Paris & Whiskey

Another night in Paris, oh what fun it is! Truthfully, most of my evenings are spent cuddled up with my heatilator bunny nuzzled up against an aching ankle, hand or back, surfing the intertubes, but as I make friends & meet people, I am going out more and more, TFG.

I met up with American George on the Champs Elysee to tour the holiday lights, but he needed a drink, so a quick yee hah at the lights and we went directly to Market, at 15 Rue Matignon. They had some lovely bourbons at the bar and that was greatly appreciated. I miss whiskey, it's not easy to enjoy in Paris or Europe for that matter, but I was a great afficianado back in the States. I had many memorable evenings enjoying good bourbon, always straight double with an ice water back. I couldn't stand American beer, the standby beverage in most bars, and when I discovered Belgian beer, I learned what real beer is all about, finally. I totally get it, the connoiseurs raging about Trappist Belgian beers made by monks. I haven't yet found a Belgian beer I don't like, even the cheap, .63c by the can stuff, Leffe. And I found I can get good beer, really cheap in the Chinatown area, and rarely pass up Tsing Tao, since it's so cheap. It's nice to keep a can or two in the fridge for those hot August in Paris days (and nights)! Don't get me wrong, I love wine; my motto is, never buy cheap French wine and never pass up cheap Italian wine. The French get it right with their expensive wines, that's an absolute, irrefutable truth. But their cheap wines are horrendous. Just don't do it. However, cheap Italian wines are sheer bliss! My favorite is Pinot Grigio from Venezia. When I was living in Cannes, I'd drive up to San Remo and buy cases of it for less than a Euro per bottle. I love that stuff!

Before I moved to Europe, I took a quick trip to Venice with Doctor Heather. We found a deal we couldn't pass up, something like 500 bucks for round trip airfare and hotel, LA to Venice for 4 nights, just after Mardi Gras. I also happened to score tickets to the newly re-opened Fenice, truly one of the grandest opera halls in the world. It was a presentation of Mozart's first opera, written when he was 12.

Word of advice, never eat the veal on Air France. By the time we were crossing the Atlantic, I was quietly barfing every few minutes into a very elegant bag kindly provided by the airlines. Doctor Heather said I was the most discrete barfer she's ever known, and once again, she played Doctor as best she could. As Shrek says, better out than in, and the upside was that the air crew got us off the plane first and headed to the infirmery. We had a connection to make, and by gum, we made it and got to Venice in the early evening. We stayed in a stunning little hotel  near the Grand Canal and quite close to the big Piazza bus terminal, where we found a great little restaurant for the locals, and I even had a delicious chicken soup, restoring me to health and vigor very quickly.

It was so magical, that first night, even with some residual pains, but we were in Venice, in the middle of winter, in February. The cobbled streets were adrift with light snow fall mixed with sparkling confetti, We spent hours that night wandering those empty streets and canals, it was so quiet and the fairy dust was everywhere...

The next night was our Opera night and we went to the Fenice, only to find that the spectacle had been moved to another Opera house! So we raced through the streets with another couple, in our heels, long coats, gloves and scarves, twisting and turning through alleys and narrow passages following and trusting our new companions, to the other Opera house. I was really disappointed that it wasn't the Fenice, that was the point after all, so we enjoyed it for an hour and left to find dinner at about 10:30pm. I don't remember much about the meal, but I do remember the wine! Served by the pitcher, that house red was the most delicious red wine I'd ever, ever indulged in, so completely different from anything I'd experienced in the states. It changed everything for me, from then on in my little wine world. Since then, in my expert analysis and research, my Wine Rule has proven itself time and again. Never drink cheap French wine and always drink cheap Italian wine. Works every time.

If you know nothing about wine, just stick to that rule, you'll be fine.

Right, so dinner at Market, 15 Rue Matignon, Paris, just off the Champs Elysee. Lovely place. Modern, sleek, dark, beautiful room, discrete, quiet, very good service. The bread girl was very nice.  I had a killer calamari starter with a horse radish sauce, one of the best I've had in France. I had a pork chop glazed with something or other, and that thing was like a dinosaur bone. The French style of meat leaves a lot to be desired. Usually they remove any trace of fat or just avoid it altogether, and I think that's just wrong. Pork and beef need their fat, and I refuse to back away from that assertion. This was just a wad of meat on a stick, the bone as it were. It wasn't overcooked for what it was, it was perfectly cooked and not too dry, but it had no flavor and it just wasn't interesting. Not like the onglet of beef I'd had the day before out in Versailles.

