Becoming a Parisienne (Part two)
Day 3- February 8, 2020
Saturday:
Montmartre, a neighborhood I wanted to explore on Day 3, has become increasingly fashionable. This surprised me when I first learned of this metamorphosis several years ago. On my first trip to Paris as a pre-teen, some fifty years ago, my family visited Pigale, the heart of Montmartre. The quartier was questionable at best back then. Yet my parents rationalized their daughters needed to see it for historical reasons. Afterall, it had been home to many Impressionist and Surrealist artists at one time plus it had Paris’ two remaining windmills. And, yes, it had its famous Sacré-Coeur Basilica on the highest point in Paris. However, it was also known for its Place du Tertre where artists-con men painted mediocre caricatures of tourists at outrageous prices. Added to that, it was home turf for the racy Moulin Rouge music hall, porn shows and prostitutes who lingered around the dimly lit, sidewalks at night in hopeful anticipation of luring a rich client. So much for two young American girls to absorb!
SEEDY NO MORE
Not anymore. While there’s still a soupçon of seedy, it is mostly hip and happening. My French friends tell me it is now a favorite neighborhood for artists, actors and young families to settle. It is also where, Buvette, one of my favorite restaurants in Paris, is located. American owner, Jody William, has several Buvettes around the world including Paris, New York City—where it started—and Tokyo. She calls her Buvette concept gastrothèque. The menu is bistro fare, mostly small plates, with a few American dishes at breakfast but done with a French twist.
Food & Wine Magazine described its décor as “simultaneously homey and escapist,” a look that Jody cultivates in all her outposts. The counter of the Paris Buvette always has several deliciously decadent items on it: a freshly baked Tarte Tatin, a pile of Madeleines, or an enormous bowl of daffodil yellow butter. Crates of colorful fresh fruits and vegetable, antique shop signs, and piles of ubiquitous, heavy white dishes welcome the guests. A giant blackboard with a map of France indicates the region for each of Buvette’s by-the-glass offerings.
A CROQUE-MONSIEUR ADORNED WITH MUSHROOMS
I sat at the bar watching the sous-chef’s quick and measured movements in his tiny space. He added final touches to each dish and even used the milk frother (normally designated for making cappuccinos) for cooking his œufs brouillés or scrambled eggs. When I saw him pull a Croque-Monsieur out of a mini-oven, I told the American waiter—a young student attending Science Po—that was my choice. He asked me in French which version as there were several on the menu. Decidedly, it was strange for two Americans to speak to one another in French! However, I was too hungry to give this much thought and selected the Croque-Monsieur Forestier made with shiitake mushrooms and sprinkled with Herbes de Provence. It was so delicious that I used it to inspire this week’s recipe.
After brunch, I carefully rearranged my new scarf (the one I purchased to make me look French!) and set out to casually flâner through the neighborhood. I also needed to do some shopping for a small cocktail party chez moi that evening. I meandered through the steep, cobble stoned streets and happened upon a strange-looking red brick church. Probably missed by most tourists, St. Jean de Montmartre, built in the 19th Century, had stunning Art Deco decorations on its rather austere exterior. I went inside to light a candle for Ed and looked around its unadorned interior.
THE SIGHTS, SOUNDS AND TASTES OF MONTMARTRE
From there, I headed to Montmartre’s two popular shopping streets: Rue Le Pic and Rue des Martyrs. My mission? Baguettes traditions, of course. And, there in the window of Sebastian Mauvieux’s boulanger (bakery) was a sign announcing “The best baguette in 2012.” In I went and purchased two of them to take back to New York.
Next, I happened upon a greengrocer with beautiful French breakfast radishes—the ones with the white tops—perfect for my apéritif hour later that evening. As I looked around his shop, the Moroccan-owner invited me to sample his array of olives from France and Italy. I settled on gem-like, tiny black Niçoise olives. With some rustic salami from Caractère de Cochon purchased earlier, my cocktail menu was set.
DOES HUMOR TRANSLATE?
One of the shop’s customers, an elderly lady with a Hermès scarf around neck, was showing the owner photos on her cell phone. They both doubled up in laughter. She turned to me in my own chic scarf and handed me her phone awaiting my reaction. Stone faced, I had to admit, I didn’t understand why it is was so funny. She looked at me quizzically. Then realizing I wasn’t French—much to my disappointment—she kindly clarified why the photo was so amusing. “Why, Madame,” she slowly explained in French as if speaking to a child, “These are members of the French Communist Party,” as she pointed to three men in jackets with PCF on their backs, seated at a café. “They are supposed to be working, not enjoying a glass of wine!,” she added with a restrained giggle. It occurred to me that humor in another language doesn’t always translate, even though I feigned a hearty laugh.
THE SPIRITED JULIE BROTHERS
Working my way down Rue de Martyrs, I stopped inside HoY, the very first yoga hotel in Paris (who knew?) and bought a huge bouquet of mimosa in their flower shop. There was only one more thing remaining on my shopping list, a Parisian vodka. Almost at the end of street, I found NYSA, a boutique-sized wine and spirits shop. My mission was to purchase a bottle of vodka from the Distilleries de Paris, an experimental micro distillery owned by two brothers, Nicolas and Sebastian Julie. For the time being, the shop owner explained, they are the first and only distillery in Paris that makes small batches of gin, vodka and soon Whisky, too.
