Roland Garros

Posted on 13 06amWed, 05 Jun 2013 10:41:01 +000001 2012 by Sylvia

I’ve never gotten tennis. I love going on court and winging a few balls back and forth, but I am horrible at it and watching others play has always seemed like an odd sort of torture. And then came Rolland Garros, the annual Grand Slam event that happens in Paris every year.

Ay first it was barely a blip on my radar. Then I started to make friends here and I started to hear more and more about. Turns out, its a real people scene and my curiosity was aroused. As I asked about it, I learned that many of my friends were big fans and it started becoming a serious topic of conversation, but I was still not interested enough to do anything crazy, like log on and try to purchase some tickets so I could go on my own.

Then came Tuesday night’s dinner (grilled veggies with tome de brebis cheese and a Pouilly Fuissé) and Mr French’s announcement, “I have an extra VIP ticket to Roland Garros tomorrow, if you’d like to join me.” Monsieur Wonka was offering me the Golden ticket, a VIP invite with lunch and cocktails. AND (because, after all, its supposed to be about the game) we’d be watching the international star, Roger Federer play the French star Jo-Wilfried Tsonga. It didn’t take me long to shout OUI!

Rendez-vous at the Tennis Pavillion, noon sharp. A leisurely lunch and we were on the courts by 14h to watch the women’s quarter final with The Italian Errani smashing balls back and forth with the Polish Radwonska. We had great seats and I started watching the game with some interest, but I had NO IDEA what was going on. So I started playing with my iPhone, taking photos. but that got old fast, so I started tweeting about the game, which made it kind of fun. And I started to get interested and before I knew it, my phone was back in my bag and I was at the edge of my seat, watching Errani win in a nail biting tie breaker.

After the match there was a brief break for everyone to go to the washrooms, purchase Addidas or Lacoste stuff, test the speed of their serve at the Longines stand, or have their photo taken by Balobat. There was soft serve ice cream and a face painter and so much to see that I felt like a kid at a carnival, which is pretty much what it is, only for grown ups! I could have stayed an hour, or two, but it was time for the men to begin.

I know its a sport, but let’s be honest here, even on the court, fashion counts. If it didn’t Nike, Adidas, Reebok and company would not spend millions outfitting every world class athlete in the planet, not to mention entire teams. So my first reaction to the match is that Federer was wearing a sad, grey t-shirt, no collar. Mr French assured me that this has been acceptable since Agassi in the 90′s. Fair enough, but if that’s ok, why are the women still wearing skirts? I have to admit that I loved his Nike sneakers with a white heel that made it look like he was wearing slippers.

And then the match began. Wow. Men’s tennis is really different from women’s tennis. They were serving that ball at 211 km/h. It was going so fast that sometimes we’d loose track of it as it zoomed from one side of the net to the other. In a total upset, the local boy did good, with Tsonga winning the match in just three sets (that’s pretty rare)!!!

Through the looking glass

Posted on 13 05amFri, 31 May 2013 10:57:28 +000028 2012 by Sylvia

Yesterday I felt like Alice. I spent all day in a meeting at the other worldly Hotel de Rothschild in the swanky 8th arrondisement, surrounded by fashionistas from across the globe. I saw stilettos so tall, the front sole was on a 2 inch platform. I saw the classic Chanel bag in about 16 different variations, and every shade of black known to man on every chic fabric wearable, including plastic.

I read a text message from Mr French in my mad dash home to make dinner for Em, who was celebrating because she had her second article published in The Girls Guide to Paris. The text popped up just as was posting the above link on FB, tweeting it, and using every venue available to me to promote me kid shamelessly. It said, “cocktail tonight… gardens in the Grand Palais, we’ll leave at 8pm.”

At the appointed hour, I headed downstairs, hopped into his car and we were off through the pouring rain. It was coming down in sheets when we arrived 15 minutes later and there was a traffic snarl with cops everywhere. What to do? Use the valet parking at the Mini Palais restaurant, of course! Which meant I had to lie to the valet parker and tell him we had reservations for the evening. I am only sharing this little detail because confessing it makes me feel like maybe I won’t burn in hell for not telling the truth!

Hopping over puddles in my 3 inch high heels was something of a challenge, and Mr French had a good laugh over the meandering path I had to take. But we made it.