We finished the meal with their cheesecake, which again, left a lot to be desired. It was nicely presented, but boring. A bit too gummy, and the sweet croustelant it  was sat upon was a bit rancid. It came with a portion of pretty red berries in a sauce, presented in a wrapped wafer cup, but it was too gummy and thick to be really enjoyed. Reason number 10,324 of 'why I learned how to cook'. Because I can make it better at home and make myself really, really happy. And yeah, I could definitely turn out a far better pork chop and cheesecake than Market did, that's for sure. Someday I'll tell you about my baby back ribs recipe.

If you ever want to make the very best cheesecake on the planet, simply google Cheesecake Factory copycat recipes. Honestly, yeah, it sounds cheesy, but they are the best, you can't go wrong. I tweak the flavors a bit for the base and say for lemon or lime, etc, but the technique, portions and methods are spot on and if you follow the recipes exactly, you will be very pleased!

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! I like spending Christmas holidays in beautiful places, including my own home of course. Fair enough, I just really like Christmas. Not so much when I was growing up, but as an adult I made the conscious choice to make my life exactly what I wanted it to be, instead of relying on others, therefore, I make Christmas MAGIC. And no other city on the planet does Christmas Magic better than Paris!

The lights, the glitter, the pomp, the markets, the delicious windows, the amazing food stalls on the Champs Elysee even in the rain like tonight, there is still a bit of magic in the air, it's the 1st of December, just 24 more days, yay!

Christmas is for kids, that's for sure, but these Parisians make it about family. I can't explain why, but it's just so much more elegant here! Suddenly, beautiful boughs of pine branches magically appear above shop doors and facades. I haven't yet seen a single string lit faux reindeer or a plastic Santa hung from a window, instead, beautiful lights, silver glitter balls, red or silver bows, it's lovely!

My last favorite Christmas was spent in Paris with my dear friend Doctor Heather from Los Angeles. It was the one holiday we spent together where I wasn't walking wounded or sick, and it was great for us to experience Paris together with the Kidlet. Meringues were involved. I haven't dared yet send her a photo of the new shop on Rue St. Dominique that has mountains of meringues in the street corner window. She'd be camped outside licking that window I think, along with the other tourists and children. It won't be one of her finest moments, but I know she'll be happy, that's all that matters.

A number of years ago Kidlet and I spent Christmas in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, in the Yucatan. We took along our Romanian Friend Ioana, aka, Iggie. Not a dignified title for a teaching Professor of Film at USC (she blames me for helping make that happen, cheerfully accepted), but a moniker of love and affection, nonetheless.

At the time Playa del Carmen was still a bit rustic, such a sweet little city, bursting with promise and great food, safe as kittens. Our favorite restaurant was 3 blocks away on the corner from the hotel. Open air, seating under the palapas at picnic tables, a grill in the front, and lots and lots of beer. Mucho Cerveza! My favorite menu item was the Grande Pescado, this HUGE whole fish, gutted fresh and tossed on the grill, cooked 5 feet away from you, served with buckets of guacamole and chips. Behind this restaurant we could see festive lights at night, and we went to have a look and found a nativity scene made by the locals, in the same tradition as what I now know as a Creche, as in, yes, (thump head) a nativity scene. I never have fathomed these Christian rituals, the logic of the stories just escapes me, always has, being kicked out of virtually every non catholic Sunday school in my small village by the age of 6 for asking too many of the wrong sorts of questions. A sceptic and and cynic at such a tender age afforded my mother even more reasons to not like me very much, the poor thing. We weren't allowed in the Catholic church at all, banned at the door, apparently.

So we appreciated this sweet, rustic home-made nativity scene, but the baby Jesus was missing, even I knew there was supposed to be one in there. We figured someone stole it or they didn't have money for it. We weren't worried, just baffled. The devil is in the details.

So every time we walked past the nativity scene, we'd stop by to see if they'd found the baby Jesus, and after 3 days of this, we were starting to get worried. It just didn't seem right. We may have discussed buying one, but none were to be had amidst the sombreros and hammocks, well intentioned as we were.

