Through the looking glass

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!

Alice sized mushrooms!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!

Stilettos

Ancient Egyptians were hobbling around on high heels, so it is hardly a new thing. Monsieur Ramses was strapping on his heels to avoiding getting his feet dirty with blood as he worked in his butcher shop, so things have evolved considerably in the last 5000 years.  We can thank the Italians for several phases of this evolution, as they wore heels on stage in Ancient Rome and then, in the 15th century, took the Turkish platform chopines and raised them to vertiginous heights. Particularly the Venetians, who have left samples with heels as high as 30cm. It was an evil plot, with the Republic’s patriarchs convinced that this was a sure way to keep their women at home, or at the very least, under escort, as they required servants to hold them steady to teeter from Palazzo to gondola and home again. It’s no wonder we use the Italian term to describe the most daring, most vertiginous heels today.

And the fact that the term defines the shape of a sharp, pointy weapon doesn’t seem to be an accident… they can be instruments of torture. And yet, we love them, covet them and spend excessive amounts of money acquiring them. Even when they may be just a half size too small (but they were on sale, I saved a fortune!).

On the last weekend before our departure, exactly one hour before stores closed for the weekend, Mr French dragged me out of the kitchen where I’d been preparing the meals for the week and steered me towards the posh rue de Grenelle, despite the distinct odor of onion emanating from my hands. The rue de Grenelle is an 8 minute walk from our front door and it just happens to be shoe lover’s mecca.

Chloé, Stuart Weitzman, Giuseppe Zanotti, Fratelli Rosetti, Marc Jacobs, Michael Kors, Prada, Sergio Rossi and Michel Perry can all be found along the 75 meters of street that run from the Carrefour de la Croix Rouge and the boul Raspail. Oh, and Christian. Yes, Louboutin is there, too.

The saleswoman for the dress had suggested silver shoes, but I had settled for a pair of black silk mules, with a reasonable 2 inch heel that I already had in my closet. Mr French wanted us to follow the saleswoman’s advice, but I didn’t want shiny silver, so we had one hour to find a pair of matte silver shoes. I was feeling confident that I’m be wearing my mules.

First stop; Sergio Rossi, where they had a perfectly acceptable pair of matte silver heels. They were lovely and I could use them for everyday wear at the office after the event. I was sold. As we walked towards the register, Mr French stopped in his tracks. He had spotted a pair of black and grey satin stilettos. He was intrigued. I tried them on. He feel hook, line and sinker. 5 minutes later I was stumbling out of the boutique with my first-ever pair of stiletto heels.

I have to admit, the extra inch made a world of difference to the whole outfit. As I walked into the Palazzo in Venice, eyes were drawn to the sparkly tips of my toes. Women looked at them admiringly and a few even asked for a closer look. Not that I plan on making stilettos a regular addition to my wardrobe, but it was fun to feel like an It Girl for the evening.

La Soirée…

I felt beautiful for the soirée. I love the dress, which is the closest I’ve ever come to wearing a work of art. For the first time in my life I was daring a genuine pair of stiletto heels and all of my accessories were just right. I’d even had my hair done , braving the gossipy Saturday morning crowd of venetian grandmothers waiting for their blow dry as I tried to explain what I wanted in a very broken Italian to a woman who was used to back combing and litres of hairspray. In the end, the stylist did a stupendous job, creating a chignon that showed off the daring décollté of my dress, while keeping it all loose and informal.

Taking the elevator from our room I espied another Frenchman in a tuxedo. Assuming that he was also guest for the soirée, I introduced myself and soon met his wife, Dorothy. Before heading out together, we stopped on the dock to take photos and that is when I realized that no matter how great I felt that evening, in reality, I looked like an over stuffed sausage. I’m only now digesting my disappointment…

BUT, I didn’t let it taint our evening.  Mr French looked fantastic and we were in Venice! We set off on quite the adventure finding our way through the maze of this ancient republic; over age worn cobbled stones, beyond a lively square, left along a canal for 20 meters, and over a bridge. The sight of 2 smiling girls in regional costume standing by a dock let us know we’d arrived.  Not being in a water taxi, we crossed yet another bridge, passed a water well and stopped for a photo op by a couple of guards dressed as moors before going in. Rose petals littered the ground of a square, falling from a vase adorned water well that dominated the stone-lined courtyard while a stringed quartet plays light music and tuxedo clad gentlemen twirled ice cubes short glasses filled with amber red Spritzer cocktails while luxuriously dressed ladies sipped fragile pink Bellinis from champagne flutes.

