Topic: TN: Recaptured memory - Paris, part 1
Author: Thor Iverson (Boston, MA)
Date: Mon Nov 12 02:23:10 2001
Taking the bus to from Charles de Gaulle to Paris is very much like sneaking in the back door. A few kilometers of flat, unadventurous farmland drift by. Then the unattractive barrier of light industry found on the periphery of any major French city. And suddenly, the bus turns, and the surrounding traffic gains momentum. There''s a bit of disorientation, which is not clarified by the anonymous sea of low buildings stretching to the horizon on either side. And then…wait, there''s a monument. A church. From the back, it looks tantalizingly familiar, but somehow not quite right. Then, of course, everything snaps into place. A white domed church, on a hill. Sacré-Coeur. Montmartre. Paris.

The Champs Elysées.

Another turn, and the unfamiliar takes shape. Well-known businesses, ministries, the insanity of French city traffic. La Défense. Porte Maillot. And ahead, growing with each passing moment, Napoleon''s triumphal arch. It must be said that the Arc de Triomphe is never quite as big as one imagines or remembers it to be. Nevertheless, standing on the sidewalk with one''s bags piled nearby - the stale, filmy feeling of a long air journey evaporating into the petrol-scented air - and distracted from the majesty of the arch by the futile tooting from drivers negotiating its rotary, it manages to rise above both unmet expectations and the din. In the background, the top of the Paris'' unmistakable signature, the Eiffel Tower, peeks at us over the buildings.

"You know, it''s bigger than the one in Las Vegas," Theresa opines. We laugh. It''s going to be a good vacation.

***

The Obelisk.

Theresa''s experiences in Paris, and mine, were different in just about every way imaginable. She''d been there many times, but always as the obligated guest of an upwardly-mobile family in the suburb of Nanterre, the matriarch of which ran a French/American exchange program with her mother. She''d rarely eaten in the city, except as part of a group or with her parents. And she''d never stayed in a city hotel. For me, the memories were more compressed; on my one journey to Paris, a few years before our wedding, I was determined to cram as much of the city into our four days there as I could. And so, it was up early, on the RER, and let''s walk. With a nose buried in a Michelin green guide and one eye locked behind a camera lens, I saw a lot of Paris the same way a billion tourists do. But the only time I really felt Paris was the day we climbed the stairs at the Arc de Triomphe, walked the length of the Champs-Elysées, and waited in line at the Louvre. Sandwiched in-between those activities, I think just after lunch, was an arresting moment in the vast expanse of the Place de la Concorde. The obelisk ripped my nose from the guidebook and my hand from the camera. I was transfixed. Here was a place of kings. The expanse, the majesty. The boulevard stretching towards the arch, the Crillon, the Tuileries, the bridge towards the National Assembly…the body expands to reach to the sheer distance of the space, but still shrinks from its power.

On this visit to Paris, I wanted to recapture that.

Our British Airways flight: smooth, comfortable. This airline is so far beyond any U.S. carrier in service, comfort, and quality (for similar prices), though their coach wine selections have taken a bit of a nosedive. A few splits of the Turning Leaf 1998 Cabernet Sauvignon did not fill me with untrammeled vinous joy; thin and light and tasting mostly of cherry cough syrup, a wine that, at most, aspires to inoffensiveness. But I knew I''d be drinking better soon.

***

Nestled in the middle of a commercial/tourist area in the 7th, the Hotel Muguet is a few moments from the Champ de Mars, Les Invalides, and the Rue Cler, but on an untrafficked back street. Small, but perfect for a three night stay.

And yet, still French. We arrived thirty minutes past our check-in time to find that the room was not yet ready. Fair enough. We wandered around the neighborhood to secure the essentials of daily French life: télécarte, bottle of water, a ham and butter sandwich heavy on the bread and light on the ingredients. The French inability to make sandwiches continues. The problem, as always, is an obsession with the high quality of the bread. Thereby missing the entire point of a sandwich. We angled towards the Champ de Mars to look at the Eiffel Tower, but it started to drizzle; our one great fear for this trip was that the weather would be uncooperative. Back to the hotel to do some reading, doing our best to avoid the bad news from America. Finally, just over two hours after we checked in, the room was ready. A lovely ground-floor room on a small courtyard, quiet during the day and absolutely silent at night, invited us in for a jetlagged nap. We accepted the invitation…

…and awoke at 6:30, not exactly refreshed but awake and eager. Because for me, the trip up to this point had possessed a certain unreality, like stepping into a scrapbook or a photo album full of memories. Everything we''d seen so far, I''d seen before. My French was better this time, and I''d made an awful lot of trips to France since that first, hectic one, and so the sense of bewildered newness was missing. I knew, however, that one thing would ground me in the reality of France. One thing would make my soul realize that I was here and not still there: dinner. Food and wine. For me, the real France.

