Bloomin’ Spring

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When we first moved here, I wasn’t exactly used to winters. I’d done five years in Montreal, so they weren’t completely foreign, but I’m a third generation Californian and five years is not going to change what’ bred in the bone. We arrived on February 1, right in the thick of one of the colder winters on record. It wasn’t ideal.

I was distracted with all the details of moving in, so it hardly registered. What got me down was the early sunset with the dramatically shorter days in which to get things done. The lack of light was depressing, despite my overwhelming joy at being in Paris.

One day was particularly bad. My husband du jour was off on a business trip and the chauvinist principal of my daughter’s school was insisting she be held back a year before she’d ever set foot in a class room. And, oh, yeah, I had pneumonia. Leaving the neighborhood public school after our third discussion on the subject, I was absolutely furious with this fat, balding man who looked like Santa’s Mini Me with a rat’s tail up ‘do. I stormed across the street, talking to myself as I tripped over a pile of snow at the curb.

Even angrier now, I looked up and there he sat. A cheerful man, beaming up at me from his wheelchair, a basket of fresh violet flowers on his lap.

He held up his basket, “2€ a bouquet. Would you like one?”

My anger melted away, I smiled as I stuck my nose into the delicately fragrant bunches.

— Ah, oui….

It was exactly what I needed at the moment I needed it. Not only did I feel better about my day, but those flowers were a promise of spring and the light to come. I bought him out, filling our home with the fragile flowers, refusing to throw them out long after they’d faded.

Every year, I’d wait expectantly for the man and every year I’d buy a handful of violets, until one year, he was gone. But the violets still pop up and every year I am thrilled to see them as they remind me that soon the daffodils will be blooming, then tulips and soon it will be spring.

This winter has been particularly grim, the greyest in 50 years according to local weather reports, and March roared in before I’d seen a single bouquet, so I was particularly thrilled to spot them at our local florist this weekend. The sun’s gonna shine!

ps… My daughter did not get held back and earned top honors imstead.

Scheherazade

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An exotic name that evokes love and romance. Somehow I made it through childhood, beyond my teens and into adulthood without ever having read the story of the Princess Scheherazade and the Tales of the 1001 Nights. I knew about Ali Baba and the 40 Thieves, Aladdin and Sinbad the Sailor, but mostly through Disney and Hanna-Barbera, I did not know about the beautiful virgin married off to an evil despot who believe all women were philandering whores. A belief that inspired him to take a bride every morning and have her assassinated before the next sunrise. The vizer’s daughter was horrified to see all these innocent young women loose their lives, and decided to do something about it. She convinced her father to let her be the next bride. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but he’s not the first man to find himself firmly wrapped around his daughter’s little finger. And, she assured him, she had a plan.

That night in bed, alone with her king Scheherazade began to spin a tale. A wonderful, enchanting story that had the King completely enthralled. He had to know how it ended, but she fell conveniently asleep before revealing who done it. If the king wanted to know what happened next, he had to spare her life, and he did. This went on for 1001 Nights.

L’Institut du Monde Arabe celebrates Scheherzade with the exhibition LES MILLE ET UNE NUITS that will run until April 28th. Entering the show, I was swept away by the modern version of a flying carpet that hovers about the first room, showing the various editions of the book, from the earliest known example in Arabic (on loan from the University of Chicago, thank you dear daughter) to the decidedly more modern 19th century French translations.

Winding through the exhibition there is a sound area dedicated to the recital of some of the tales, read by French actress and singer Sapho. I slipped on the headphones and was swept away by the seductive poetry of her voice, although the tales themselves are sometimes sad and sometimes violent.

There are more rooms. Some featuring the art from the region, other focusing on the story’s history in film. There are jewelery and costumes, and weapons of war; a totally bizarre foil-wrapped room featuring genies and djinn, as well as some truly exquisite objets d’art. There was a set of Chinese haircombs made of metal and kingfisher feathers that were stunning. Throughout the show, the colors are rich, the materials sumptuous and the subject enthralling, everything you’d expect from a centuries old tale that translates into nearly every culture across the globe.

