What, you say? Trouble in paradise, the City of Light, the place for romance, the idyllic centre for food? Sacrebleu, she must be folle.
Paris is still charming. The magnificent Eiffel Tower, a marvel from any view during the day and breathtaking at night. The food, yes, divine. The architecture--oh, so much and so lovely--wander down a side street and you'll be captivated by the beautiful buildings, with balconies wrapped in patterned ironwork. Take a taxi around the Arc de Triomphe and you'll be both thrilled and scared witless as the vehicles seem to dart and nearly collide in unmarked lanes. Find a small bistrot on the corner and order a cafe au lait and some cheese to nibble on between long walks and take in the romance of the scene--indoors, softly lit, decor reminiscent of another time, or outdoors as couples lean into each other to share a secret.
In fact I enjoyed Paris quite a bit this time--my first time traveling with Tim to a city we'd both been before and anticipated returning to together. We were invited to have dinner with Tim's brother to celebrate his brother's birthday, and why not Paris? The family is a bit far flung, making many European capitals options for a celebration. Upon arrival, Tim's brother was kind enough to let us have a few hours on our own whilst he took the eldest Mrs D to an area of Paris she wanted to see having read The Hare with Amber Eyes. The memoir by author Edmund de Waal follows the Ephrussi family, whose grandmother was part of the Jewish clan who owned several hotels in Paris. (I suspect I'm not doing that justice as a brief sentence about the novel.)
We walked . . . or perhaps we strolled. Tim snapped a photo or two. We talked about times we'd been in Paris before, separately, and what we enjoyed. We wandered in and out of shops, bought a few postcards, and otherwise ambled between the occasional raindrops on a grey, damp Saturday afternoon. After a couple of hours we popped into a corner brasserie and chose a table near the window to get off of our feet and have a small bite before dinner--cheese and a baguette, and a coffee for me to knock out the slight chill. It was a lovely respite, if not a bit expensive for the modest portion of three cheeses and the small basket of bread, already sliced in its maroon paper napkin.
Dinner that evening was not your typical French fare--picture an English chef in a handsome, bright restaurant known more as a neighbourhood joint owned by a New Zealander--and yes, it all worked wonderfully together. The food was not only pretty, it was delicious. There were lovely choices on the small but well-crafted menu, and having tried the scallops as a starter I must say they were fantastic--seared with a crust that gave way to a perfectly cooked, gently spiced, beautifully textured mouthful. And the pork--slightly pink, unbelievably moist--was a wonderful main. Yes, cheese, and of course, champagne and wine--the restaurant has a wine cave and a large square of the floor is glass so patrons can peek down (though it was oddly a bit well lit for a wine cave).
Did I mention our waitperson was from Mexico? She told us that there was perhaps one staff who was French, but it was her day off.
Breakfast at the lovely Hotel Baltimore the next morning was, well, confusing. We were seated quickly but then waited quite some time for someone to ask us what we wanted to drink, and I was growing impatient (Tim would say grumpy, but frankly I don't appreciate poor service). Finally he flagged down someone to bring coffee (and a smile to my face). While Tim had asked about the breakfast buffet and what we were entitled to as we entered the restaurant (the information in the room suggested an express or a full breakfast at either 14 eruo or 26 euro), there was no one to ask and no information displayed, and we were all a bit hungry . . .
We simply dug in. The brown bread with swirls of fig was quite nice with no butter or jam, and there was a nice array of fruit and other breads, yogurts, and croissants, cereals, spreads, and a baked egg if you so desired. I had to have a croissant--in fact the three of us did (Tim's mum was with us for breakfast)--and it was fine, but not warm or delicate as I'd hoped. On an earlier trip to Paris I had the most delightful croissant--flaky, buttery, warm, divine--and coffee at a corner bistrot, and so naturally every croissant I have from that point forward is compared to that experience . . . not unfair, I don't think, but when it comes to hotel buffets I should have lowered my expectation.
It was raining again after breakfast and so we lingered a bit before arranging a taxi to meet a friend of Tim's for lunch. The taxi was ordered at 10:30 anticipating that with foul weather they'd be a sought-after commodity. And they were--in fact the gent at the hotel who arranged taxis had his mobile phone pressed to his ear constantly, trying to locate taxis nearby to take the growing number of hotel patrons to their afternoon destinations, occasionally gesticulating that he was on it and mumbling to us that it was coming. It was all a bit chaotic--in fact Tim's sister-in-law hailed her own, having also arranged a taxi earlier, so that she and her husband wouldn't miss their Eurostar train. (They did not.)
Finally it was our turn and we were brought to a bistrot that, well, oozed the American idea of a French bistrot: The menu was in French. The staff spoke French. It had that look--wooden tables, locals buried in their Sunday paper, garcons clearing tables. It just felt French. I asked Tim translate some of the menu items that were unfamiliar to me and decided on a tuna nicoise. When I ordered it and said "tuna" the waiter looked at me like I had two heads. Tim repeated my order, this time using "thon," and it was promptly written and I was promptly forgotten. Champagne was ordered to celebrate Tim's friend Jeremy's new book release, and while the first glass was poured by the waiter, there was no top up, nor at any point a "comment se fait-tout" query from the staff--perhaps asking how everything is considered gauche, but I have come to expect it. Once again the food was delicious--I like a thon (LOL) when it's more pink than grey, and the salad was fresh and plentiful. The rum baba that Tim's mum ordered was enormous; it was also well soaked in rum and tasty as she kindly offered me a taste. I did notice that both our waiter and the maitre d' looked our way often, yet never bothered to come and refill a glass or check on how we were until our plates were empty.
A taxi back to the Gare du Nord from the restaurant was easily obtained through the maitre d' without question and somewhat quickly, and the driver brought us there safely and in plenty of time. He only gently muttered when asked to clear the passenger seat in front to make it easier for the elder Mrs D.
So what is the trouble with Paris? Honestly, I'm not entirely sure; it just feels as though it's lost a bit of its charm. It's expensive, but then again it always has been, hasn't it? The service is rubbish, and perhaps that's become a bit worse than I recall from previous visits. Even when spoken to in French it didn't matter; there seemed to be a brusque response rather than a warm one. (The exception was the lovely reception staff at the Hotel Baltimore.) The Champs Elysees could be anywhere, with its high street shops, crowds of tourists, occasional McDonald's. In fact there was even a Marks & Spencer, the British retailer, along the avenue.
Maybe it's me; I've romanticised Paris in my mind and now find that it's been upstaged by other wonderful cities I've had an opportunity to travel to since my first trip there--places like Bruges, Amsterdam, Edinburgh. Boulogne-sur-Mer; even the lovely East Sussex town of Rye where we recently spent a day strolling on cobbled streets, pausing in little shops, climbing the narrow stairs of the bell tower, popping into Lamb House (photo at right), where Henry James wrote his novels and enjoyed a lovely garden, and then having tea and cakes at Edith's to give our feet a rest.
I am certain we will find ourselves strolling in Paris again, Tim and me; it's so accessible to London, and it will always have its delights: the gargoyles of Notre Dame; the out-of-the-way, family-owned bistrots where there is a genuine warmth for your company; the Seine; the architecture. There will be the fantastic food and wonderful French wine and the croissants (perhaps at a more carefully chosen venue).
Then again, there are so many other places to see, Paris will likely be nudged a bit down the list until I've tasted pizza in Naples, seen the ports in Croatia, bought something cheap and cheerful in a Viennese market . . .