Christmas morning arrived and in our daily stroll to find breakfast, we made our pilgrimage to the creche, and lo and behold, there was the baby Jesus, nearly 5 times bigger than all the other figures in the scene, and with this HUGE head!  He immediately became dubbed 'Hydroencephalitic Baby Jesus'. All I need to do to get a huge snort out of Kidlet is say 'Hydroencephalitic Baby Jesus' in the 'Andy' voice (Little Britain). Memories and laughter are had for at least 10 minutes as we reminisce about one of our favorite Christmas's. Yes, the Baby Jesus arrived, as written in at least one version of the book, on Christmas morning, in keeping with a few traditions somewhere.

Great Expectations

I'm always surprised by the fact that I am still, even at the ripe old age of 39, surprised by the merde that people do. Surprised good, and surprised bad.

It should be noted here that I celebrate the anniversary of my 39th birthday and already we're in double digits. It's not like I had a party anyway to celebrate this year, so if there is no party the birthday shouldn't count. 

I had an indecent proposal yesterday by a lovely German chap who took me to an excellent, lovely and so delicious it was nearly scandalous lunch yesterday. The meal itself took place at Gaya on Rue Bac, and it really was a brilliant fete. Ambiance, a perfect 10, presentation, service, flavours, composition were all off the charts. The waiter even knew how to properly assist me with my coat, and he was under the age of 30. 

Were it not for one small niggling little detail, notwithstanding the indecent proposal, the meal would have been sheer perfection. Ok, there were two things, but the main issue of contention was the silverware. I've seen the style before. It's flat, short tines on the fork, shallow spoon and horrifically balanced knives. I know it's supposed to be modern and trendy and fashionable, but if I can't get my food to balance on my fork, then it's not working. There are worse things in life, but in that moment I felt like a clumsy fool and I don't like feeling like a clumsy fool in a posh restaurant with my silverware clattering and bouncing all over the place. I would far rather attract attention in more subtle manner, such as a glimpse of my magnificent cleavage.

So whilst the waiter knew how to assist me with my coat, on and off (shame he was so young, and a waiter) .... my date for the fete was not quite so gallant. He had met me at the house wherein lies my Very Teeny Apartment at my suggestion, as I do like intimidating people with the armed guards posted just outside the door. Perhaps it was the sight of all those armed guards, but after our hasty greeting, he dashed off down the street with me trailing behind in a cloud of cobblestones and dust. I had to insist several times that I don't walk quickly, rushing off after him as we are trying to get acquainted with him muttering softly into the wind in front. Kandinsky was invoked, I couldn't hear a thing he was saying and I missed it. I felt a bit like I was wearing a burka and chasing my husband down the street actually. Not pleasant.

He ordered for me appropriately, and it didn't matter what I was eating off that menu, I knew it was all bound to be all right, so that was fine. I like my date to order for me, it's only appropriate. Conversation was of course, all about him. One of the things I hate about being 39 is that I have to wear my reading glasses to see my food. I was wrestling with the sardines starter trying to see if there were any bits I needed to set aside, and finally just gave up and ate the whole thing. It was fine of course. But reading glasses to eat? It's not right. It's not fair either.

Lunch continued with my German extolling the virtues of French traditions, particularly the ones involving mistresses. He subtly revealed that he has a partner of some 15 years and a 2 year old daughter. I always come in late to the game, else I would have revealed that a mistress needs to be properly kept, including an apartment and monthly allowance. Given his stress over the size of the bill at lunch's end, I'm not so sure he's up to that challenge. 

He was very pleasant and conversation was quite nice, but again, the gallantry thing left me dry. We were seated upstairs and upon leaving I insisted that he go in front of me down the stairs so that if I fell down, I could land on top of him. He rushed ahead so I couldn't even use his shoulder, and didn't hear me ask for his hand for the last several stairs which had no rail to cling to. I hate that.

And whilst we were going down the street, he didn't offer me his arm and when I did grab it, had no clue how to hold it. Clearly not a fellow used to having a delicate damsel dangling on his arm. How on earth does a man of such culture and accomplishment thus far advanced in life have no clue about how to treat a lady properly? G has always been perfect in these matters... flawless, effortless. Doors, coats, scarves, panties. Off and on, open and closed, arm proferred, hand extended, chairs out and in, ordered for, pampered and properly attended to.

