Category: France

Paris street culture, and a lesson in French slang

After an exhibition at Musée Maillol, we were enjoying an aperitif outside a bar

but we weren’t expecting a spontaneous lesson in slang.

The bar was at a small crossroads in the 7th arrondissement, the embassy district. A squad of armed police appeared on the corner, and started directing traffic.

As a motorcyclist disobeyed his command and drove off, one of the officers shouted –

‘Putain!’

If you’re a fan of the French TV cop show ‘Spiral’ you’ll recognise the word, it peppers the dialogue liberally, but it was the first time I’ve heard it used in real life.

It means everything from an expression of mild irritation to the F Word; probably the latter on this occasion.

In due course the officers stopped all traffic to allow an SUV with blacked out windows to pass at speed unimpeded, escorted by police motorbikes and unmarked cars with blue lights flashing and sirens blaring.

 

Musée Maillol for some street culture

Musée Maillol is a good gallery to watch for photography exhibitions. We were there to see ‘Instants Données’ (‘Given Moments’), a retrospective of the work of Robert Doisneau.

 

‘The marvels of daily life are so exciting; no movie director can arrange the unexpected that you find in the street’.

Robert Doisneau, 1912 – 1994.

If you don’t recognise the photographer’s name, you’ll know his style. Starting in the 1930s by capturing the street life of children at school and at play, he went on to portray the hardship of workers in the Renault factory, portraits of artists and writers (famously Picasso and de Beauvoir) and downtrodden drinkers in the bars of Paris, reminiscent of the paintings of Toulouse Lautrec.

The exhibition continues until 12th October 2025.

https://museemaillol.com/expositions/robert-doisneau-instants-donnes/

 

Hockney 25

Earlier in the week we went on an expedition to the extraordinary, ship-shaped Louis Vuitton Foundation in Bois de Boulogne to see the retrospective that David Hockney regards as the most significant of his career.

Curated by the artist himself, he called in favours from collections around the world to loan significant works.

I had seen two Hockney shows before. In 2019 his works were hung alongside pictures by Van Gogh in Amsterdam; he memorably corrected our impression of Van Gogh as a depressive – ‘if you look at his paintings they’re full of joy’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then in 2021 came the exhibition of his iPad paintings at the Royal Academy.

In Paris the story begins with a portrait of the artist’s father, painted when Hockney was just 19, then a room of his early works that reflect his sexuality, still illegal at the time. Hockney is still producing work in his eighties, still innovating, and he’s clearly happiest when he’s working.

There’s his largest work to date, painted in the open air: ‘Bigger Trees near Warter’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was made of fifty canvas sections small enough to be transported by car, the oil paint still wet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In 2019 Covid restrictions stranded Hockney at his home in Normandy. He started producing works every day to send to friends by email.

He was there partly to revisit the Bayeux Tapestry, which influenced his mural of the Norman countryside. The Vuitton Gallery is something of a space age warren, and sadly I missed that room altogether, although with over 400 works to view, it wasn’t a disaster…..

The exhibition closes with his collage of photographs of artworks from the 1400s to the present. They illustrate Hockney’s research that led him to the controversial theory that throughout the history of western art, painters have used optical devices to help them produce work. He applied his practitioner’s eye to reach a convincing conclusion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Catch Hockney 25 until 31st August 2025: 

https://www.fondationlouisvuitton.fr/en/events/david-hockney-25

Postscript from Paris

A feature of the city streets is the engraved plaques commemorating resistance fighters, often unidentified, who were killed in street battles to achieve the liberation of their city in August 1944.

In this anniversary year of Victory in Europe, this poignant memorial in a quiet street in the 7th caught my eye, on my way to the local wine shop.

 

 

 

‘A tribute to Lilian Vera Rolfe.

Born in this building in 1914 and executed in Ravensbrück in 1945.

A radio operator in the service of the British Special Operations Executive, formed in 1940 to support the resistance movements in Europe and to prepare for the landings on 6th June 1944′.

 

 

 

 

Red Gingham Tablecloths

Red gingham is a bit of a cliché, the ubiquitous table covering of an unpretentious traditional bistro in provincial France. Or so I thought.