Before I left, an elegant lady dressed in a chocolate brown mink coat and pale pink scarf walked in. She breathlessly asked if they carried the non-alcoholic vodka made by the Julie brothers. “Everyone in Paris is clamoring for this and I absolutely must have a bottle too!” So, as Paris joins the cutting-edge cocktail scene of other cosmopolitan cities, it is also trending with the non-alcoholic beverage movement.
An Uber was in order as I had too many oddly shaped purchases to manage traveling on the Metro. I dropped off my packages at the apartment and headed straight to the Picasso museum three blocks away. It was the last day of its “Magic Paintings” exhibit and being a fan, I couldn’t miss it.
FROM POTATOES TO POLITICS
I couldn’t linger at the museum as my friends, Victor and Xavier, were coming over for cocktails. After helping me with some electronic issues, we strolled over to Le Petit Marché for dinner enjoying a heavy helping of political discussion in addition to the world’s best purée de pomme de terre (mashed potatoes.) None of us could agree on which Democratic candidate had the best chance of winning against Trump. But Victor and Xavier were sure of one thing: that I needed to go to the Fondation Louis Vuitton (FLV) to see the Charlotte Perriand exhibit. Without asking me, Xavier bought me a ticket on his phone. Voilà. My next day was planned for me in a nano second.
Day 4 – February 9, 2020
Sunday:
As it was my birthday, I allowed myself to sleep in late then treated myself to an Uber to FLV. Whenever I see Frank Gehry’s glass building— which resembles a series of sailboats with their sails inflated by wind—I am spellbound by its beauty. FLV is in the Bois de Boulogne, a vast forest on the western border of Paris, which accommodates the museum’s expansive size perfectly.
CHAROLOTTE PERRIAND AND THE SYNTHESIS OF THE ARTS
Victor and Xavier were right in their assessment of the extraordinary show which featured the work of Charlotte Perriand, celebrated architect, furniture designer and photographer. What made her unique was her collaboration with Le Corbusier, Picasso, Calder, Fernand Léger and other artists of the 40s and 50s whose works were shown alongside hers. Perriand moved in Communist circles and believed in the synthesis between all of the arts. According to her, the role of art was primarily to enhance the life of the common man.
After two hours of intensely looking, learning and admiring, I was ready for lunch at Le Frank, the museum’s tony restaurant. I asked for a table for one with a board, self-confident smile. The hostess scrutinized me with a quick head-to-toe sweep of her eyes, nodded approvingly at my scarf, and completed her quick assessment. She returned my smile and replied, “Je peux vous proposer une place au bar.” Well, I had hoped for a nice table in the main dining room but was in no mood to argue. I perched myself at the end of bar near the kitchen door, the sole diner in this quiet corner of the restaurant. I treated myself to a glass of Dom Ruinart rosé champagne, given it was my birthday, and perused the menu in quasi-solitude.
MY BIRTHDAY LUNCH WITH THE RICHEST MAN IN FRANCE
Out of the corner of my eye, I spied a group of four people being seated in the far end of this semi-private area. No, it couldn’t be. But, yes, it was! I was having lunch with Bernard Artaud—the richest man in France, head of the LVMH luxury empire, and owner of the museum we were in! I recognized him immediately, his large head, chiseled nose and quiet demeaner. Six months before I started Cornerstone Communications, I was still working for a wine importing company he had acquired. We had met at that time some twenty-five years earlier.
In both instances our parting was sweet: when I left the firm and when I finished my lunch and sauntered out of Le Frank. I couldn’t help but feel a tad smug that I had spotted BA. I was convinced, too, that I had landed the slightly privileged seat near him because the receptionist liked my scarf and took me for being a discreet Parisienne.
GETTING LOST IN PARIS
My self-satisfaction didn’t last long as I completely screwed up my bus ride home. I went in the wrong direction, had to switch busses, then missed my stopped completely and ended up at the last stop on the line, the Gare de Lyons. From here, I hopped on a Metro to BHV department store—also owned by BA—where I did some mundane shopping for the apartment: rechargeable batteries for the phone and new lamp shades. I did say mundane, didn’t I?
On my way home, I walked a half mile to Rue des Archives to see an exhibit of Henri Cartier Bresson’s photos from the period when China fell to the communists. From there I had one last stop, my favorite pastry shop, Pain et Sucre, to find the perfect dessert for dinner.
A MEAL FROM MY PAST
As mentioned in an earlier post, I spent my junior year abroad in France living with a French family. In keeping with my wanting to “go native” on this trip as a solo traveler, I decided to recreate the dinner my French mother made every Wednesday night, her day off from cooking: Jambon de Paris and canned peas. There was still some leftover ham in the frig so it was a good start. I had picked up some fresh sweet peas the day before at the grocer in Montmartre to which I added some tiny onions. Then, with a nod to my birthday lunch earlier that day at Le Frank, I stole the chef’s idea for grilled baby gem lettuce. And then, came the piece de résistance: my own tiny Tarte Tatin, warmed in the oven and topped with the world’s most divine ice cream flavor made with goat’s milk cheese called fromage blanc de chèvre. As I was alone, I held off adding any birthday candles. No one needed to know I had turned 73.
Next week, you will read about my final day in Paris and my truncated visit in the Louvre.