Shaking the rain off my shoulders I looked in wonder at the garden that had sprouted inside this glass domed monument. A bamboo forest grew in one corner, a 1000 yr old olive tree in another. There was a fantastical treehouse spiraling up from the middle of the room and a larger than life, a Barbie pink mansion to the far right. In the middle was a corral or artist decorated bicycles and a sprawling field full of picnic scenes and mini Fiat cars. There was some photography and beautiful watercolors by a man from Lyon, Vincent Jeannerot. A Monet style water lily garden, larger than life mushroom composters, plated chandeliers, Bijoux pine trees and countless other organic treasures that really did turn the place into a Wonderland!

Polly in Paris!!

Its The Art of Gardening at the Grand Palais until June 3, with a supplementary show in the Tuileries Gardens and it was a spectacular breath of fresh air in Paris!

French working girl

Posted on 13 04pmTue, 30 Apr 2013 12:00:35 +000035 2012 by Sylvia

Wardrobe worries are the fun part of being a 10 – 7 working girl in Paris. That and the fact that I love my job and the people I work with. But there are also some boobie traps along the way, some of them of my own doing, and some uniquely French.

While I am loving this gig, it is only an eight week engagement, and then its back to the scrape and grind of being a freelancer, so I feel some pressure to keep this blog running and to continue working for other clients while also taking care of myself and the family with out changing our regular routine. As a result I have days like last Thursday, when I was out the door at 7am to get to the gym. I worked out for an hour before running across the Seine (in high heels) to attend a press conference showing off the new cosmetics department at the BHV. Then back down into the metro to be at my desk, fresh squeezed orange juice and espresso in hand by 10am. You exhausted yet? I was!

That day I was wearing a dress with relatively comfy heels because I was presenting to “the client”. No worries, I’ve been practicing how to dress like a local for ages now and by some miracle I even managed not to forget anything when heading out the door for the gym. I was ready to go. Running to the meeting, I heard a distinctive SCHLACK. Those comfy sandals I’d been so happy with were not happy with me. They were particularly insulted by the forced run across the Pont d’Arcole (had to look that up. Its the bridge from in front of Notre Dame to the Hotel de Ville!) and they decided that now was the moment to go one strike, the outside flap of the right foot coming totally unglued. The rhythmic “whack, whack” of the strap hit my foot, creating an indiscrete little beat as I hobbled my way into the conference room where the client sat waiting.

19h I leave me desk promptly, my shoe still beating a lively tune. I have a dinner date with my friend Jane in the 16th, to test a new restaurant for The Girls Guide. Dinner was lovely as we savoured peach flavoured kir royals and enjoyed refreshingly bright, light cuisine. It was the only nice day of the week. The evening was deliciously warm and balmy, so after dinner we took a quick taxi ride home, changed shoes and headed back out the door for a long stroll along the Seine where all of Paris seemed to have spilled out on to the streets, bands playing, glasses clinking and a roving astronomer showing us the full moon. Lovely. But exhausting as I wandered home sometime just after midnight.

In double income homes, French women do 80% of the domestic chores and pretty much everyone finds this normal. I am not pretty much everyone and I’d be screaming from the rafters if I didn’t usually set my own schedule, and if I didn’t represent 2/3 of the household chores by being the parent of the sole child in the home. Mr French isn’t everyone, either. He has lived in America and knows that this is not necessarily normal. But it has become something of a habit and I am not sure I want to change the routine for an 8 week gig. So, every Sunday since working at the agency, I hit the organic market up the street and prepare enough light dishes to get us through the week at the same time as I prepare Sunday dinner for our troops. On the first Monday of this routine I ran home from the office, steamed a bit of fish and reheated the green beans I’d prepared the night before, sprinkling them with a tasty basil chiffonade. A healthy dinner was served.

As we sat their munching away Em commented that the green beans were slightly undercooked. Mr French concurred. Their comments were met by utter silence, then Mr French broke out in hysterical laughter, “If this isn’t the hell of being a bourgeois housewife. You work all day, come home to make dinner, and we dare complain about the green beans. God, are we spoiled.” Spoiled indeed. Madame was not amused. The next night the same green beans were to be found in our salad niçoise and I can assure, no one dared say anything except, “Wow, Mom, these green beans are just perfect. Thank you!”

Au mois d’avril

Posted on 13 04amMon, 29 Apr 2013 11:06:41 +000041 2012 by Sylvia

…on ne se découvre pas d’un fil*. That’s French for “you can’t trust the weather.” The quote defines the uncertainty as an April thing, but that was before global warming. These days it may be cold and rainy on any given day of the year, even deep into the summer months, never the less, at some point all of Paris seems to let loose and start listening the rest of the saying, “Au mois de mai, fait se qui te plaît.**” The summer wardrobe comes out of the closet, weather and common sense be damned.