In 2013 I came across Ristorante Tromlin in the hills overlooking the Italian city of Turin.

Torino was the capital of the Kingdom of Savoy, which also ruled Nizza, now better known as the French city of Nice.

I developed a theory that perhaps the red-and-white check entered French culture through this historical back door.

 

Ristorante Tromlin

 

The bistros of Paris were opened by people from the countryside who migrated to the city, and classic dishes from the French regions, notably Beaujolais, Alsace, and (not forgetting) Savoie became staples.

One of my favourites is La Fontaine de Mars, where the menu is firmly rooted in the French Southwest. Jambon de Bayonne is freshly cut on the red enamel slicer that gleams at you as you’re shown to your table, to nibble as you decide whether to choose cassoulet or confit de canard.

 

La Fontaine de Mars

 

Last time we were there we startled our waiter by asking if we could have a green salad with the cheese course.

‘Une salade avec du fromage? Vraiement?(shrugs)

Vive la difference!’

 

(The tablecloths are red and white gingham in my memory, but when I found this photo I realised they are actually pink. Perhaps the effect of a glass too many of their finest Cahors).

 

Then there’s Polidor, the restaurant that time forgot. The blackboard proclaims that ‘we haven’t accepted cheques since 1873’.

Woody Allen chose it as a location for ‘Midnight in Paris’, when the lead character accepts a lift by a stranger’s car which transports him back to the literary heyday of the 1920’s, where he encounters F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway in the restaurant.

 

‘We haven’t accepted cheques since 1873’

 

 

 

I remembered a visit to Mamma Mia, an Italian restaurant in Dublin.

No mistake this time, the tablecloths are proudly chequered.

 

 

Mamma Mia

 

Maybe there’s something in my theory after all.

Savoie to Paris, by way of Dublin?

I look forward to resuming the necessary research.

Remembering Michael Gough

We heard recently that our dear friend Michael Gough had died suddenly of a heart attack in November 2020.

We inherited Michael as a friend. Stephen Balme, my brother-in-law Richard Groves and I were working at Les Amis du Vin in the 1980s, and we came up with the idea of occasional ‘tasting dinners’.

Each guest or couple would bring a good bottle of wine from a nominated region, and probably another to go with the supper, which the host would prepare, something from the same region as the wine.

The flaw in the concept was the quantity, not the quality, of the wine.

I think it was at the pink champagne evening that we first met Michael. The evening was hosted by Stephen and his wife Shelley Gare in their flat in Ockendon Road in Islington.

When Shelley and Stephen returned to their native Australia in 1986, their fellow Australian Michael bought the flat, and we became friends with him.

 

Michael surveying the carnage. Mid 1980s

 

It was much later that Michael confessed that he was stopped by the police on his way home that night, and taken into Kings Cross police station. He engaged the desk sergeant in conversation, whose son, as luck would have it, was living in Australia.

They must have hit it off; Michael was discreetly released without charge the following morning.

Michael worked as a copywriter in the heady world of advertising in the 1980s, a world of extravagant photoshoots and hedonistic lunches. The agencies had big budgets, and they weren’t afraid to use them.

He would quote from his portfolio, with some pride, some gems: ‘Du vin. Du pain. Du Boursin’. He was less pleased with the strap line he came up with for a since forgotten wine brand, ‘Le Soir….. pour le Bon Soir’.

Best loved in our circle was his summing up of Richard’s business:

‘Richard Groves Catering. It’s a Question of Confidence’.

 


 

He was a master of the comedy pause. When I was working in the wine trade a fellow dinner guest asked me the dreaded question: ‘what’s your favourite wine?’

I later learned to say something straight away, giving the sort of answer they wanted to hear: aged Sangiovese, or a fine champagne, but that night I paused a little too long, trying to think of a suitable response.

After what seemed like an interminable silence, Michael murmured:

‘No rush Al, but tonight would be good….’

 


 

An endlessly entertaining raconteur, Michael was an acute observer of people, and he showed amusement with a chuckle, or sometimes a snort of laughter.

You could tell If he found something really funny; he would fall silent, but his shoulders would continue to rise and fall.