 

 

 

The Reading

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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!
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Friday@Flore (not)

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Its not Friday and these photos were not taken at the Café de Flore. Last Friday, in fact, I was across town from the Flore, working at an agency near the Grands Boulevards. I wanted to get out there and take some street fashion photos for you, but with a computer, two iPads and some serious warm winter gear in tow, I didn’t have the room in my portable, office, aka my hand bag! And then there was reason for toting all that winter gear about. It was cold outside. After having spent my summer in the southern hemisphere with below zero temps, my holiday break in Lapland and last week in the Alps, I’m feeling the deep freeze in the very marrow of my bones and My self simply refuses to spend any time in the cold unless it is for my immediate survival.

So, I tucked into a glass enclosed terasse that was swimming in sunlight. so much sunshine poured in I kept my sunglasses on and I was happy like a cat in a sun beam, I sat their relishing every little wave of UV as they caressed my skin. i’m afraid my purring could be heard two tables over!

But I did get in some street fashion shots. The man in the skirt is a more common sight than you’d imagine. Like most of the local kilt wearers, he was a rugby fan, in town to watch France play Scotland in the final match of the 6 Nations tournament. The game was Saturday, so I perhaps he was planning on pulling an all niter and perhaps his national team joined him, because France dominated the game and won their only victory of the competition.

I love the scarf of the girl who is oggling his knees, big and bulky as fashion demands, with a bright, personal touch of color! Just in time for spring, and perhaps a bit more sunshine. Bright days ahead!!!

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Detox redux

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A few weeks ago I wrote about my first delivery of Detox Delight. I had committed to a 5 day juice fast and I was excited about trying a new, healthy experience. I was hoping to shed some weight, and be one of those cool people who can say, “Oh, yes, I’ve done a detox.” It sounds so enlightened, n’est-ce pas?

Like the American expat I met last month who went into ecstasies about the 43 liquid fast she’d do every year when she lived in the US. I was totally impressed as she went on about the evolution and how your body adapts over time. I asked why she’d stopped her annual tradition.

“Are you kidding? We live in France now, honey. I am not going to deprive myself of French cuisine for 43 days!”

But exactly how enlightened was I? Or rather, how light had become?

First of all, let me say that I cheated. On the evening of the fourth day we had a dinner date that had been planned months earlier. There was no way I could cancel, or re-schedule. But with that one exception, I stuck to the program. I loved the first few days, feeling virtuous and all that, but by day three, my mouth was craving texture, my taste buds crying out for some variety, I wanted to cry each evening as I prepared the family dinner (yes, I still had dinner duty). What saved me was the authorization to eat a piece of dried fruit or a few nuts each day. I’d cherish my little snacks like precious gem stones.

The results? I lost 2.5 kilos, and put 1 back on almost immediately. The rest has stayed off despite a ski holiday that included a daily tea time treat, 6 units of alcohol and 1 fondue dinner. Which kind of gives you an idea of the true results; I am healthier.

Detox has made me super conscious of everything I eat, and inspired me to adjust some of my eating habits;

1/ I’ve been driven to drink. Detox Delight suggests drink 2 litres of water a day, in addition to your “meals”. Well, I am back on solids, but I’m still drinking like a mad women, which seems to have my skin looking healthier than it has in ages, pleasantly plump and hydrated. Last week a neighbor didn’t recognize me at the grocery store. “I thought it was you, but then I thought, non, Sylvia’s way older than that!”

2/ I’ve gone dry. All that drinking has me thinking about what I do drink, so my alcohol consumption has gone way down. On holidays I had the equivalent of a drink per day, but in Paris its now closer to 2 drinks per week. The hardest part was learning how to get around social drinking. At my “cheat” dinner, I had to excuse myself and explain why I wasn’t having an apéro. You’d have thought a green head was growing out of my left shoulder by the expression on their face as I explained the concept of Detox.

