Yuck!!!

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Maya Rose

There was no Friday Date Night. No, Mr French and I did not have a spat, although he did abandon me for the weekend on yet another one of his numerous business trips.

Instead of writing about a yet another memorable meal, I caught a virus. Or rather my blog did. And I had NO IDEA! Those nasty hackers are now infecting sites, so that even the administrators, non, especially the admins are not aware of it. FORTUNATELY this virus will NOT infect you or your computer. Its sole purpose in life is to infect blogs for Google ratings to increase (in my virus’ case) Viagra sales! so YOU ARE 100%SAFE .

Fortunately YOU are a GREAT bunch of readers and several of you sent me an email letting me know your access was blocked. MILLE MERCIS for that. Sincerely!Now that I have become something of an expert, I’d like to share a little health ed with all my blogger friends out there. 1/ 80% of all blogs get infected because the blogger (in this case moi) did not upgrade to the latest version of Blogger/WordPress or whatever platform you are using. Stay with the times, my friends and update when ever possible.
2/ What to do if you do get infected? There are tons of articles available online that teach you how to back up your blog, rout out the bugs and get it up and running again. For a pro it takes just a few hours. Knowing myself, it would have taken me a few days. Non stop, around the clock and much of it angst ridden. I needed a Plan B, aka a hired gun. This is a scary concept because you have to give a total stranger access to your blog and your ftp code. I went into research mode and found Jim from HackRepair.com. His prices are somewhere in between the bargain basement folks working from far off outposts and the more local “studios”. For a bit more confidence in his legit-itude, I found some review on him and his work, then I called and we had a little chat. Once I’d paid for his service, he started sending me emails with regular updates of what was going on. This is usually a two hour process, but I was missing a key password and the GoDaddy server went down. He kept me calm throughout it all and within fours, it was done.
I verified that everything was clean using a Google service and UnmaskParsites.com. I then reached out to the readers who had warned me in the first place. They confirmed that all was well in my little world. So thank you Jim, and to all of you for your support, and your patience…. I’ll be back tomorrow and next Friday I promise a date to remember. A date night at one of the Top Ten Best Restaurants in the World. Yum!!!

The King’s garden

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A few weeks ago I had access to a car, a rare moment for me in Paris. Reveling in the glorious summer weather, I was ready for adventure so I called my friend Mary Kay from Out and About in Paris and suggested we visit Le Potager du Roi at Versailles. Being and Out and About kind of gal, she was game and we were off… After a brief detour getting lost through Issy les Moulineaux, Vroooommmmm, we cruised through the Ile de France countryside, arriving at the royal city at a record slow pace.

I love Versailles. There is history, with a rich blend of beauty and nature. Paris in slow motion.   “Why do you want to go to the Potager?” Mary Kay asked. “I don’t know,” I shrugged, “I’ve wanted to visit for years, but have never found the time.”

A potage is a soup, a potager is a kitchen garden. Built on a parcel of land known as The Stinky Pond at the request of  Louis XIV in the 17th century, the kitchen garden is now the National School of Landscape Architecture and has been open to the public since 1991. The garden hasn’t changed much over the last 300 years. There is an inspirational collection of heirloom pear trees, splayed like Malibu sunbathers in espallier.

Parts of the gardens are an odd disappointment, like the melon gardens that are now covered by green houses and the fig gardens that are now administrative offices for the school. Others are pure magic; the secret garden we wandered into with a dwarf’s cabin, picnic table and noose hanging from a tree. The most opulent detail must be the King’s gate, which was used by Louis himself and is one of the few original gates on the entire estate. Bleeding heart Californians like moi will be thrilled to see that there is a compost site, a bee hive and an emphasis on seducing beneficial bugs. Mary Kay asked me again (and maybe even a third time) “Why did you want to come here?” I think that all my talk of YSL jackets and art exhibits must give folks the wrong idea. While I am undeniably a city gal, I’ve got the heart of a country girl and I love a good kitchen garden.

The boutique is great, too. Fresh fruits and vegetables directly from the garden are put out every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. There are packets of dried herbs, rhubarb nectar and Marie’s favorite tea. Everything homegrown and healthy to enjoy!