Michael joined us on several holidays over the years. The first was in Tuscany in 1991.

It was there that we noticed a group of attractive and excitable adolescent Italians gathering outside the bar in the town square, prompting Michael’s inimitable comment:

‘Let’s get out of here, before someone gets pregnant’.

 


 

At the end of a good evening, when the others had retired to bed, Michael and I would find a bench somewhere in whatever garden we were in. We would watch the shooting stars in the night sky in Tuscany, or the lights of the flight path to Heathrow over Twickenham.

We would linger over another glass of red wine or perhaps of grappa, and usually, in those days, a small cigar.

Asked the next day what we had talked about, I never had the faintest recollection, but Michael once claimed I had fretted late into the night about the declining stocks of sardines off the coast of Portugal.

 

Michael on holiday in Chablis

 

I was due to start a temporary job in December 1999 and had a week to spare. Michael invited me to join him in an apartment he was renting on a farm in Tuscany.

On the first morning we walked up the track to the village for a coffee, and to buy the wherewithal for lunch. When we got back to the farm, I realised I had lost the envelope containing all my Italian currency.

Michael was a patient man. We retraced our steps up the hill, and sure enough there was the crisp white envelope, lying where it had fallen out of my pocket onto the road.

‘Let me explain to you the concept of a folding piece of leather you put your banknotes in, Al, it’s called a wallet. We’ll buy you one when we go into Florence’.

There had been a hard frost that morning, but it was warm enough to sit out on the terrace for lunch. I can even remember wine we drank, Poggio Alle Gazze (a  Sauvignon Blanc from the Ornellaia estate, since you ask).

Time spent with Michael was always memorable.

 

 

At the Enoteca

 

Michael returned to Melbourne in c1989, but would travel every year or two, so we continued to see him when he was in the UK; he would set up an itinerary of friends to stay with. An exemplary guest, a bottle of champagne and a good red burgundy would typically be proffered on arrival.

He had friends on the other side of the Thames, and he would go to them after he had stayed with us, describing himself as being like the child of divorced parents, spending time with each one in turn.

We continued to see him in Italy too, where we linked up for two holidays in Venice.

In 2014 he joined us on a rowing lesson in the Venetian lagoon. After we had all had a go at steering, our instructor rewarded us with cicheti and wine tastings at a couple of canalside bars.

 

At the tiller

 

Michael expressed regret that day that he hadn’t tried longer to row standing up, like a gondolier. It reminded me of his strap line.

‘It’s a question of confidence’

 

Michael afloat in Canareggio – here ended the lesson

 

Since we heard the news of Michael’s death, I’ve been thinking about his talents and remembering the pursuits he enjoyed:

He was self – deprecating, describing his physique as ‘the body that men admire, and women crave’

He was a writer who encouraged me to write, leading to the creation of this blog.

A talented photographer, he was also a collector of vintage typewriters.

An avid reader of ‘an improving book’, he especially enjoyed the works of Virginia Woolf.

He was a yachtsman; during his time in the UK he loved to spend time on Chichester Harbour on his ‘junk rig’.

Less well known was his skill as an amateur pilot; he liked nothing better than to land an aircraft in challenging weather conditions, at an unfamiliar airfield….

Fortunately he only pursued this risky pastime on his laptop.

Michael was always a wonderful guest, and a generous host; a bon viveur and raconteur.

No mean cook himself, Michael enjoyed watching others at work in the kitchen.

We still feel his presence today, sensing that he’s standing behind us, murmuring approval, or chuckling at some domestic dispute at the stove.

 

A Letter from F. Scott Fitzgerald in quarantine

Quarantined in 1920 in the South of France during the outbreak of Spanish Influenza, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote this letter:

 

 

Dearest Rosemary,

 

It was a limpid dreary day, hung as in a basket from a single dull star. I thank you for your letter. Outside, I perceive what may be a collection of fallen leaves tussling against a trash can. It rings like jazz to my ears. The streets are that empty. It seems as though the bulk of the city has retreated to their quarters, rightfully so. At this time, it seems very poignant to avoid all public spaces. Even the bars, as I told Hemingway, but to that he punched me in the stomach, to which I asked if he had washed his hands. He hadn’t. He is much the denier, that one. Why, he considers the virus to be just influenza. I’m curious of his sources.

