurant its name. Service has picked up (I imagine having Cossacks shout at you might encourage a certain snappiness of heel) although the restaurateurs don’t have much control over slightly odd itinerant poets wandering over and composing appalling verse. I can’t argue with the fellow’s choice of subject; the Blonde’s beauty is worthy of a emotive stanza or two but his obsessive use of the word ‘eyes’ to rhyme with ‘eyes’ on every other line, and failure to actually glance at her during his composition, suggested a limited vocabulary and lack of sincerity that would keep him out of the wandering poet ‘Big League’.

I can’t imagine visiting Paris without stopping off in Montmartre. The lofty domes of the Sacré Coeur and its views across the city demand a moment in your schedule. Even if you’ve seen enough Lautrec poster reproductions and ‘Chat Noir’s to last a lifetime, there is an exuberance and bohemian air retained that makes it ‘of the city’ and yet markedly different to the more formal and self-conscious Paris of the Ile, Opéra and Marais. We posed in front of the basilica for the obligatory, but slightly up-nostril, photos and wandered the district for a pleasant hour or so before throwing ourselves on the mercy of the Métro and seeing where it took us.

Chez la mère Catherine
6, Place du Tertre, Montmartre
01 46 06 32 69

Having satisfied our ‘Montmartre Itch’ (a fairly common affliction suffered by repeat visitors to Paris), we headed Seine-wards from Abbesses Métro. A semblance of a plan formed while we were underground; we would surface close to the river and head, in as casual a fashion as we could muster, for the Eiffel Tower.

We emerged, blinking and a little disoriented, in the Place de la Concorde. It is a surprisingly affecting way to arrive at one of the most well known and impressive sights in Europe. No anticipatory approach, you’re just there. The historic square sprawls out in all directions, its arterial roads reaching out into the rest of the city and in doing so, drawing you into the city’s turbulent past.

The Place itself has borne witness to so much. Starting out as suitable platform for a vainglorious monument to Louis XV in the mid-eighteenth century, the square was soon to be filled with baying crowds surrounding Madame Guillotine and to adopt the name ‘Place de la Révolution. Five years and over a thousand rolling heads later it swapped ‘Révolution’ for ‘Concorde’ (meaning ‘agreement’) as the country put the Reign of Terror behind it.

Broad avenues stretch away to the points of the compass; to one side the Jardin des Tuileries provide an attractive green swathe of rigidly formal gardens stretching into the distant arms of the Louvre. Once a fortress, then an ever-enlarging royal palace, the Louvre is now famous for having Tom Hanks dash around and jump out of one of its windows (and housing a famous painting or two).

Opposite, beyond the Egyptian obelisk with its dazzling gold tip that is surely a distraction to the streams of traffic pouring through the square, the one and only Champs Elysées draws the eye to the instantly recognisable Arc de Triomphe. This is the centre of grand Paris. Everything in sight is of a monumental and, of course, triumphal scale. The ornate Art Nouveau roof tops of the Petit and Grand Palais’ ostentatiously underscore the view of the Eiffel Tower to the south-east while, facing us as we crossed the Pont de la Concorde, was the relatively understated Romanesque facade of the Assemblée Nationale. There are very few places in Europe where one can, within a few paces, feast your eyes on such architectural riches. Honestly, you may need a good sit down. And you haven’t even got over the bridge yet.

We paused for photos on the bridge, gazing east down the Seine. The view from here, as from so many points in Paris, is rather special. Trees that will, when spring gets going, shade the quais that positively invite aimless meandering. On the southern bank (the side known as the Left Bank which is, confusingly, on the right from this perspective) the imposing Musée d’Orsay draws the eye with its distinctive roofline. This former railway station now houses artwork from the later half of the 19th and early 20th century and is my favourite gallery in Paris. The works of Renoir, Cezanne, Monet, Van Gogh, Gauguin and so many others are my kind of artwork and, if I had one pang of regret on this trip it was not visiting this one.

Looking further upriver, the enormous Louvre dominates the bank to the left (which is the Right Bank) while, in front of you lies the very heart of Paris – the Ile de la Cité (see other entry). The distinctive towers of the Conciergerie and the towers of Notre Dame are silhouetted against the clear sky. It is breathtaking; a concentration of some of the most famous buildings and sites in the world and all within view during a walk of about 200 yards. It’s a lazy tourist’s dream – well it might be if it didn’t urge you to see more, to get into the guts of this city.

We pulled ourselves away and turned eastwards towards the Eiffel Tower. There was to be no respite from the grandiose and spectacular however. Our route took us across the expansive fields that separate the Hôtel des Invalides from the river. Completed in 1676, the Hôtel was built as a vast old people’s home for war veterans by a clearly grateful Louis XIV. The Classical facade is crowned by the gold dome of the Dôme church and is in need of numerous superlatives – it is yet another spot where the first time visitor might be heard to mutter ‘That’s here as well?! This city is just showing off.’

We experienced a brief respite from the relentless splendour and mooched down the Rue Saint Dominique for the last leg of our Eiffel-quest. On a sunny corner of the Place du General Gouraud we took a restorative café. There was nothing to hurry for; it was late morning and any lingering thoughts that we might ascend the tower were cast aside when we got in sight of the Tower’s base. The queues for the lifts at each of the base corners wound confusingly round and back on themselves; any wait would be measured in hours.

We were happy just to stand beneath the structure. We had been spoilt as far as views were concerned already; any more would’ve been just greedy and besides, lunch wouldn’t eat itself now would it?