As a Californian, who never had two distinct seasonal wardrobes before moving to Montréal as a young bride, and as something of a clothes horse, the changing of the wardrobe is like Christmas time. Discovering long lost garments that I adore is like opening the presents under the tree as I joyfully wrap winter boots into their dust bags, putting them to rest for the months ahead.

Despite the Old Wive’s warning, I jump the gun every year. Like an impatient 7 year old who wakes Mom and Dad before the sunrise on Christmas morning, every April, after about two days of blissful spring warmth, I haul down the summer clothing and put away my winter wear. Invariably three days later I can be found caught out in the cold, shivering me timbers and cursing my impatience for summer.

This year was no exception, last weekend with Mr French off somewhere in the far west and Em with her Dad, I set to work early. Early in the morning and early in the season. The sad thing is, that the last two summers have been so abysmal that it seems to make little difference. I’ve now got enough summer sweaters, pants and closed shoes that there seems to be little risk I’ll freeze to death. Lately, only the colors change from one season to the next and the fun stuff, like light linen dresses and sheer blouses hang undisturbed in the closet, waiting for their return into winter storage. This morning’s bright sun gave me hope. Maybe we’ll get a summer after all.

* In April, don’t take off a thread.

** In May, do as you please.

Hag Semeach

Posted on 13 04pmWed, 03 Apr 2013 12:00:51 +000051 2012 by Sylvia

Passover, or as the French call it, Jewish Easter is ending. Woot. Woot. This is the time of year when Jews do not eat bread. Living in Paris and passing by the bakeries which seem to pop up up every 10 metres, as well as avoiding the bread basket on every table, is something of a challenge. Actually, being Jewish in France has been, hmmm… interesting. It starts with a government thing, which, when you think about it, is the source of many interesting moments for those of us who live here.

Napoleon was a major organizer. Today they’d probably give him drugs to control something with initials like ADHA or OCD, but back then he was free to conqueror vast territories and create the Civil Code. He decided that it was time to let Jews live within the Paris city limits, and had them form a recognized administration putting them on par with the two other official religions of the country at the time, Catholicism and Protestantism. Thus was born the Consistoire, the official administrative branch of Jews in France.

When we came to France, 200 years later,I decided it was time for my daughter to get a little religion. I called a synagogue. The rabbi asked for proof from the Consistoire that I’m Jewish. This is not unique to France and as someone who has converted, it drives me crazy. Seriously? Proof? Should I show you the yellow star Hitler would have made me wear? He didn’t need proof, simple rumour was enough. Who in their right mind would claim to be Jewish just for the fun of it? I mean while the rest of the world is exchanging extravagant gifts and eating melt in your mouth chocolates over Christmas, we’re frying up potato cannon-fodder grease bombs and spinning lame plastic tops. We sing ridiculously silly songs instead of heart wrenchingly beautiful carols. And John Stewart has a laugh out loud routine about this time of year! http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-april-9-2012/faith-off—adapting-passover. While my friends were busy taking horse back riding lessons or dance class I was mucking my way through Hebrew lessons. Spanish ham lovingly fed on acorns? Forbidden! Lobster? No way! Honestly, once all your friends have had their Bar/Bat Mitzvahs and the party circuit has reached its end, No One in their right mind is going to pretend to be Jewish.

In protest, I decided never mind, we weren’t going to do the whole Jewish thing after all. Their Dad, who had grown up without much religion, liked the idea. This sent my Mother in law, the woman who raised her son without teaching him a single prayer, into a conniption fit. Her husband had survived the Lodz ghetto, she had escaped the French collabos, there was no question that her granddaughters would not be officially registered with the Consistoire. She had a point and in honor of their family, I set out to get my daughters certified.

I gathered all the paper work requested by the Consistoire. Then I added more,knowing I was dealing with French bureaucracy. Appointment time arrived and I was called into a very plain office, with a wooden desk and a Rabbi. I handed over my Jewish marriage contract, as well as the burial certificate for my Mom, from a Jewish cemetery. The Rabbi looked at me dubiously, “Your Mom’s name doesn’t sound very Jewish. It sounds suspiciously Italian… are you sure she was born Jewish?”

“Absolutely” I declared confidently, brandishing the death certificate and not at all hesitating in my pure, bold faced lie.

“And the father?”