 

The officials have alerted us to ensure we have a month’s worth of necessities. Zelda and I have stocked up on red wine, whiskey, rum, vermouth, absinthe, white wine, sherry, gin, and lord, if we need it, brandy. Please pray for us.

 


POSTSCRIPT
Since ‘posting’ this letter yesterday, one of my subscribers has kindly pointed out that this is a parody by Nick Farriella, and provided a link which includes this concluding paragraph:

You should see the square, oh, it is terrible. I weep for the damned eventualities this future brings. The long afternoons rolling forward slowly on the ever-slick bottomless highball. Z. says it’s no excuse to drink, but I just can’t seem to steady my hand. In the distance, from my brooding perch, the shoreline is cloaked in a dull haze where I can discern an unremitting penance that has been heading this way for a long, long while. And yet, amongst the cracked cloudline of an evening’s cast, I focus on a single strain of light, calling me forth to believe in a better morrow.

Faithfully yours,
F. Scott Fitzgerald


 

https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/this-side-of-paradise-a-letter-from-f-scott-fitzgerald-quarantined-in-the-south-of-france

‘The best thing on the menu’

At the Real Wine Fair in 2014, a hundred or so producers had set up their wines on rows of tables in Tobacco Dock, an event space in Wapping. In the next room about a dozen London restaurants and street food vendors were preparing to serve lunch. 

One of them took the initiative by taking some samples into the wine tasting hall; a young Frenchwoman, with little English, but a friendly smile, offered a tray of sliced saucisson to anyone within range.

As lunchtime approached, I decided it was time to investigate. Two of the Frenchwoman’s colleagues were cutting a huge pile of baguettes to be filled with the same saucisson, or Iberico ham. A third was dispensing wine from magnums: stylish.

They also had a short menu on a blackboard; I chose one of my favourite things, a Terrine de Campagne with cornichons. It was savoury and rich, with the crisp tangy pickles for contrast. 

It was so good, I went back the following day to try something different from them; after all, these two French couples were the only caterers to have travelled so far to feed us. It was a hard decision, and I asked “magnum man” for his advice.

 

“The pig’s muzzle is the best thing on the menu”, he confided with a smile. 

 

I was so charmed by their friendly good humour, and the quality of what they were doing, I decided to go for it. It was fried in a crisp crust, and the texture was not dissimilar to the previous day’s terrine. Delicious, but a more intimate piece of pig than I’m used to eating….

Their business is a hotel, La Cour de Remi. I picked up their business card, looked up their website when I got home, and determined to track them down.

 

La Cour de Remi

About an hour’s drive from Calais, it’s a good choice for a long weekend. The hotel is in the converted stable yard of a chateau. 

 

La Cour de Remi

 

We booked for my birthday, at the end of August. There was a mix-up about our booking, so instead of a room we were given a self-contained cottage in the gardens. (Alas, the treehouse was fully booked).

 

The treehouse, La Cour de Remi.

 

We were happy to have dinners in the hotel restaurant. The owner, Sebastien, is the chef, and his wife does front of house (she was the woman at the wine fair), helped by a young man we nicknamed Tintin on account of his solemn demeanour, and also his quiff of red hair.

The atmosphere is ‘rustic luxury’, the menu uses local produce, with some Spanish ham and cheeses.

The menu for dinner was 32€ for three courses in 2014, and is the same price in 2020.

 

Menu 32 euros (35 with cheese)

 

 

They served us a substantial breakfast on the Sunday for my birthday: glasses of champagne, baguettes with Serrano ham, boudin noir, scrambled eggs, brioche and (an unexpected touch) rice pudding. 

It kept us going for an expedition to walk the battlefield of Agincourt, which would lead me to take up archery the following year:

 

‘A Long Walk from Agincourt to Richmond’

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-aN

 

It turned out that the restaurant was closed on Sunday evening, and Sebastien had to go out. We asked if he could recommend anywhere nearby we could go for dinner, and he mentioned (rather doubtfully) a couple of places in Boulogne, about an hour’s drive away. 