The women were in long dresses, silken dark, flowing fabrics, jewels catching the evening light. There is a private garden with blooming roses, lion sculptures and a gate to the canal. A man comes over, introducing himself as the brother-in-law of our hosts and our table captain. I had never heard of a table captain before and quickly learned that it is his job to introduce the folks who’d be spending the evening together to ensure a good time is had by all. We chat and he is soon off to identify the rest of our table’s guests for the evening. Hands are clapped and we are beckoned back to the courtyard for a Commedia dell’arte performance with a human horse that is cut in two.

It is time to climb the stone, candlelit stairs to the sumptuous piano nobile where Murano glass chadeliers crown the ornate room like a series of tiaras. Spouses are separated as seats are assigned, food is served, speeches are made. I am the only one in the room with a camera and I am not the least bit perturbed by this fact.  We are supposed be used to this, taking it all in our stride; blasé. But I am not and I don’t ever want to be. I am living an incredible moment and I savour it. The French man to my left is catching up with an old classmate. I introduce myself to the gentleman to my right and quickly understand that he is an Italian Count and our second host for the evening. It is his Palazzo we are dining in and I have been seated next to him because this is a French crowd, yet he is more comfortable speaking English.

Course after course is served as this man, who has been the oldest son of the oldest son for 1000 years, shares some of his family history, pointing out the trompe l’oeil portrait of his ancestor the doge above the door way, explaining that his family is one of the 5 remaining families of the 12 (apostles) founders of the Venetian republic. I listen intently, then respond in kind, answering his questions about life in California. Just before dessert we are interrupted by an operatic treat; three performers from La Fenice opera house serenading us with traditional gondolier songs and arias. Bravo!

I think everyone should have Grandpa's portrait above the doorway.

After the high culture there was some low brow fun in the gondola garage that the Count has quite recently transformed into uno disco where we shook it until the wee hours of the morning, returning to our hotel room over the Grand Canal just as the sun started to stir and the vaporettos to whir for the day….

 


 

Friday@Florian

After a month of exile from my beloved Flore, I was rewarded with a visit to the equally historic, just as spectacular Caffè Florian on the Piazza St Marco in Venice, where I quickly discovered that the most important accessory was a partner. Everyone seemed to be a couple, strolling hand in hand, or side by side….

The Florian has been serving caffè to locals since 1720, serving such famous people as Casanova, Lord Byron, Proust and Balzac. With a seductively ornate interior and a sprawling terrace outside, it is the perfect place to stop for a Bellini after a long afternoon spent sight seeing.

 

 

At least, it would be the perfect place if you happened to be there during peach season. A true Bellini is Prosecco (Italy’s version of champagne) with crushed peach purée. Most places will be happy to serve you a glass of bubbly with industrial peach nectar. The Florian is NOT most places and refuse to serve Bellini is the peaches are not fully ripe and sweet.

To console disappointed tourists, they offer the Tiepolo, a crushed strawberries version of the Bellini. Less famous, it is infinitely more delicious and I savoured mine appreciatively as Mr French and I watched the world go by.

 

And a very brightly colored world it was…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And some more sedate folk, as well….

 

Looking for love?

Could it be her?

 

 

Venice

The water changes everything. Light is refracted, reflections magnified. Movement becomes vertical, as well as horizontal. Sound is absorbed. Winding, narrow alley ways create architectural canyons, with a peacefully comforting uniformity. The regular drum of passing cars is replaced by irregular bursts of sound. You are not in a city or in the country, you are somewhere else. Somewhere wonderful.

Mr French and I arrived early Friday morning. “Its much more dramatic arriving by train,’ he informed me. I nodded naively, having only ever arrived by bus after a short flight from Paris. We grabbed our bags and headed out the door to the quais in the pouring rain. It was the first time that either of us would be arriving by water taxi. The rain stopped and chipper captain greeted us from his vintage, wood trimmed motor boat, shooing us from the front deck into the back of the boat where the roof top slid open, allowing us to stand and enjoy the breathtaking view.