I had my electric bill and 3 different versions of each girls birth certificates, but I had not come prepared for this question. In Judaism, you are what the mother is, the father is irrelevant. I gave the Dad’s background, which included his family’s listing in the Jewish Who’s Who but without written proof, it was just air and he was not impressed. I was not coming back to do this dance again, so we were at something of an impasse. After much negotiating with Hebrew terms being thrown about in French, the rabbi took out the certificates, claiming the girls, “Jewish by mother, father’s religion unknown” and I was done.

It turns out that I was more done than I had ever imagined and it was not long before I was planning Easter Brunches for my step-children. Em still loves Passover, so yesterday I went to the Bon Marche and got her one of her favorite holiday treats that we discovered after moving to Paris, unleavened bread with orange flavor. I had some for breakfast this morning and loved the mix of orange and zest. Bitter sweet.

The Reading

Posted on 13 03amTue, 19 Mar 2013 10:45:10 +000010 2012 by Sylvia

When we moved to Paris, I dreamed of leading a cultural life; becoming friends with artists, joining museums and attending cultural salons like those once held by Juliette Recamier or Charles Nodier. I know, oh so very 19th century of me. But cultural salons are not a thing of the past, they’re alive and well, only I have not been to many. For some inexplicable reason famous authors, known artists and respected cultural luminaries did not spontaneously start beating down my door and the invitations did not start flooding my concierge’s mailbox the moment I set foot in Paris.

I had no idea how find the kindred spirits who hold these kind of events, and then there was that little detail called life. I mean, when you think of Proust lounging about with his pals, you can’t exactly picture a charming wife by his side and the idea of a packet of young kids scurrying about there ankles is just unthinkable. Well, I had a husband, and young children and I didn’t have a household of staff to take care of my responsibilities while I was out gadding about with “artistes”.
Then my husband left and I found myself with a French lover and my daughters grew up and that dream was still there, only the invitations still seem to be lost with La Poste, so, this Sunday night I decided to do something about it and I held a literary salon of my own.

I started by inviting my aunt, who was in town from San Francisco and who happens to be a successful author. In addition to a novel, some PBS documentaries, and a screen play, Victoria Zackheim is the editor of a series of anthologies. Her subjects generally focus on women and last night we had a full house of them in the form of local expat writers and photographers as well as a handful of Parisienne gallery owners and even a token accountant!

Victoria read from her latest book, Exit Laughing, a collection of stories about humour and death and how the one eases the other. Not an easy topic, but like her book The Other Woman, about infidelity, this collection takes the sting out of a difficult subject. Victoria spoke to is about her process and the writing classes she gives online through the fantastic UCLA Extension program. And graciously took questions from us all.

It was a lovely evening and I hope it is not the last salon in my home. To keep it going I have a proposal for you. If you live in Paris and you’re interested in attending a salon, please let me know by email, or in the comments section (your email will not be published) AND if you happen to know an author who lives here or will be in town, please let me know so that I can extend an invitation to Le Salon!

She aims, she shoots…. Goal???

Posted on 13 01pmThu, 03 Jan 2013 12:00:04 +000004 2012 by Sylvia

In the anglo world we spend a lot of time thinking, talking and obsessing about our resolutions, but in my French life the subject rarely comes up. I’m not sure why that is, the concept definitely exists in French. Perhaps its that French discretion, or may be its the influence of Sartre’s Existentialism, or the ripple effect of all those gallic shrugs. I did receive one resolution tweet from a young entrepreneur thinking of opening the Resolution club de sport. The first two weeks of the year the space would be full of gym equipment, the remaining 50 weeks it would be a bar.

When I think about it, I don’t have resolutions this year, I have goals, and I started working to meet those goals throughout 2012, so 2013 promises to be a work in progress. One of my goals is to start writing in French, something I am really horrible at, and it gets even more complicated as I change my keyboard from qwerty to azerty on the mobile device du moment which does not seem to have a bilingual spellcheck, nor can it read minds. this could be a disaster….

Les anglos stressent à mort sur leurs bonnes résolutions. On en parle avant d’avoir terminé la bûche de Noël, qui n’est pas une bûche chez nous, mais un pie, même plusieurs avec le mincemeat de la tante Ruth et le Apple pie de grandmère.