We believe he thought better of it; he later offered to prepare something for us, leaving Tintin to bring it over to our cottage. We agreed enthusiastically.

 

Somehow Tintin managed to fit everything on a tray

 

That terrine de campagne, Serrano ham, pâté de foie gras, cheese, good bread and butter, chutneys, and a simple salad of green tomatoes. Raspberry pannacotta to follow, and champagne and wine from the hotel list, which we able to finish off the following day.

 

The mother of all picnics

 

 

It was a good decision.

 

 


 

Footnote: fields of conflict, and a paradise for fallen warriors

 

If you’re interested in history, La Cour de Remi was the HQ of the Royal Tank Regiment in 1916; they maintain a small memorial in the garden.

Agincourt is nearby, and the Canadian monument at Vimy Ridge is an easy drive; you can visit preserved trenches from the First World War, and tunnels deep underground. The Canadian and German positions are surprisingly close to each other.

As well as the Commonwealth cemeteries with their familiar rows of white headstones, there’s the largest German war cemetery in France, where the bodies of German servicemen were relocated from temporary graves and “field burials” all over the country.

I was struck by the archaic German rank “Musketier”, apparently equivalent to a private soldier in the Prussian infantry. Occasionally the crosses are interspersed with a headstone bearing a Star of David, commemorating a German Jewish soldier.

 

 

Neuville-Saint-Vaast German Military Cemetery “La Maison Blanche”

 

 

Neuville-Sanit-Vaast reflects a different tradition of burial from that of the Commonwealth and French armies. The graves are spaced more widely apart, each marked by a simple black iron cross, engraved with the names of four soldiers.

 

It’s Valhalla for fallen warriors, or ‘Paradise in a Gothic wood’. 

2019 – the Food Stuff

There’s a weekend to be planned here – nothing that couldn’t be achieved with the services of a private jet, and perhaps a bit of time travel.

You could have breakfast in Paris, take a coffee in Stockholm, then lunch on Torcello, or Borough Market in London if you prefer.

Dinner? Back to Paris, on to Amsterdam? Or (my choice) Stockholm again for a magnificent steak.

I’ll let you take in an hour’s TV to recover, then if you still have the stamina, we’ll head over to Venice for a nightcap.

 

 

Best Breakfast of 2019?

It has to be The French Bastards, for ‘A croissant worth crossing Paris for’

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-Kj 

 

Best croissant in Paris?

 

 


Mid morning coffee

A seriously good cup of coffee is one of life’s great pleasures for me, and they don’t get much better than at Robert’s Coffee, in the Saluhall market, Stockholm.

The cinnamon buns are a bonus. (They take cards only, not cash, so you won’t even have to bother buying kronor).

 

 

Fika at Robert’s Coffee, Stockholm

 

What have the Swedes ever done for us?

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-Cv

 


Lunch in the Lagoon….

Osteria al Ponte del Diavolo on the island of Torcello; all the better for being unexpected.

Torcello is about an hour from Venice; you can reach it on a scheduled service, changing at Burano, using your vaporetto pass.

 

Osteria al Ponte del Diavolo, Torcello

 

The ancient basilica on Torcello predates the city of Venice. To reach it from the quay, you walk along the side of a canal. The most famous restaurant on the island is the Locanda Cipriani nearby, but you pass three others on the way.

We weren’t looking for a grand lunch, but something to fortify us for the basilica.

The first place looked fun, but was packed with families queuing for pizza.

The second was a fairly standard Trattoria. We walked on.

The third had a big dining room with a covered terrace at the back, opening onto a garden. The menu looked as if we could find something suitable, so we went in and were greeted with smiles and shown to a table.

It was a good decision, even the bread basket was exceptional. We had a pretty antipasto of colourful steamed vegetables, all tasting intensely of themselves, served warm to bring out the fruitiness of the olive oil dressing.

Then black squid ink pasta, with crab, samphire and rosemary; orecchiette with turbot and cherry tomatoes.

We drank Arneis, a white from Piemonte.