Our chauffeur had a brief errand to run on the island of Murano, and asked if we’d mind a detour. We were thrilled with the free ride and our unexpected stop at a boatyard. Pulling up to the dock of the hotel was luxurious experience and within minutes we were ready to hit the town.

First stop, the Punta della Dogana, the large warehouse space that houses the phenominal contempory art collection of François Pineault (CEO of the Gucci Group, now known as Kering). Getting there would require a long walk or a quick trip by vaporetto. Knowning Mr French and his inability to get from point A to point B without stopping at every other church, museum, and shop window and knowing Venise, with its plethora of churches, museums, and shop windows, I insisted on boating it. We didn’t have tickets, or any idea how to acquire tickets, so we just walked on and hoped for the best. Turns out, local authorities rarely check for tickets and we could have gotten free rides our entire trip.

The museum was closed until June 1. So we hopped on another vaporetto to check out the Fortuny Museum, featuring the fabrics of the Art Deco artist. The museum was closed until June 1. We walked a few blocks back towards the canal when the Plazzo Grassi, the second Pineault museum WAS open. A huge palazzo that belonged to the Fiat family before being acquired by the Gucci gang, the Grassi is gorgeous. For the first time ever, the museum was displaying the work of a single artist; Rudolf Stingel. The artist commissioned a ginormour oriental carpet and used to cover all the walls and floor of the entire palace. The effect was mesmerizing, and like it or not, it was art.

Our quest for art had left us both famished, which made us both a tad grumpy and we got lost looking for our next destination. Just when we started to bicker we came upon a square with a restaurant that had several tables under large white parasols. Mr French grumbled that it looked like a horrid tourist trap. While my stomach was doing sumersaults of joy. We had stumbled upon Aquapazza, one of my top favorite restaurants on the planet. Mr French was somewhat skeptical of my enthusiasm, but was quickly seduced by the fries courgete flowers with a light-as-air ricotta stuffing, while the linguine with lobster was just as good I had remembered. Italians are not known for their dessert, and coming from Paris, we often head straight for the espresso, but this was Aquapazza, where they have fruit gelati served in their original shells;  from chestnuts to walnuts, medlars to strawberries, it is all simply divine and served with a frost encrusted bottle of house-made limoncello.

We spent the rest of the afternoon meandering the medieval labyrinth of the city, ending our evening over bellinis at the mythic, historic, Harrry’s Bar.

I’m off….

So sorry, I’ve neglected Friday@Flore this month, but working in the ‘burbs has made it rather impossible to spend my afternoons sipping champagne. I’m working on a solution!

In the meantime, I’m on a flight bound for Venice, where I’ll be exploring the city and wearing The Dress with Mr French. I am very excited! And a little nervous. Keeping my fingers crossed I don’t break a heel, or fall into a canal. Both of which are possible as my heels are ridiculously high and fate-temptingly thin.

Shopping for the dress was a dream come true, but I hadn’t realized that it would require new shoes. In fact, there were lots of little details to take care of that I didn’t consider until I started packing…. like finding the backless bra I’ll need, choosing the “right” stockings (I thought nude, the sales girl rightfully pointed me towards transparent black), picking the right wrap (I was going to wear white, Mr French suggested the perfect grey), pulling out the tummy-tucking, ass-lifting under garments, putting aside a bit of make-up, selecting the fragrance, packing the evening bag and booking an on-site hairstylist. Oh, and running out of the office, between meetings, to get waxed just hours before leaving.

Yesterday, in the sardine-can-commute via metro, the man who was sharing the central pole, squished up against me had pink eye. He rubbed his eye, and touched the pole several times. I was horrified as I started manically repeating the mantra; get to work, go directly to the washroom, scrub your hands. Do not pass go, do not collect 200$. I was so deep into my meditation that I wasn’t aware of my own hand reaching up to itch my left eye. Brilliant.

Then this morning, as I bent down to kiss a sleeping Em goodbye for the day, she lifted her head bashing my two front teeth into my lower lip. Which has swollen to twice its regular size.