3/ Bye bye bread. I’ve nearly cut it out of my diet. Unless its an integral part of my meal, like that fondue I had in the Alps, a pulled pork sandwich from a local wine bar, or perhpas the wrappers around the gyoza I’ll be having for lunch today. I am not eating bread after breakfast and I am avoiding starches all together. Proteins keep me from being hungry, vegetables fill me up, so this seemed like the easiest thing for me to cut back on.

4/ Veg-o-rama! I was a vegetarian for much of my adult life. Then I moved to Paris and became a confirmed carnivore. I even love a good tartare now! But French cuisine is not a big fan of vegetables, considering both beans and potatoes a worthy substitute. While a hearty cassoulet is a scrumptious feast, and is just what the doctor ordered for hearty men working out in the frozen fields from dawn until dusk, it is not exactly on my prescription sheet, so I am re-learning to build my meals around foods that recently had roots.

I am loving all the healthy influences of Detox Delight, but those five days were torture for an undisciplined gal like me. Next time I’d be tempted to choose their option that includes salads, and foods with textures. But I think the best solution for me would be a weekly Detox Delight, allowing me to clean out my system and reminding me to stay on track for the rest of the week, month, year!

The debate

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London gets a bad rap for being grey and rainy, but Paris does not exactly enjoy tropical highs on a regular basis. In fact, sunny days with bright blue skies are remarkably rare in this part of the world, so when the sun does shine, there is only one place I want to be; outside! Mr French, who works outside the city all week, sees things differently, because while he is happy to see the sunshine, he has exactly 8 days a month in which he is out of the office. After doing a bit of sports, grocery shopping and running errands this does not leave him with much time to take advantage of everything Paris has to offer. Especially not art exhibitions, which is his second favorite hobby after rugby.

So when the sky is bright and the sun is high, we occasionally find ourselves facing a dilemma; he needs his fix for fine art and I stubbornly refuse to pass through a doorway. This is exactly what happened last week as we walked home after a leisurely lunch in the 14th, negotiating a truce debating our options.

The Adams Family!!!

We were so wrapped up in our conversation, we almost didn’t realize that we were in front of the Montparnasse Cemetery. Even though it is a short walk from our front door, I’d never been inside, yet had always wanted to because I’d heard fabulous things about the Pigeon family grave. Trying to change the subject, I suggested we take a detour and quickly found that we’d accidentally stumbled upon our solution!

At the entrance of the cemetery, there is a guard’s booth where they offer free maps. Looking it over the long list of luminaries and celebrities, we were quickly enthralled and insatiably curious. Jean Paul Sartre is buried beside the love of his life Simone de Beauvoir. The poet Baudelaire, the singer/songwriter Serge Gainsbourg, the actress Jean Seberg, and American feminist Susan Sontag all keep one another company.

As we strolled through the grounds, passing families with kids learning to master the tricycle, dapper seniors out for a stroll and the curious, like us, we came across famous names from the literary establishment. Names like the dictionary Larousse, as well as the editors Flammarion and Hachette. And I even found the Adams Family! Something about cemeteries brings out the kid in me. I felt slightly guilty about my laughter over the Penis family headstone, but was unabashed about taking photos of this phallus symbol, I mean really, it’s circumcised, there is no doubt about the sculptor’s intent!!

The cemetery has a surprising number of sculptures by internationally acclaimed artists. There are two works by Niki de Saint Phalle and the Brancusi masterpiece, “Le Baiser”.

It took us a while to find “The Kiss”. Hidden in a remote corner of the cemetery, we kept looking down at the gravestones. Then Mr French had the bright idea of looking up for security cameras, which is when he spotted the statue. Simply breathtaking. We headed towards the exit, but just three tombs down from the work of art we spotted an empty tomb, with a note informing passers by that this lot is available for rent.

 

 

Mr French paused mid-step, “What do you think? We could be buried just steps from Le Baiser. The shadow of a kiss thrown across our tomb for eternity.”

Skiing in the Alps – A How NOT to

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Last week, while posting about food and fun in London, I was actually in the French Alps skiing. I spent the first few days up there complaining to friends, family and anyone who would listen via Facebook or Twitter, until a good friend sent me text reminding me that week in the Alps is not exactly a punishment.