After our adventurous morning, Mary Kay and I had developed something of an appetite. we asked the cashier at the boutique for a recommendation and he sent us to the  Monument Café across the street. The café hich features produce from the gardens, presenting everything in a appetizingly displayed all you can eat buffet. This is as rare as the sun in France, so we made a feast of it, savouring all their specialties, which included confit de canard, gaspacho and an exotic fruit panna cotta. If the great food is not enough, tourists can organize private tours of the neighborhood, running tours and even purchase advance tickets for Chateau tours through the café. We left quoting Arnold, “We’ll be back…”

Le Smoking

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Just before the holidays Mr French came home from a business trip, a page of Le Figaro grasped tightly in his hand. I offered him only the briefest of kisses, mostly because he smelled of canned air, but also because I was mad with curiosity. What had he seen in print? Was it the latest dream hotel? Had my blog been “discovered” and I was at last famous (lol)?

Coming back to reality, the article was infinitely more interesting than I had imagined; an entire page dedicated to Yves Saint Laurent, Catherine Deneuve and Le Smoking, aka the tuxedo jacket. Mr French recently survived a petit ordeal with me and Le Smoking so he was aware that it is something of an obsession of mine…

The article reminds the reader of how Monsieur Saint Laurent revolutionized the fashion world when he introduced Le Smoking for women in 1966. It features a photo by Helmut Newton of YSL with Madame Deneuve when they posed for a cover of ELLE magazine to celebrate the 20 year anniversary of YSL Haute Couture.

I had been so obsessed with the insanely sexy, subtly elegant jacket that over the last decade that I would secretly pop into the YSL boutique once or twice a year just to try it on. Which was a bit nutty, because I do not have that kind of budget. But the staff never seemed to mind and would agree with me as I’d appreciate the master tailoring, the luxurious wool, the perfect fit. When I was down, or tired, the vision of me in the shop mirror wearing The Jacket would boost my spirits, give me confidence.

And then we were invited to a party in Venice and I thought that at last, I had an excuse for Le Smoking, so I headed to the Place Saint Sulpice to see what was available. Turns out that while I’d been out living my life, YSL had hired a new creative director, Hedi Slimane who had changed the label’s name and the cut of the tuxedo jacket! It was no longer fitted at the waist, the shoulder pads had disappeared and the fabric was just not the same. It looked schlubby on me. I was flabbergasted, distraught and slightly dismayed.

Several weeks later I was in their men’s shop running an errand. As I waited for the clerk to prepare a package, I started complaining to the manager. I was unhappy about the name change, I was upset about Le Smoking. Saint Laurent employees are extremely proud of their brand and Monsieur le manager was no exception. He kindly took the time to explain that Hedi Slimane had not committed a sacrilegious act by offing the Yves from Yves Saint Laurent. Au contraire, he was paying hommage to the legendary designer by using the original name and logo designed for the Haute Couture house before it gained international acclaim.

I was enjoying the conversation. I started asking about Le Smoking. Did monsieur know of anyone specializing in the resale of vintage YSL? Non, madame. Was there any chance an older model could be found abandoned in some stockroom in Paris? Je suis désolé Madame. Perhaps their China store would have it? Maybe the foreign addresses get the older stock?

Oh, does Madame travel? Well, yes, as a matter of fact, she does. Which is when the manager told me about a Saint Laurent outlet in the UK and another in Italy. Oh, and by the way, he had shipped off the very last of anything with a YSL label their way just last week. Hopeful excitement bubbled up through me, as a goofy grin spread across my face.

The next day I called the Italy store. Not only did they have the jacket in my size, but  the price had just been marked down an additional 40% off the 40% of the 40% discount, so I could afford it. It was time to ‘fess up to Mr French before hitting the SEND button. “You’re nuts,” he stated in utter dismay. “You can’t be sure it will fit and you have no idea what it looks like on you.” Which is when I had to come clean about those quirky little visits of mine. Fortunately, he is La Fashionista’s dad, so he has had enough fashion adventures that he didn’t suggest a psychiatric review. At least not immediately.