 

Sweet 16

I can not, for the life of me, understand why I think anyone would want to read about my non-adventures in finding a Sweet 16 birthday cake for Em. But I had fun, and there are few good addresses buried in here, so I’m sharing.

I’m still working at The Agency. Yesterday the family was coming for dinner to celebrate Em’s birthday and I had not figured out the logistics. More importantly, I did not have a solution for the birthday cake. When I work from home, ordering a cake is something I think of while eating my lunch alone at the table. From the office, it had not even occurred to me. Of course, finding a cake in Paris doesn’t sound like it would be an issue, but French pastries are not particularly exciting to a kid who grew up passing them on her way to school every morning.

This would not stop a Parisienne mom, but Em and I have always had a special thing about her birthday cake. There was the year she asked me to spread out a tub of chocolate ice cream and cover it with M&Ms, or the year that she wanted a strawberry cake, as in strawberries formed into the shape of a cake with flowers instead of frosting. This year I was left to my own resources, but it was clear, the girl had expectations!

Em loves meringues, but random bakery meringues can range from horrible, to divine and it is hard to tell which it will be without testing them first, so I called our preferred meringue supplier to put in an order. Yes, it is true, living in Paris, one tends to develop a rather peculiar list of go-to-addresses and I happen to have a meringue supplier (or two, she added, whistling softly, her hands behind her back and her eyes looking for a place to hide as her cheeks flushed red). Our first choice is always Gerard Mulot. His meringues are delightfully chewy on the inside, and even better, he splits them filling the void with decadently rich whipped cream. Yum!

Readers, take note! Those meringues are only available on weekends. Who new? I hadn’t had a clue. So I called meringue supplier number 2, Maeder Benoît. His meringues are the perfect balance of crispy crunchy and ooey chewy, and without Mulot’s whipped cream, they’re totally guilt fat free. BUT : Maeder is closed Tuesday AND Wednesday. At this point, I no longer cared if the meringues were good. Its the thought that counts, n’est-ce pas? So I headed out the door and hit every bakery in a 3 block radius. As the French say, « jamais deux sans trois» There were no meringues.

Six months ago I had lunch with La Fashionista at swanky bar/bakery/café. As we left, I stopped at the pastry counter where perfectly frosted, pristine white cupcakes with sparkling silver beads had caught my eye. LF quickly set me straight, they were not cupcakes, they were meringues. They were so gorgeous I took a photo.

And that is the photo that came up on my random screensaver as I sat at my desk trying to come up with a Plan D. I got very excited! I called. Not only did Josephine Bakery have meringues midweek, but yes, Madame, they would be thrilled to put 6 of them aside for me and although the bakery closes at 19h, the bar is open until 21h. I would have plenty of time to leave the office at the official 19h, take the metro into the city, transfer trains, and pick up the meringues before heading across the Seine to the pizzeria where 6 take-out boxes would be waiting for me to pick-up before I could hail a taxi home. I was saved!

A  meringue disguised as a cupcake is a special treat, but it does not exactly shout “Happy Birthday”, and its pretty far from our quirky tradition. Fortunately the 7 year old Em’s strawberry cake had given me an idea for the 16 year old and I filled the cake plate with a kilo of gariguettes, before giving them a generous dose of artisanal whipped cream. The resulting “cake” couldn’t have sung out Joyeux Anniversaire any louder.

Gerard Mulot – 76 Rue de Seine – 01 43 26 85 77

Maeder Benoît – 18 rue de Lourmel – 01 45 78 89 31

Boulangerie Josephine – 69 ave Marceau – 01 47 20 49 62

Quel chou !

That’s French for “What a sweetheart!” It also means “Which cabbage?” But ever since this weekend I’ve been thinking about yet another definition,”What a great puff pastry!” On Saturday mon chou, Mr French, and I were strolling through the Place de Furstenberg near St Germain des Pres when he espied La Maison du Chou. In this heavily touristed, bakery deficient zone, he had spotted a bijoux of a pastry shop with checker tiles floors, stone walls and pastries. Gorgeous, golden puff pastries in pristine glass jars, on marble counters and in a large woven basket. We had a hard time believing our eyes, as just weeks ago it seemed that the space had been a tiny art gallery.