The reason I was complaining is because I had a sick teen (check out the video here) AND I am terrified of skiing. I was never a confident skier, but four years ago I had a little incident while taking lessons at Val Thorens. It had been the fourth day of a beginner class and a young, cheerful girl skied up, introducing herself as our substitute for the weather worn, cowboy grandfather we’d been with all week. The first few hills were a dream. The sky was clear, the snow perfect. We were doing so well she felt inspired to take our group of beginners into an extreme sports snow park. She led us to the top of the slope that had a series of four bumps, one after the other. She explained that we needed to keep our knees bent and loose to absorb our landings, and she was off. I was perhaps the fifth or sixth person in line. While petrified, I trusted our instructor to know our skill level. One bump, two bumps, I was doing fine. As I rose into the air on the fourth bump I saw that there were another dozen bumps to go. Bumps that I hadn’t seen from the top and that I was not prepared for. My body went rigid, I took flight and I landed on my head.

I don’t know what happened next. I was unconscious. I know that they took me down the mountain and that someone very carefully removed my garments over my head, without cutting anything and folded it all neatly into a bag that I received several days later. I had an MRI and at some point they called Mr French.

His phone rang just as he skied up to our rental apartment for lunch. He plugged Em and her BFF into a DVD of The OC (the anacronym generation) and rushed down to find a still unconscious me and hear the debate over sending me to the hi-tech hospital in Grenoble via helicopter or to the adequate local hospital via ambulance. It was decided that there would be no need for surgery, so I was sent down the winding roads of the mountain, Mr French in the front seat of the ambulance as I violently gained consciousness, projectile vomiting up all over myself and the EMT.

I spent a week in that hospital. Mr French had to drive back to Paris, my place in the passenger side vacant. It was another month before I was able to climb up the stairs to my bedroom in our Paris flat.

For this trip, my friend had a point about all my complaining so I shut up and things did get better. A good time was had by all.

Well, almost all. Since the accident, I now get a private instructor. On our first day skiing, my instructor was not having such a good time, totally frustrated with my snail’s pace on the slopes and how often I’d revert to the snow plow. He got so annoyed that he made a sarcastic comment or four, loosing his head. Almost literally. Just metres from the end of our last run, he went somersaulting violently through the air, his skis flying in two different directions and landing flat on his back, where he stayed for a good five minutes before getting up, claiming he was alright. 10 metres further down the slope, he wasn’t looking so good. The color had left his face, his body started to sway and he stopped an instant before passing out. Other instructors noticed his distress and came to help out, skiing him down the slope as he passed out one more time before getting to the medical clinic.

I was ready to stop skiing right then and there. The director of the ski school called to tell us that the instructor would be fine in a week or so and that he’d found us a substitute. I told him that I wasn’t sure that would be necessary and he told me to stop being silly.

“It was a collection of unfortunate events. He was trying to avoid a class of skiers, so he went off the run. And, well that slalom pole should not have been hidden in the snow like that. That is what sent him flying. It was just bad luck. It could have happened just as easily on a sidewalk.”

Really? Just as easily on a sidewalk? I spend a lot of timing hoofing it on streets of Paris and I don’t recall ever having seen someone go flying spontaneously through the air. Slalom poles buried deep into the cement and asphalt of a city street are as rare as yeti sightings at the beach.

Despite the director’s obvious lack of anything resembling logic, I did get back up on my skis and spent the rest of the trip wondering what the heck is wrong with me and why I insist on skiing. I’ll get back to you if I ever figure it out!!!

The moral of this story is do NOT going skiing in the Alps, or anywhere else on earth, without a helmet. Like they say at Nike, Just Do It!!!

Skiing the Alps – A How To

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To a girl from California it sounds so exotic and intriguingly “In Her Majesty’s Secret Service”, but to the French skiing the French Alps, is kind of like Chinese food in China; just skiing. And there are a few things they take for granted that those from abroad should know.