Then, like magic, several days later Le Smoking arrived chez moi and it is perfect.

As a side note, Le Smoking is very in this fall, but there is no reason it should be signed YSL. I’ve seen some gorgeous ones at every price point, from Zara to Zadig & Voltaire. Looks great worn with jeans and a white tank top!

Date Night – Pâtisserie des Rêves

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If there is anything that Mr French loves nearly as much as me and his family, it would have to be ice cream. Every night after dinner he asks what flavours ice cream are in the house. And almost every night I have to inform him that there is an ice cream shortage chez nous, I’ve prepared strawberries. Or watermelon, or any other fruit that happens to be in season.

Not that I’m a mean control freak, or anything. Ok, well, I kind of am. But the reason I never buy ice cream is that once its in the house, I eat it. All of it. I simply can’t resist. It has become my out of the house treat. By necessity. Which make Mr French something of an avid collector.

This Saturday, he noticed that La Pâtisserie des Rêves on the rue du Bac now serves ice cream. I am not sure how he figured it out. There is just a small sign in a corner window. But he saw it and was in Philippe Conticini’s swanky little pastry shop before I could tempt him away with promises of my own sweet nothings.

Usually I avoid this pastry shop. The chef is a genius but waiting in line with a crowd of Japanese tourists puts me off and the desserts are individually displayed under glass bells, as if they were jewels instead of cakes, which kills the childhood delight of it for me. But even I have to admit, everything he makes it stupendous.

The ice creams are soft serve and available in three flavours. Tarte au citron, Paris-Brest or St Honoré. What makes them so special and maybe even worth a special trip are the extra touches. I ordered the Tarte au Citron and was surprised to see the sales lady scoop a bit of graham cracker-y crumble into the bottom of the cup, we were both drawn in as she swirled the tart, lemony ice cream on top and by the time she added the lemon sauce we were bouncing on our heels in anticipation.

It was perfect; a gingery crunch with a hint of salt, an ice cream so light it felt like a sorbet and a marvelously zesty lemon flavour through it all. And on that sweet note, I leave you for a summer break with the family. Wishing you all plenty of sunshine and lots of ice cream!!!

La Vie Romantique…

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I can’t speak for every French man, I’ve only dated a few, but living with my French man has been somewhat, dare I say très, romantique….. Not that he should get all the credit for it. I mean, how hard can it be to make a girl’s heart swoon when the stage set is on a café terasse, a flûte of champagne on the table, cobbled stones lay below and a church is lit in the background? And if he’s really luck a jazz band will set up, providing the perfect sound track, leaving very little work for him to do in the wooing department. Occasionally he goes a little bit further, offering me romantic cards calling me his dear, his bunny, his cabbage and his flea. Or coming home with a blue heart shape album of Elvis Presley songs that you can listen to on my Facebook page.

It’s a lovely rêverie, but the Musée de la Vie Romantique isn’t about that kind of romantic, its about the Romanticism cultural movement of the 19th century. It is the movement that brought us artistic geniuses like Beethoven, Liszt, Turner and Constable. In France, Géricault, Delacroix, Chopin, de Musset and George Sand were all part of this era, and the museum is dedicated to them. Particularly to Madame George Sand who wrote over thirty novels and whose collection of art and artifacts fills two rooms.

As an idea, Romanticism was a revolt against Industiralization and confining social norms, in practice it inspired everything from politics to the arts to the sciences. As far as home decor was concerned, this was a very dark period, with rich, deep colors in a conflicting patterns filling rooms to suffocation. And they had odd habits, like making jewelery out of human hair. It is all very normal with a slight tinge of the horrific. It is not surprising that this period inspired works like Dracula and Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

Outside the museum guests can enjoy tea or a light snack under white parasols in the rose encircled gardens, reminding one of the more contemporary definition of Romantic….

ps, Impromptu is a great movie about George Sand and her torrid relationship with Chopin.

C’est la Vie…

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Excusez-moi, this post is several hours late. That is because today, I was out dealing with the French administration, which, after a few hours, helps one understand Sartre’s inspiration for “No Exit”.