Over lunch I related a story about a recent encounter I had in the Metro and he was rather impressed. I was riding the line 8 to Assemblie Nationale around 10:30 in the evening. There were very few of us on the train. There was a young woman buried in a book, and another non-descript man wearing casual clothes, late 40's or so, carrying a grocery sack. He watched her for a few moments, then sat across staring intently at her while she was either blissfully unaware or studiously ignoring him. And when I say stared, he leaned right into her, just a few inches away. At the next stop he then leapt up and quickly went into the next train car, riding there until I got up and exited the train. He got out and loitered on the platform until I passed him, then fell in behind me. The platform was empty but for me and the creepy guy and he was speeding up to me. I strode along and looked over my shoulder at him, catching him right in the eye and loudly said 'do you want to die now?'  He stopped dead in his tracks while I kept rolling up the stairs and out the door, very, very happy that I got away with that one. It's always worrisome to call the bluff on creeps but so far, knock wood, I've always pulled it off. Having a very loud, very big voice helps. Thanks mom for 12 years of opera lessons.

It's entirely possible that all of his actions were entirely innocent and that he thought I was going to mug him... but I wasn't the one acting creepy.

Day 3 of no smoking, money saved so far, 20.70 euros.

Blame it on George

I have a very dear friend George. He's a very smart fellow, lives in Monaco. He travels a lot. George likes my writing, and he said I should make a blog and write about my experiences in Paris.

So I've thought about that for a while. There are many bloggers in Paris, it seems to be a blogger's paradise, at least for a few weeks. Then they get bored with the process and flutter away although surely they must continue to eat all the cheese they were blogging about. We'll see. This blog is a bit like quitting smoking. I'm not really going to tell anyone about it, and perhaps, eventually, if I behave I'll start telling people.

We had a lovely, miserably wet morning that gave way to sunshine. There is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes. I have coats. Dozens and dozens of coats. I like coats... I am thinking a lot about hats lately, and I want a top hat, not a tall top hat, but a medium tall one. Should be hard to find, but it's on the list.

Today I went to Guerrisol for a moment. I was on my way to get fried chicken. There is indeed a fried chicken shop in Paris, and just wow. Genuine, American style, deep south satisfaction fried chicken. http://www.allchicken.fr/restaurants/1/1/paris/#.UG3gApjMgqI
I would like to pair it up with waffles and see how that flies. A Los Angeles tradition, fried chicken & waffles. Parisiennes would dig it. Well, I would dig it, and that's all that matters.

At Guerrisol I found a fake fur coat in very good condition. I didn't buy it for the coat though. I thought it was 10 euros, but at the register the lady tried to charge me 30 euros. I sweet talked the manager into giving it to me for 20 euros, such a deal! I want one of those big fluffy cossack type hats, but I don't want real animal fur. Now the fake fur in the wholesale shops is hideously expensive, 70 euros for a meter, rather outrageous, it's not downtown LA, that's for sure!

So after de-constructing, measuring and cutting and sewing my fluffy hat is nearly complete. I shall also get a muff out of this fabric, which I think shall be quite efficient here in the Paris weather. A muff with a pocket inside for goodies... It'll be the new style, you just wait and see.

I shall post a picture of the hat & muff ensemble when it's finished.

I like sewing. I have a killer sewing machine in storage in Nanterre, but no room in my Very Teeny Apartment to set it up, really. When I lived in Chicago back in the early 80's, I was so poor I couldn't afford a coat, so I made one, sewing it by hand. It cost me 5 bucks I think, it was pretty cool. But then I discovered a treasure trove of vintage coats in the thrift shops, and bought up about 10 of them. All colors, shapes and cuts in wool with gorgeous, elegant collars, huge cuffs, grand embellishments, really classic 50's and 60's stuff that no one wanted. I paid about 2 bucks for each coat. I hung on to them for a few years, dragging them to San Francisco and LA, and sold them for about 20 bucks each, quite a nice profit. Around the same time I found a vintage lace, bias cut, floor length dress... Just exquisite. Later on in LA I sold that to Souxie of Souxie & the Banshees and she wore it as her wedding dress. True story.

So this is my first full day without a cigarette in 2 years and 11 months, since the Very Bad Thing happened. It feels pretty good, doing a hypnosis thing, it should be ok. So far, money not spent on cigarettes, 6.90e. ka-ching.

love,

t