First of all, you have to consider the where. Mr French is convinced that the 3 Vallées is the best skiing area in France, because it includes Val Thorens, the highest ski station in the country which means great snow. Others love the über chic towns of Courcheval and Méribel, which attract the James Bond crowd; European jetsetters, Arab sheiks and Russian oligarchs.

To give an idea of how close one village is to the next; several chairlifts in the town of Menuires will take you to the top of mountains with slopes that lead you down to Val Thorens or Méribel. The entire excursion, including the lift lines, the ride up and the trip down, including the time for the serious spill you may possibly take, even if your skis are in snow plow, takes less 40 minutes.

Then you need to consider the when. The Minister of Education has divided the country into three zones, each zone getting two weeks of holiday one week from another, so that anywhere from 1/3  – 2/3 of the country may be on ski holidays at once, which means the holiday period lasts an entire month. To find out the exact dates for all of the holidays visit the Minister’s site.

Another important detail is that the majority of holiday rentals and reservations in France run from Saturday to Saturday. Wanting to arrive on a Monday can pose something of a challenge when looking for lodgings.

Which is how we discovered the Chalet Hotel Kaya in Menuires. It was over the Christmas holidays and we wanted a short break without missing New Years in Paris. A quick Google searched turned up Le Kaya. A very chic, design hotel perched discreetly at the top of the village, directly on the slopes with a restaurant, a bar, a pool, a spa and a scrumptious tea time.

Which is another point about French holidays, the who will be hosting you. Hotels like the Kaya offer what is called “demi-pension”, is a meal plan that includes breakfast, dinner, and in the case of Le Kaya, that delicious tea that is served like a dangling carrot, keeping you going down those last runs as the chair lifts close and ski schools end. Demi pension is great if you’re traveling with your family, particularly kids, and do not want to have to think about who is eating where each meal. It gives you the freedom to have lunch on the slopes (or at the beach, or exploring whatever region you may be visiting).

But for a girl who likes to explore her surroundings, it can feel somewhat restrictive, so when its just us gr’ups we opt out and treat ourselves to a gourmet dinner at the hotel’s excellent restaurant, Le K for a night or two during our stay.
How to get around is somewhat limited. We’ve driven once, but because everyone leaves and arrives on a Saturday, the traffic jams can be horrendous. Then there is the minor detail of being in Alps with the intent to ski, which can mean severe weather and nasty road conditions. We now take the TGV to Moutiers. From there we can either take a bus up to Menuires, or hire a cab. Either way, its best to reserve in advance and for the bus they require that it be done at least 7 days prior to travel.

L'Après Ski is key, and a bit ironic as we drink Monocos!

As you get off the ski lift on runs like Mont de la Chambre you’ll have a spectacular view of Mont Blanc. You’ll also notice a lot of folks wearing red ski suits with the letters ESF on the back. That’s the Ecole de Ski de France and the red clad sportsmen (and women) are ski instructors. France is very organized when it comes to sports. Kids are rarely thrown on to the slopes and expected to ski. They are put into ski school where they earn their “Flakes” (this is true for swimming, horse back riding, surfing and tennis, among others, having an official rating is really important in France), or Flocon. These classes continue until the kids are ready to compete professionally, not because the parents think Jr is destined for the Olympics, but because ski school is built in baby sitting, giving Mom and Dad time to themselves on the slopes (or in the spa).

This week, we’d wake early and enjoy the buffet breakfast at Le Kaya before sending the girls off to ski school, starting our days with whole grain breads, fresh juices, yogurts and spice marinated fruits before hitting the slopes. After a couple of hours, we’d be hungry again, and start looking out for one of the many restaurants on the slopes that offer outstanding food, particularly those serving local specialties like raclette, fondue or tartiflette (more on these later in the week). In Val Thorens there is the Michelin starred Loxalys and this past week we stopped twice at La Ferme Riberty, enjoying the lively crowd, as well as their tartiflette, an omelette that was generously studded with girolle mushrooms and house made berry pie from their wooden deck.