The adventure began several months ago when Em mentioned that she’s like an official ID. This is a handy thing to have for art exhibitions, movie tickets and encounters with the RATP. Being someone who loves having all her paper work in order, I gave an enthusiastic OUI! and suggested we plan to go the first week of her holidays. That was in June.

Having done this before, I wen to the official site, printed out the list of required documents and the forms to fill out. We headed out the door, confident that everything was in order. Arriving at the Mairie of the 6th arrondisement, we were told that official documents were now being handled in the 7th arrondissement. Which struck my funny bone, because when we lived in the 7th I’d had to come here for our passports. We traipsed off to the 7th.

The office was virtually empty. 4 civil servants were in the room, 3 behind their desks, a fourth standing there with his hands behind his back. There were two citizens being helped at the desks and a woman waiting with her child. After several minutes the standing man asked her if she had an appointment. She nodded her head, showing him the postcard she had received telling her to come by and pick up her son’s passport. The man shrugged and refused to help her. He returned to his post, but several minutes later he must have gotten bored because he stepped back up to Madame, took her card and went to get the passport. Then he turned to me, asking if I had an appointment. I did not.

“You must have an appointment,” he informed me, pointing to a sign that confirmed appointments have been required since Jan.

“That really sucks,” I told him, “I was on your website and there was nothing saying they were now required.”

“You went on the wrong site.”

“I went on the official government site.”

“Aha! I knew it. That is the wrong site. We are not the government, we are the police.” he exclaimed triomphantly.

I didn’t know how to respond to this. If he remembered me he could prevent me from ever getting the documents I required. But I could not resist, sneering something that sounded like this, “I may be an immigrant, but I am smart enough to know that you work for the government. You may want to go back to elementary school and learn something.”

I went home and sure enough, the official police site is a government site and it did NOT mention appointments were now mandatory. But it DID provided the link to make one. So I did. The next available one being today. We had to wait five weeks to see someone in an office in which only 1/2 of its staff was occupied. No wonder France is in trouble!

We arrived and I was confident that all our papers were in order. Ha, ha, ha…. I was actually curious to find out what problems they’d create. Again, two people were busy, two were not. I had my appointment and its reference number. They didn’t check either, it was enough to say yes, I had an appointment. Remember that when its your turn folks!

First problem, the photo looked too small. The fonctionnaire wasn’t sure, but she thought it was too small. She went to check with her boss. He wasn’t sure either, but it must have been a rather funny, engrossing debate. It took 8 minutes and involved lots of laughter.She agreed to send the photo, warning us it may be returned.

Second problem, the I had not photocopied the back of my ID card, only the front. I brought out the list. They do not require a photocopy of the back. She wanted one anyway.

The photocopy machine in the room was broken. I had to cross the courtyard and run upstairs. BUT, she warned me, the machine only takes 10 centimes pieces. I only had a 50 centimes piece. I run across the street to the post office, where, she has told me, they have a change machine. The post office is on summer hours and closed until 13h30. The Prefecture is on bureaucrat hours and will not see the public after 13h30. I see a tabac up the street and enter apologizing, explaining my plight to the woman at the bar, who is shaking her head.

“I really want to help you, but the post office just started their summer hours and people have been asking me for 10 pieces all morning. I’ve got nothing left.”

A kind gentleman at the bar offers me a 20 centimes coin. I re-explain my plight. The emaciated man next to him, with tired eyes and drawn skin eyes me wearily. He has a 10 centimes coin on the change tray in front of him, but I can sense these 10 cents are important to him. He has been debating whether or not to help for the past three minutes. He offers me his ten cents. I grab it thankfully, handing him my 50 centimes in exchange. His face lights up. I return the 20 centimes to my gallant prince and head out the door, clutching the coin tightly, petrified I am going to drop it as I stumble across the incredibly uneven, 3 century old paving stones. I make it into the Mairie, head upstairs and find the photocopier. It is being used by a man needing many, many copies. I am so happy to have the right change that I do not huff, or puff my impatience. I stand their happily and he invites me to make my copy, explaining he has many. I go to put my coin in the machine. Which is when I see that it takes all kinds of coins. It does not make change, but it would have happily taken my 50 centimes coin.