The place was so darn, well… chou that I had to go in and learn more. Turns out we weren’t imagine things, they had just opened shop. And what a shop! Meilleur Ouvrier de France and Michelin 2 star chef, Manuel Martinez is the mastermind behind this new concept and I intend on becoming one of his biggest cheerleaders.

Lately, I’ve had a bone to pick with all the English language foodies who come to Paris because they simply love French food and then start raving about food trucks and taquerias and cupcakes here in Paris. Not that I have anything against food trucks or tacos. I love ’em both, but I’d never stand in a long line for them and I see so need to share the idea in the English language press. Not to mention that they are both better in the US (or Mexico). I’d rather encourage anglophones to support local delicacies and with La Maison du Chou, I get to do just that.

Forget cupcakes, head to La Maison du Chou where the choux are filled to order, a pastry chef injecting plain, chocolate or coffee flavoured cream on demand as customers wait in line. Mature, stoic, elegantly clad Parisians, looking over the counter like hungry school children. Its fabulous. And the pastries are not filled with just any cream. Instead of the traditional pastry cream, these choux feature an original fromage blanc mousseline. Simply delicious.

A hymn…

Rich blue sapphires, golden topazes, apple red rubies…. No, I did not go jewelry shopping this weekend, rather I spent a lovely hour (or so) with a fairly dense crowd at the Musée du Senat in the Luxembourg gardens diving into the sumptuous colors at the Chagall exhibit.

I like Chagall. I am aware that he is not for everyone. Upside down chickens and flying musicians do not reflect classical realism, nor modern abstract purity and it all requires a willing suspension of disbelief. But I love his gem stone palette, and I find his fantastical characters, often dancing, kissing, playing music absolutely delightful. His work has been known to make my make heart do a little jig. I suspect I am not the only one and that this is perhaps why he was chosen to paint the ceiling at the Opera Garnier. His stained glass windows adds the perfect counterpoint of colorful light to the cold grey stones at the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Reims, making it my favorite cathedral in France.

The Musée du Senat is small, which makes this show easy to digest, and as the work is shown chronologically, you get a very good sense of the artist’s evolution, which really highlighted his genius, as his style changed little throughout his career. You start to understand the context in which he worked; the village where he was born, the war that raged through Europe, his exile. But most of all, you gradually begin to notice that the driving factor of his art, the underlying theme of it all, is love. Love for his homeland, his wife Bella and of life in general. You don’t need the written explanations on the walls to understand that Chagall was focused his attention on the magic in life. And a visit to this show is a great little uplifting moment in the sun, to quote an inscription from the show, “A hymn to light and life…..”

NOTE – I just spoke to a colleague from NYC who was not impressed with the show. Not one bit. When I asked why she said that these were not his best works. She has a point. The show really is like a sweet little hymn, and not at all a profound symphony of the great master’s works. 

Musée Maillol

I have a short attention span, which probably explains why I write headlines and not novels. It definitely explains why I was so surprised when I went to the Musée Maillol  exhibition on Murano glass. After waiting in a short line, and entering the main room I was rather shocked to find a room filled with contemporary art. This would not have happened had I taken the nano-second required to read the  show’s full title; MURANO, masterpieces from the Renaissance to the 21st Century.

On the other hand, I would have been totally lost had I read the press release which claims the work is shown in chronologically order. It is not. The show begins with a collection of work by contemporary artists, many of them alive and working today. Some of it bizarre, some of it beautiful.  My favorite piece, by the Recycle Group is a bed of crushed glass with footprints that would appear and disappear. It is fun and has something to say, although I am not entirely certain it is art.

As much as I love contemporary art, I was happy to head upstairs to start appreciating the intricately gorgeous works from the Renaissance. Glass blowing became an important contributor to the Venetian purse strings in the 12th century. It was so essential to the local economy that the doges decided it was at great risk of industrial espionage. The entire industry was moved to the island of Murano where the glass blowers had to live for the rest of their lives. They were not allowed to leave the island unless it was in a casket.

There are some truly stunning pieces in the Maillol exhibition, cups that look like lace, bowls with an opalescent glow. You start to wonder how they survived through out the centuries. The stories they could tell. The work gradually gets more and more modern, ending with the mid-20th century. The colors become vibrantly rich, with bold shapes and touches of humour that having you leave the show in a good mood.

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...