After lunch there would be more skiing this time with my ski instructor, then eventually that lovely tea time I keep mentioning, followed by a few laps in the pool and a well earned hammam before it was time to eat, yet again. The chef at Le K provides a light, healthy cuisine, with lots of regional ingredients and plenty of heirloom vegetables. Every meal was a treat, which we’d savour before sinking into the comfy couches in front of the fireplace at the bar.

Important details
WHO Kaya Chalet Hotel
WHEN Minsitre de l’Education
WHERE Loxalys, La Ferme Riberty, Le K
HOW SNCF,the Bus
WHAT ESF (I strongly recommend the instructor Laurent Rivière)

WHY??? Don’t ask me!!! Skiing is an insane sport and I really have no idea why anyone goes to all the trouble, except, well it is drop dead gorgeous up there and 7 days of skiing has sent my metabolism into over-drive, allowing me to eat anything and everything that comes across my path, virtually guilt-free!!!!

London Art

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Despite a previous post, Mr French and I are not big shoppers, spending most of our free time enjoying sports and visiting galleries. This trip was no exception. After our indulgences of Saturday morning, Mr French headed to a 6 Nations rugby match and watched France try (unsuccessfully) to defend its honor against England while I headed to the Tate Modern, one of the greatest art spaces on earth.

Why so great? Because it is free and open to everyone, and everyone comes; men who look like they’ve just left a construction zone, single moms with their broods, large groups of teens hanging out in the large halls and young women dressed for night clubs are all there, surrounded by art.

On my way to the museum, I caught my first glimpse of London’s newest skyscraper, the Shard. Then it was off to the show “A Bigger Splash” about performance art and painting. I wasn’t enthusiastic about the show, but was immediately fascinated by the video of Jackson Pollack painting a painting, with the original masterpiece displayed on the floor of the Tate, just as it was on the floor in the video. Then came a canvas of Yves Klein blue which never fails to dram in until I feel I may drown. There was an intriguing room of hanging mirrors by the Polish artist, Edward Krasinski, a blue line running across the glass, reflecting back and hypnotising visitors. There were also rooms that only enforced my prejudice against performance art, and then show ends with a room of trompe l’oeil stage sets by artist Lucy McKenzie, who then photographs herself in situ. I felt I was collaborating with the artists as I composed shots of visitors in situ in the sets, as well.

 

 

 

I was really at the Tate for the Lichtenstein show, just a few floors up. Organised in collaboration with the Chicago Art Institute, this in-depth retrospective show Lichtenstein’s art in a new light, focusing well beyond his iconic paintings of distraught women in comic book scenarios. We see how he developed his voice, inspired by the Disney books he read his children, and evolved from there, through his work as pop artist and eventually creating lesser known landscapes and abstract work, always using his signature dots and big graphic strokes.

 

The next morning we were both thrilled to head to the National Portrait Gallery to see the photography of Man Ray. Before heading into the exhibit, we stopped by the controversial portrait of Kate Middleton by 65 year old realist painter Paul Emsley. Critics say the painting makes her look old and haggard and a quick peek online confirms what you read. But the artist himself was completely shocked by the negative reviews, responding that perhaps his painting just isn’t photographing well, and he suggests you visit it in the U.K.’s National Portrait Gallery before knocking his work. He has a point, and I recommend you do the same, because in person its ethereally beautiful and undeniably real.

While probably everyone knows that Man Ray was part of the Dada and surrealist art movements, very few realise that he was an American and a frustrated artist who took portraits for magazines and publications to support himself. He did not want to be a photographer, it was simply what he did best. Becoming friends with Marcel Duchamp in New York, he had the perfect introduction to the Paris art world when he arrived in 1921, with access to the lives of Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Dali and his muse, Kiki de Montparnasse. Always curious, he experimented with different techniques, inventing the solarization process with his model, muse and lover Lee Miller. The photos would be impressive enough if each one did not have an intrigue tale and a bit of history attached, but they do, and I spent hours studying each piece, reveling in each story. An art and a history lesson all in one.

London Eating

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As much as I love French cuisine, one of the highlights of every trip to London is the food. This wasn’t much of a draw 20 years ago, but today, with fresh ingredients and heirloom vegetables getting pride of place, things have changed considerably.