I make my copy, complete my dossier and flounce off, totally thrilled that my extra 40 cents went to someone who really appreciated it.

 

 

Friday Date Night

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Life never happens how you plan it. This week I’d planned a romantic dinner at Les Etangs de Corot, a quaint little hotel in the countryside physically not far from Versailles, but mentally worlds away. I have never been before, but Mr French goes regularly for business dinners and I recommend it anytime a friend is looking for an afternoon get away. Especially for their Sunday Jazz brunches.

Then on Tuesday I learned that a very famous expat blogger reviewed the place just last week. It had been on my radar for years and he pulls it out of his hat only now? That same evening we went to a family birthday dinner that was so fun we didn’t leave until after midnight. The next night Mr French walked through the door at 1am, following a business dinner. I’d lost the scoop, my man was exhausted and Em was coming home the next day. It was time to cancel a reservation.

But I hadn’t exactly filled the house with ingredients, so I needed a quick, easy solution. Hello Anna & Jo!!!! A Brooklyn style pizzeria on the rue Pontoise in the 5th.

I didn’t come to Paris because I want to share American cuisine with the world. The food writers who come here and then start promoting food trucks, cupcakes and hot dog stands annoy me. I love good, honest French food. But you know what? Every now and again a girl needs a break from this city and since I wasn’t escaping to the countryside for the evening, I loved feeling like we’d gone to NY. Mr French loved it even more, thrilled with the cold, white subway tiles that line the walls and the East India Pale Ale directly from Brooklyn.

The owner is French, but loved the pizza he’d enjoyed while traveling in the US so much that he went to San Francisco for 6 months to learn the secrets of the trade and import them home. He also imported some real, American style pepperoni. The crusts are thin and crispy. The cheese is the real deal and incredibly tasty and, well, PEPPERONI. In Paris.

It has only been open a few weeks, and already the neighbors, like the owner of Le Petit Pontoise next door, can’t seem to get enough, so while the food tastes like the USA, the buzz sounds purely local. And the place was buzzing, absolutely packed with a line outside. Who said the French hate Americans?

Mykonos, la suite

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While the town was not necessarily our thing, we spent two absolute dream days at Mykonos, three if you count our Date Day.

The First Adventure was with Sunfos Alessia Yachting, aboard a two cabin boat with Alessia and her captain on a private excursion to sail to a deserted beach on an uninhabited island. It was the calmest day locals had seen in weeks with mild 43 mph winds. Which means we were doing an exhilirating 8-9 knots throughout the day.

After a brief conversation the crew realized that not only did Mr French love sailing but he is actually something of an experienced sailor, so they gave him the helm. 2 metre high waves crashing behind him. Thrilling!!!

We passed an island, rounded a corner and paradise was before our eyes. A lone beach just for us. We set anchor, dove in and swam to shore while Alessia nd the captain prepared our lunch. Greek salad, spaghetti and fresh melon. I’m not sure what it is, but throughout our travels in Greece, we came across nearly as many Italian restaurants as Greek ones. Mr French was thrilled for the change in diet and I’ll admit that the pasta was cooked to perfection, but, well, when in Greece….

After lunch we returned to the water for some snorkeling while the captain headed out spear fishing for his supper, spear. He was proud of the assortment of fish he caught and they were both thrilled with the seashell he brought up. We think its called a pinha… looks like a ginormous mussel painted amber and it is enjoyed raw for its sweet, nutty flavored meat, that they generously to share with us.

Heading home, the boat seemed to sit 45* to the sea, for a thrilling ride back to land.

During this adventure Alessia recommended a visit to Delos. Thus began Adventure Day Two, a tourist excursion to Europe’s largest archeological site. Had I’d planned this bit on my own, I’d have probably just purchased boat tickets and tried to see the island on our own. Instead, we asked our hotel to take care of it and they made sure we had a guided tour, which was fantastic, bringing the visit to life. It was amazing as we stood there imagining the 30,000 people who had lived there nearly 3000 years ago, or the 20,000 deaths that occurred when the city was invaded by Mithrades. Wine vessels that had been buried in the ashes of the attack lay against abandoned was. Greek columns stood in solitude under the baking sun while lions stood guard. Archeologists have identified the homes of local aristocracy and fish mongers, temples and wells. An Egyptian temple to Isis marks the way to the summit of what was once a holy mountain while below mosaics of masked men, tigers and dolphins decorate homes that have not provided shelter in centuries. Nature is slowly reclaiming her land from man and the result is astounding. So amazing, in fact, that after several hours of hiking under the brutal sun, we were sad to hear the arrival of our boat on the last departure of the day, wishing we could have stayed to explore more….