***

Au Bascou (30 r. Réamur, 3rd) is, unsurprisingly, a Basque restaurant, on a very unassuming and somewhat dingy stretch of commercial street. It''s also half-hidden behind another building. And at the unfashionably early hour of 8, we were the only people in the restaurant. The decor evokes an older, more casual and introverted Paris, and the clientele is decidedly neighborhood. We were the only English speakers in the restaurant (a trend that was to continue for most of the trip). I don''t know if it was because of that, or because of our early arrival, or because a passion for cuisine rapide has overtaken Paris, but this meal, like our meal the following night, was served very quickly. Too quickly. Ten minutes after we sat down, our entrées arrived. A few moments after these were cleared, our main courses arrived. Cheese nipped at that course''s heels. Then dessert. We barely had time to finish the wine.

But the food was definitely up to expectations, with some small exceptions. Theresa started with a mussel gratin, which was heady and delicious but served only tepid. On the other hand, my chestnut soup with foie gras ravioli and floating croutons was spectacular, a powerful mélange of earthy and strong fall flavors. I moved on to a crispy half duckling, which was delicious but nearly impossible to pry from the bone with a knife and fork. Theresa had a decadent slow-cooked shoulder of veal, which she couldn''t tell me much about during the meal given the rapid ascent of each forkful to her mouth. A rather boring slice of semi-hard brébis with a chewy cherry confiture followed, saved only by the good, dense whole-grain bread. And then, dessert: a spicy wedge of frozen nougat for me, and a pair of Basque cakes for Theresa, the first rich and dense to the point of meatiness with (what else?) figs, the second heavenly marzipan. The coffee was strong, but slightly burnt.

A wine list strong in southwestern wines was a perfect foil for the food, and full of new experiences for Theresa. But the real core of the list was Irouléguy, and so we chose a Riouspeyrous "Domaine Arretxea" 1997 Irouléguy "Cuvée Haitza". For Theresa, the strength and power and rusticity of this wine were revelatory, almost like her first taste of aged Geyserville. A tumble of black cherry, blackberry, blueberry, and rough though moderate tannin, with a strong earthy component…full, masculine, big, and ready to age. A tumescent wine. A Basque wine.

The tally for all this decadence? 550 FF, or about $76. Why can''t one have regular and widespread dining experiences like this in the States? I''ve heard lots of excuses, but no real answers.

Across the Seine.

We took a slow walk from the restaurant to the Place de la Concorde, its majesty broken up, as usual, by a bright and musical ferris wheel. In the artificial glow, the obelisk looks somewhat morosely out of its time, while the mostly unlit Crillon broods in the shadows. We pause for some nighttime photos, and once again marvel at how empty the city is; few tourists, only small knots of gendarmes here and there, watchful and wary but also ogling the ladies. Then across the Pont de la Concorde to the Pont Alexandre III, towards the majestically lit Ecole Militaire, and back to the hotel.

We do this rather long evening walk partly because the weather is nice, but mostly because I have never seen the City of Light, lit. And in the warm and humid evening''s stillness, I reflect on the city''s special character. The Baron Haussmann was probably not a popular person with the people he displaced, but the city he left behind has a proud and defiant network of open spaces and grand plazas that turn the clock back not only in time, but to a different mindset. A time when size was power, and only power could create size. A time of Great Works, as if those who spent the country into bankruptcy creating them had peered into the future and seen the admiring crowds. A future where a young couple in Paris can walk nearly forty minutes without being within ten feet of a building.

In Paris. With the satisfaction of a good meal, and a walk through my favorite place in the city. Yes. Now I''m here, and not there. And this...this is the front door, wide open.