Les deux femmes vous regardent avec l’oeil d’un aigle pour voir quel pie tu vas choisir, quelle femme tu préfères ; la tante qui t’a foutu la honte de ta vie chaque année quand tu ouvrais ses jolis paquets cadeaux, le papier couvert de santa et candy canes, et à l’intérieur les slips horribles, style vieille fille, fait maison dans d’un polyester qui gratte, ou la grandmère qui jetait le cadeau de tes rêves dans un sac en papier, mais cuisinait comme, comme… enfin, cuisinait pas, mais achetait ses pies industriels au supermarket du coin.

Pour leur distraire la famille aborde le sujet des résolutions. On veut tous perdre du poids et tiens, ce sera bien de commencer tout de suite, n’est-ce pas ? Les pies ont l’air délicieux, mais on ne peut vraiment pas, merci de votre générosité, mais les résolutions, vous comprenez….

En France on en parle moins. Je ne suis pas sûr pourquoi. C’est peut-être la discrétion française, ou l’influence de Sartre, ou bien les ondes de le haussement des épaules classique des Français. J’en sais rien, mais je sais que pour tous les tweets des résolutions que j´ai réçues cette année il n’y avait qu’un seule en français, celui d´un jeune entrepreneur qui souhaite ouvrir un club de sport, Résolution avec des machines de sport les 2 premières semaines de l’année et un bar en zinc pour les autres 50 semaines.

Quand je pense à mes résolutions 2013, ce sont plutôt des objectifs, des objectifs que j’ai commencé en 2012 et que souhaits réaliser en 2013. Comme, par exemple, faire un vf de mon blog. Un projet ambitieux pour une californienne qui a rencontré cette langue de verbes irréguliers et le subjonctif a 14 ans et le clavier français a 40 avec un spellcheck qui ne semble pas être bilingue. À voir….

I’d love to hear from you…. what are your resolutions 2013?

Et vos bonnes résolutions 2013 ?

LEGALIZE GAY

Posted on 13 12pmWed, 26 Dec 2012 12:00:46 +000046 2012 by Sylvia

Yes to marriage, non to homophobia

Howdy all! I’m away on holidays, so I have invited my favorite guest blogger, my very own M, a teen who has something to say to the world, to share with you…

Several weeks ago, upon exiting our house I got caught in the middle of a demonstration opposing gay marriage. Being forced to walk side by side with people fighting against gay rights made me sick. To make up for that terrible experience, today Sunday, December 16th, I joined some of my best friends and what felt like a million other French people to do what they do best: manifest!

This was for something I strongly believe in; the right for same sex couples to marry and adopt. Because if you love someone, you should be allowed to marry them. Nothing else matters. Although it was scheduled to start at 2pm, my friends and I showed up at the meeting place, the Bastille, at 3pm and there was still an insane amount of people. The plan was to march through Paris, cross the Seine and make it all the way to the Luxembourg gardens.

When I was at the rue de Rivoli, not even halfway through, I learned that the people at the head of the protest had already arrived; we were about 60,000 strong! Everyone there had the most creative, personalized signs and the funnest part of the afternoon was reading them all. At one point I spotted an extra sign and asked if I could hold it up. They were happy to say yes; everyone was sharing. What warmed my heart the most was seeing young kids and toddlers, walking with their parents, proudly waving flags.

The crowd at teh Bastille

Reading the abundance of hand-made posters really showed you what kind of people were there, uniting forces. There were the obvious “Yes Yes Yes to gay marriage” but some got more original. For example one said “I’d rather have a pair of moms than a père de merde (crappy father). My favorite were a couple of older looking women proudly brandishing a sign saying that they were here to fight for their daughter’s rights. The way thousands of strangers could mix together, laughing and shouting, marching for what they believe in was a fabulous way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I am genuinely happy to have been able to participate. For the first time in a couple weeks there was sunshine all afternoon and it was a truly bright day.

Quiet

Posted on 13 11pmTue, 06 Nov 2012 17:15:26 +000026 2012 by Sylvia

As I was out gift shopping, I spotted something new. When you live in a neighborhood that is several hundred years old, spotted with cafés and shops that have been around just as long, you tend to do that. You notice the new.

On the boulevard St Germain, nestled between les Deux Magots and my beloved Café de Flore, was the iconic bookstore, La Hune, which had been around since the 1950′s. Open Sundays and until midnight, it was key addresses in the local literary scene, not to mention a major pick-up place for those who prefer books to beers. So I was somewhat stunned when I read that it was closing earlier this year. Not only were they closing their doors, but the space was being taken over by LVMH and NOONE seemed particularly upset about it. As an organic eating, leftist militant from a California village that successfully prevented Starbucks from setting up shop, I was actually more than upset, I was devastated. How had I managed to convince myselves (that was a typo, but I love it, so it’s staying) that Parisiennes were any more immune to globalization than the rest of the world? Why weren’t they hitting the streets to protect this icon and their patrimoine?