Mykonos

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After 4 days on Santorini, it was time to head to Mykonos. There are flights, but we took the ferry. A friend had told the ride was long, which I didn’t really get because its only 2 1/2 hours. Among the longest 2 1/2 of my life. Even in the height of summer the Cyclades are windy, which creates a natural air conditioning and can be lovely. It is less lovely at sea, especially while on a speeding catamaran ferry. The crew spent much of the trip passing out barf bags, an American woman screamed in desperation, asking them to slow the boat down. I recommend flying.

We arrived at the Mykonos town port, very happy to be on terra firma, and thanking our driver profusely for the cold face towels he handed us as we jumped into the van. As is our style, we stayed off the beaten path, slightly out of town. It suits us and we were thrilled with Stephanos, the beach just below our hotel.

The beaches of Mykonos each have their own personality. There is the “wild” beach of Sostis and party beaches with names like Paradise and Super Paradise. Stephanos is a family beach that fills up with locals on the weekend and has three very good restaurants, each more simple, yet delicious than the next. It was a great base for our trip.

After a relaxing swim and a late lunch at the beach, we were ready to hit the town. I don’t do well with hoards of tourists, which is pretty ironic for someone living in the most visited city on earth, so I was rather apprehensive about Mykonos. In the end, its like every where, it only takes a right (or left) turn to get off the beaten path. Which is what we did, by sticking to side streets and keeping our hours slightly earlier than everyone else.

The town strikes me as a very charming, high-end shopping mall. There were jewelry stores selling gems the size of my fist, art galleries asking 5 figures for a piece, and basically anything a jetsetter would need in an emergency (Alaïa dresses, Louboutins, LV bags, Patek Phillip…). Not exactly my scene (except for the sandals. I was very tempted by the hand-made in Mykonos sandal shops, even if I did walk away empty footed).

I loved seeing the windmills and strolling the white washed alley ways with Mr French. I was thrilled that the chapels welcomed visitors, and their cameras, and we got excited each time we saw see traditional women chatting away in their kitchens, or a group of local men hanging out at the kebab joint by the bus stop. Even the large group of millionaires dining at the table behind one evening was authentic; they were Greek millionaires enjoying a night out with their age appropriate wives. While not really my style, the place quickly grew on me, and we even ended up taking advantage of their infamous nightclub scene, enjoying exotic cocktails with a sunset view before the maddening crowds flooded in.

We had two meals in town. An extraordinary traditional dinner at the quaint To Maereio taverna. The room was cool and dark, just like a Greek home and our dinner included zucchini fritters, a pork stew with feta and sautéed mushrooms. It was so good I didn’t have to look at my notes to remember what we ate. The second meal was at Interni, an über-chic, jetset address, in a gorgeous cactus-scaped courtyard that included a chapel and two bars with surprisingly reasonable prices and excellent cocktails for some really fun people watching. It may be your scene, it may not, but one thing is for sure, you’re not in Kansas, Dorothy. This could very well be the land of Oz.

 

Friday Date Day – Chez Kiki

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Virtual every night in Greece was date night. We’d left the “kids”* at home for this very reason, we were enjoying some very well deserved Monsieur et Madame time. We were so looking forward to it that Mr French had taken me on a little shopping excursion to ERES before our departure. So there I was, hiking through brush and brumble, sweat drip drip dropping from the nape of my neck to the small of my back, streaming down to my exclusively silk clad bottom. Très chic, non? Its one of those moments when you see yourself in a ridiculous NYer cartoon of your life.

Inappropriate wardrobe choices aside, dining on a schooner at sunset, in a remote harbour with the sapphire blue water lapping at your feet, its hard to imagine more romantic.

