Topic: TN: The lapin not-so-agile (Paris, pt. 2, long, img)
Author: Thor Iverson (Boston, MA)
Date: 20040105161554

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Paris

The cheese that keeps on giving

Lapin jaune

Travel is perhaps the most enjoyable way to learn life’s really important lessons. Sometimes, it’s as simple as observing the images and iconography of everyday life. For example, riders of the Paris Métro quickly and repeatedly learn that anyone putting their hand between train doors will turn into an agitated pink bunny wearing an ill-fitting yellow jumpsuit.

This knowledge is slightly unsettling, and would be more so were we not well-fortified by a classic breakfast of coffee and pastry at Kayser (8 r. Monge), one of several storefronts for a much talked-about artisan boulanger hailing from Alsace. The coffee is good, but a croissant and pain au chocolat are flawless; my only regret is that I don’t get to taste the much-admired baguette.

Yep. Still raining.

Emerging from the Parisian underground into the dark, drizzly expanse of the Place de la Concorde, neither pink, dressed in yellow, nor sporting a cottontail, I take in my favorite Parisian vista. The sky behind the distant Arc de Triomphe is a lurid, dark blue, casting the trees and cars along the Champs-Elysées in a strangely fluorescent hue. It’s a little eerie, doubly so as the golden tips of the monumental fences bordering the Tuileries light up like crystalline matchsticks.

At the end of the busy rue Royale sits the beautiful Madeleine, surrounded by a fading and tattered semi-circle of gourmet markets that include Fauchon. There’s nothing of particular interest here, unless one finds egregious markups of interest, and in any case, there’s something much more interesting around the corner.

Bourgogne rouge

Just a few steps down the airy, crisply-lined Boulevard de la Madeleine is Lavinia (3-5 blvd. de la Madeleine), the Parisian outpost of this much talked-about wine retailer. Downstairs, there’s all the French wine one could want (priced from bargain, to reasonable, to spendy) in- and outside a temperature-controlled room full of mature and maturing vintages. But on the main floor one finds something completely unexpected in France: thousands of quality foreign offerings, and not all of them at unreasonable markups (though the most egregious, from the standpoint of rapport qualité/prix are, unsurprisingly, the U.S. wines). Want a vertical of Musar going back to the fifties, the top New Zealand chardonnays, shockingly large supplies of cult Austrian grüners and highly-allocated super-Anywheres from Italy? They’ve got them, often in multiple vintages.

-tifs, both apéri- and diges-, at Lavinia

The store is modern and sleek, full of glass and urban monotones, though floor displays of Champagne and Port are somewhat difficult to navigate around. Upstairs, one finds stemware, accessories, books, and everything else drinkable and alcoholic, including the most impressive selection of apéritifs and digestifs I’ve ever seen. Lighted cabinets of the latter lead to a smart restaurant with a simple yet modernized bistro menu, plenty of featured wines by the bottle and glass, and a terrific program whereby one can consume any bottle purchased on the premises, for no fee.

It’s thus that we find ourselves surrounded by sharply-dressed Parisian businessmen and women, nibbling on plates of exquisite Spanish ham, veal rib chops, and in-season asparagus in a refreshing vinaigrette while we let a little bit of sediment settle from our bottle of de Montille 1984 Volnay-Champans “1er Cru”. Very fragrant when first opened, this turns slightly sullen and bretty after a few minutes, after which a little biting tannin starts to overwhelm the somewhat wan fruit. Things look bad, but just as the wine is approaching an acidic, acrid void, the fruit re-emerges, showing ultra-ripe black cherries and more of that lovely, dark-hued fragrance. A very pretty wine clinging tenaciously to life.

St-Eustache, smell not included

Jardin vert

After a rich, perfectly-roasted coffee, we exit the impressive sprawl of Lavinia and wander towards the Place Vendôme. Big column, liiiiiittle Emperor. It’s a nice afternoon, the sun is shining, and this combined with a bottle of Burgundy and a belly full of ham direct us towards the restful though somewhat sketchy Place R. Cassin alongside St-Eustache. We sit, soaking up sun with the locals, until a few clouds move in, at which point we tour the church; majestic beauty marred by the rancid stench of urine in nearly every corner. The unfortunate decline of this neighborhood continues apace.

Back on the Métro (with our old, though somewhat nagging, friend the bunny) to the Pont d’Austerlitz; this is a new view of Paris for me, edging away from history and touristic splendor to a more modern, functional city, yet in a more architecturally tame way than the equally paradigm-breaking La Defense at the other end of the city. But across the bridge is more of the old: the Jardin des Plantes (this afternoon full of families with young children, pushed in strollers along geometric flowerbeds and pulled by insistent arms away from a vending cart). Everything is blooming, coming alive, and the smell of spring is all around us in reds, yellows and greens.