For years now, I’ve been curious about the Wolseley on Piccadilly. The posh looking establishment simply oozes old world elegance, greatly enriched by its location just steps  from the Ritz. The windows are covered with bistro curtains, and every time I’d pass, I’d look longingly into the italian inspired decor where a chicer-than-thou crowd seemed to be having the time of their lives at the bar.

Fortified by my new umbrella, and Mr French’s company, this trip I felt chic enough to breach the entrance. A formally clad valet met us on the sidewalk and guided us inside. Inside I quickly observed that the bar was merely a tiny box in a very large, opulently Italianate, art deco restaurant. The Wolseley had been a car for the rich who were not quite rich enough to afford a Rolls, and this had been the showroom. A very handsome and charming host showed us to the bar, informing us that the dining room was fully booked, but they did have tables for walk-ins, if we were interested. “Yes, please!” I replied, completely seduced by this place.

It was only noon and the bar was hopping. One of three very professional barmen put his everything into mixing the perfect martini for Mr French, while I was thrilled to find that they had hot lemon juice on the menu. I got to have something that felt infinitely more grown up than Perrier, while staying fit.

We were soon seated in a small dining room and a funny thing happened. The waiter spoke to us in French. He had heard us speaking, and being French himself, it did not occur to him to address us in English. The menu was French as well, with dishes like coq au vin and croque monsieur. But there was also roast beef with yorkshire pudding and wild Scottish salmon. The food was good, but nothing I’d run back for. The scene however, simply fun, as we sat next to two Sloane rangers and a very wealthy local Indian family. I think next time I’ll come back for tea time, or perhaps  I’ll try for something more wild at the bar…

For dinner, I had done some research, ie I sent a tweet to @jeffreyinmotion a professional in the UK hospitality industry. He gave me the name of a few places and the Harwood Arms was the first on the list to have availability. The menu looked good, and that was good enough for me, so good, I never bothered to looked at where the Harwood Arms is on a map.

Its in Fulham. You’ve heard of it, non? Well, me neither. Mostly because it is a bit remote and far from the tourist path. In Paris that would not be a big deal; have metro, will travel. In London, it’s a deal. We got off at a station to change trains and learned over the loudspeakers that our train would not be stopping at that station over the weekend. Back on the train we tried to connect at another station, but there were five different terminus possible and I got us on the wrong train. We went one stop and got back on to go back where we’d come from. A one stop error cost us 40 minutes of our time and I was very happy we’d planned on arriving early to enjoy a drink at the bar.

Getting out of the tube at Fulham we were in London, but had the impression that we’d stumbled into a sleepy little suburb. Mr French looked at me skeptically, teasing, “I hope you know what you’re doing.” I had no clue, but I wasn’t going to tell him!!

Following the street maps that were helpfully posted every 100 meters, we soon found ourselves on a quiet residential street. I started to panic, but Mr French noticed some bright lights ahead. As we got closer and closer, he became confident that we were in the right place. And we were, in so many ways.

A light, airy restaurant that simply oozes with a relaxed, friendly vibe. The decor is quaint, with wild flowers on the tables, a deer’s head mounted on the wall and black and white photography of ammunition. It was the British version of Brooklyn Hipster. After a weekend of good behaviour, I was ready for a truly London cocktail. I was at the wrong bar for that and instead I had a lovely glass of white wine. A really large glass, because it turns out that a British “glass” is 1/3 more generous than a Parisian “verre”! Behind us burned a cheery fire, with guests nestled into leather couches. They were snacking on outstanding bar food; a venison scotch egg, honey roasted nuts with rosemary, cauliflower croquettes with picallili and garlic potatoes that made me melt with hunger from tables away.

The dinner menu changes with the seasons. Now here is the sad part. I forgot to take a photo of the menu and I was somewhat tipsy from the wine so, I don’t exactly remember everything we ate. Mr French had deer, I had fish then we shared a light rhubarb desert and there was a lot of ooh-ing and aah-ing. It as all truly delicious. Mr French (who was completely sober) assures me we’ll be going back!

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