Before leaving Santorini Mr French had a little chat with Joy, the owner of Dimitri’s, asking for some restaurant recommendations in Mykonos. Chez Kiki’s she said without hesitation. Arriving at the Grace Hotel Mykonos our first order of business was to find Kiki. We went to the receptionist and asked her to make reservations for that evening.

“Ah,” said the receptionist, “I see you’re serious about good food.”

I nodded emphatically, my silly grin probably making me look a bit slow.

“Well, they don’t take reservations, and they only serve lunch, and you’ll need a car to get there. Its on a wild beach on the north side of the island. A bit difficult to find, you know, they don’t have a sign, you just have to follow your nose.”

The place was sounding more and more attractive. The next day, while I was up stairs at the pool, Mr French ran into a car rental guy in the lobby and immediately arranged to have a car brought to us Tuesday morning. Tuesday, everything worked like a dream, or like we were on a perfect holiday in Greece, and by 10am we were off, planning to visit the island a bit before hunting down our lunch.

The island’s main town reminded my of a Nevada ghost town. There was an itinerant artisan with reeds tied to his, advertising his availability for restring rattan chairs. The square was deserted, except for 4 local men sitting in a café slurping back Greek coffee. Sausages dried in a cage outside the butcher shop. A lone priest guarded the monastery, his indigo robes flapping on the laundry line behind him as he chatted away to some Israeli tourists.

“Israel! I was in Israel. Beautiful country!”

“Uh, yes, you went to Jerusalem?” assumed the Israeli.

“Pfft.” he waved the comment aside, “Eiliat (an Israeli resort town). I went to Eilat. The fish, they were amazing!!!”
We headed back to the car where I nearly knocked myself unconscious with the car trunk. Classic me. Then off to the “wild” beach the receptionist had mentioned. On Mykonos, a wild beach is a beach with out parasols, lounge chairs, a bar or Europop blasting out over the loudspeakers. We pulled up and were astounded with the Caribbean blue waters. Walking down the trail I spotted a preoccupied looking man sitting on a stoop. Kiki! We found him before the bbq had even started burning for the day. I was thrilled.

We hit the sand and Mr French spent the next 20 minutes putting together a shade producing lean-to for me before heading out to sea for a glorious swim. I loved the swim, but as soon as the clock struck one I was anxious to head up to the restaurant, but feeling I should just be savouring the moment. I lasted 1/2 an hour before Mr French burst out laughing at my angst and got up to shake out his towel.

The area in front of Kiki’s is just a patch of dirt with a wall to one side, a church to the other and a aqua marine sea below. There were already people waiting for a table, sitting patiently in a row of chairs. I ordered Mr Fremch take a seat and stood at the door waiting for Kiki to acknowledge our presence.

As the large man lumbered to the door a Greek woman cut in front of me, trying to secure a place before the rest of us. I’ve lived in Paris long enough to make it clear I had been there first. Kiki would have none of it telling me to get in line behind the man in the chair (my very own Mr French) and letting Mme the Greek know she’d be after me.

So what was all the fuss and was it really worth the trek? Chez Kiki is on a large stone paved terrace that hangs above the sea. The branches of a tree create shade for the entire space and there are two windows, each framing a still life of the Greek kitchen beyond. One of the six boys who are constantly buzzing by, serving the 40 or so places, stops by the table asking what you’d like to drink and advising you to go into the kitchen to order your salad.

It is cool and dark in the kitchen, a traditional looking Greek woman stands behind a large refrigerated counter with about a dozen salads, each more original (and delicious) than the next. We negotiate which four we’ll try and she asks about the grill. I’d seen shiny large eggplants being brought to the grill and insisted we try one, while Mr French opted for octopus.

Everything was perfect; the view, the crowd, and especially the food, slow grilled over glowing embers, the eggplant dressed in a finely chopped parsley salad before being brought to our table. Dessert? We opted for swim in the pristine waters below, kissing and splashing in the lapping waves.

* I think we need a new word in the English language to describe the modern phenomenon of adult children who have left the nest but still require regular maintenance.

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