It’s not enough to wake us up, though, and at the other end of the garden is our hotel and a much-needed nap. Which we take.

Je suis le prince noir foutue, Sharon

The other two towers

Awake a bit later than we’d prefer, in the darkening beginnings of a chill night, we find ourselves wandering the cold, and tonight somewhat unfriendly streets of the 7th. The Eiffel Tower peeks above elaborate apartment façades and manicured trees, but in this residential expatriate area the streets are completely deserted. Our destination is Les Olivades (41 ave. de Ségur), a theoretically Provençal outpost which was apparently the subject of much hype a short while ago. I can't quite see what it might have been about, though I suspect the departure of chef Flora Mikula has something to do with its current execution, or lack thereof.

The room is simultaneously cramped and dressy (as are the patrons), and the contortions that must be performed by the staff to maneuver around tables make me worry about accidents; a worry that comes to fruition early in the evening, as freshly-cleared wine glasses crash to the floor three tables away. But the obviously well-heeled clientele doesn't seem to mind. Olives and a cinnamon-infused tapenade are an intriguing start to the meal. Warm oysters topped with caviar and leeks are a fine idea, and well-prepared, but there's too much salinity for even this salt-adoring diner. Lamb from the rib is much better, simply but deliciously accompanied: fleur de sel, roasted pumpkin, and fluffy little truffled gnocchi. The food, at least, is quite acceptable, though hardly exciting.

Service, however, is a little jumpy; solicitous and classic one moment, rattled and brusque the next. Our first course arrives with us still beverage-free; we're surprised, having expected the wine list at some point after the departure of our menus. We ask for the list, which sits amongst a stack within easy arms' reach of my seat and even closer to the waiter from whom we're requesting it, yet for which we still have to wait a few more minutes. By the time the wine finally arrives, we're nearly done with our first course. Intra-prandial pauses are awkward rather than restorative, and at one point we strongly suspect difficulties in the kitchen thanks to an unusually long delay and the staff's nervous glances in our direction.

Theresa decides she wants to order the wine (from a very disappointing list featuring only five Provençal wines and a lot of off-brand Bordeaux), and since she's having fish with my lamb, she splits the difference and requests a Bruno Paillard "Château des Sarrins" 2002 Côtes-de-Provence Rosé (Provence), which causes my eyebrows to go up. Isn't Paillard a Champagne guy? Well, yes he is, though this wine shows adequate skill. Light aromas of fresh raspberries and pollen-hurling lavender mark this pretty, juicy, aromatic rosé, and it goes well with everything except the truffles in the gnocchi.

Speaking of compensating…

At the end of the meal, things completely fall apart. I ask for a glass of Prada 1983 Bas-Armagnac while Theresa has coffee. While I'm waiting, Theresa leans over, conspiratorially. "Jack Osbourne just sat down behind you." I take the opportunity of a bathroom break to confirm this; no, it's not really Jack Osbourne (too tall, no acne), but it sure looks like a French version of him, right down to the chaotic quasi-afro, white t-shirt and ill-fitting blue jeans. Meanwhile, the Bas-Armagnac fails to arrive. I watch the head waiter go by with a tray of caramel-colored digestifs, but they're all for "Jack." I look towards the back of the restaurant, and see the '83 sitting on a counter, empty, with a little liquid glistening on its neck.

Fifteen minutes later, the host comes to our table, looking and sounding less than apologetic. "We're out of the '83. Would you prefer another selection?"

I point. "Isn't that the bottle, right there?"

He looks simultaneously embarrassed and annoyed, in that particularly French manner so often affected when one has been discovered in a lie. He lowers his voice, "The gentleman behind you is a great connoisseur of digestifs, and he...ahhh...he wished a vertical tasting..." he drifts off, not even bothering to make up more of the rather flimsy excuse. I sigh, resigned, and choose another. It arrives immediately, though still without apology.

The Prada 1985 Bas-Armagnac "Colombard" is gorgeously perfumed, showing roasted cherries and orange peel with a little caramel and scented with a distant but lingering wood smoke. Just lovely. Meanwhile, behind me, "Jack" is on his mobile phone, mocking "the Americans" at the next table. Theresa gleefully translates the third or so I don't understand, until he realizes that we're comprehending him and changes the subject. It's a poetically justified finalé to the evening.

Though in the end, no one turns into a rabbit. Of any color.

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