In the following weeks, the answer became clear. Noone was protesting, because they all knew something I didn’t. La Hune was not closing shop to leave the neighborhood. Quite the opposite, they were reclaiming a larger, brighter space just steps away. And they were giving DIOR the boot, a very elegant leather boot, I imagine, to do so. The tide of culture flooding out international labels. I’m down with that.

Which is how the prime real estate at the corner of the rue St Benoit and boul St Germain became vacant. Managed by LVMH you’d expect them open yet another luxury store, or expand the one next door. Instead, they launched a completely new concept. They opened a literary space.

A literary space? What is a literary space you ask? I had no idea either, and drawn in by the beauty of the space, I went to inquire. The quiet haven of casual elegance, with chocolate colored walls, mid-century designer furniture, and an art exhibit dedicated to Jack Kerouac’s “On the Road” is simply a space to read. Tables are stacked with books, comfortable seats with good lighting are available and people are invited to discover literature. Occasionally, there will be lectures. Nothing is for sale.

L’ecriture est un voyage (writing is a journey) is the current theme, with a collection of memoirs, fiction and adventures from across the globe. If you just happen to fall in love the book you started, and absolutely must know how it ends, you are welcome to walk the 49 steps it takes to get to La Hune to purchase a copy for yourself. Still open Sundays and until midnight.

L’ecriture est un voyage / 170 boul St Germain

La Hune / 18 rue de l’Abbye

Its my treat

Posted on 13 10pmWed, 31 Oct 2012 12:00:34 +000034 2012 by Sylvia

Halloween isn’t exactly a holiday in France, but this week I enjoyed a particularly mouthwatering treat, just the same. Mr French and I went to see Les Saveurs du Palais with Catherine Frot, a good film with some truly fantastic food porn. The movie is loosely based on the true (miss)adventures of a woman chef at the Elysée Palace. It seems that the president of the time, a certain Jacques, was not satisfied with having one head chef. he wanted two. One for official dinners and one for his private meals which created some jealousy and the film shows French male chauvinism at its finest. They say admitting a problem is the first step to solving it. One can only hope that this may be true in France…

After the movie we were hungry and following the film we’d just seen, good food was not going to cut it. We needed something beyond ordinary.

Mr French, being a resourceful guy, looked at his watched, noticed that it was a tad early (19h40) for dinner and suggested we check out Chicha and Simone’s Italian wine bar, Oenosteria.

I met Chicha and Simone when our children were in elementary school together and they owned a fabulous restaurant known for its carpaccio. Casa Bini is still known for their thinly sliced raw beef that draws the likes of Salma Hayek to their Tuscan haunt, but today they’ve added seafood to their expertise, hiring chefs from Southern Italy who are masters with all things fish. If that is not enough they return to their native Tuscany regularly to stock up on prime ingredients; artisanal cheeses, deli meats, olive oils and truffles.

Our children are now grown, and their restaurant kingdom has, too with Primo Piano at the Bon Marché (above the Grand Epicerie) and they chic-ly relaxed wine bar where we were headed, the Oenosteria.

With an open kitchen and fully stocked fridges, this is an Italian food lover’s delight. On the menu are sliced meat platters, cheese plates, seasonal salads and a few other treats like the porchetta with grilled porcini cap that Mr French ordered. The porchini was rich and meaty, while the porchetta was moist and had the lovely aroma of sage. Being true to my funghi leanings, I had the cèpes salad; a mountain of crispy, nutty raw cèpes slices served on a pillow of arugula. Parmesan coated the dish like tinsel on a Christmas tree and as it arrived at our table I was filled with childish glee.

The food was so good that it swept us away; we were on holiday in Italy, glasses around us clinking, hands flying in every direction, it was a delightful escape. It didn’t hurt that three of the 8 tables hosted Italians who were prattling away in the mother tongue. I was so swept away that I didn’t order their traditional tiramisu for dessert, but instead opted for their perfectly crisp, delicately flavored biscotti served with a glass of vino santo. Truly divine. Salute!!!

Casa Bini / 36 rue Grégoire de Tours, 6e / 01 46 34 05 60

Oenosteria / 40 rue Grégoire de Tours, 6e

Primo Piano / au Bon Marché, 1st floor

Finding Noon

A life in Paris

Category Archives: French culture