After lunch we wandered round the garden and may have dropped off on a bench in the pergola. Just for a moment….

Osteria al Ponte del Diavolo is open for lunch Tuesday to Sunday, and dinner on Friday and Saturday.

 

 

….and at Borough Market

Closer to home but equally unexpected was discovering the new Brindisa Kitchen at Borough Market. It’s inspired by the bars in Spanish markets.

I saw it had opened the day before I’d arranged to meet a friend for a day of shopping and sustenance (Instagram has its uses).

 

A perfect scallop

 

A glass of Manzanilla with a single perfect scallop.

Hake & mussels.

I love watching chefs happy in their work, interacting with their customers, and the bar staff were charming.

 

The head chef, Brindisa Kitchen

 

Hake & mussels

 

https://boroughmarket.org.uk/traders/brindisa-kitchen


Dinner?

Honourable mention for the Sweetbreads at Frenchie’s Wine Bar, Paris.

So good, I ate them twice.

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-Kh

 

‘Everything, I want to eat everything’

 


 

Caffé Toscanini in Amsterdam for the whole experience of food and hospitality; a perfect aperitif followed by an accomplished Italian meal, delivered with good humour and expertise.

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-Kh

 

The bar at Caffe Toscanini, Amserdam

 

The prize goes to A.G. for the best steak of 2019. I’ll be lucky to find one as good in 2020.

Most of the tables were occupied by groups of men sharing massive steaks.

There were also a few couples on date nights, sharing massive steaks.

‘Vegetarians, look away now’.

 

https://wp.me/p7AW4i-Oh

 

A.G. – ‘vegetarians, look away now’

 

 


TV Show: Remarkable places to eat, Episode 1, in which chef Angela Hartnett takes Maitre d’ Fred Siriex to her favourites in Venice.

It’s a full hour of television, so they have time to show you the dedication and hard work that goes into delivering the best ingredients and food experiences in the city. These are not cynical tourist traps. Nothing is done without effort: wading chest deep in the lagoon to harvest seafood; delivering vegetables by boat and trolley to Bruno Gavagnin, the quietly spoken but demanding chef at Alle Testiere; walking half a kilometre over bridges carrying boxes of perfect patisserie to Caffe Florian, from their production kitchen to Piazza San Marco – several times throughout the day.

At the time of writing it’s not available on BBC iPlayer, but it’s sure to turn up on your TV sooner or later.

 

Here are the fishermen:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0006vw3

Here’s a clip:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p07g3dkl

 

 


FANCY A NIGHTCAP?

 

Let’s head back to Venice, for a glass of wine at Vino Vero. 

You’ll find it here, on my page ‘And to drink?’

 

https://wp.me/P7AW4i-aV

Dinners in Paris, and a long day for the fishmongers

First night nerves

We like to mark our evening of arrival in Paris with dinner at La Fontaine de Mars. You know you’re in Paris from the moment you step through the door.

This time I’d left it too late to make a reservation, so we gave Le Bistrot d’Eléonore et Maxence a call.

 

A sunny afternoon at Le Bistrot

 

 

Le Maitre d’ greeted us when we arrived, and explained apologetically that our table wasn’t quite ready – ‘may I offer you une coupe de champagne while you’re waiting?’

It was a busy Saturday evening, the heavens had opened outside, and the diners were clearly in no hurry to vacate our table.

Le Maitre d’ apologised again, ‘I will pour you champagne, champagne, champagne until your table is ready’.

 

 

 

A poached egg on summer veg – “one egg is un oeuf”

 

 

As it turned out, he was as good as his word, so we were quite mellow when we went to our table about 40 minutes later, after browsing the menu

Highlights from our meal included a starter of a poached egg on green summer vegetables, dressed with pesto; tuna tataki as a main (it would have fed three people!) and a tartare of hand cut Charolais veal.

 

 

Veal tartare avec son garniture

 

 

It’s a small, lively restaurant in a residential area. The staff are friendly and attentive, even on a busy Saturday evening, and the food coming out of the tiny open kitchen was très bon.

Playlist: Parisien. 

Le Bistrot d’Eléonore et Maxence     www.le-bem.com

 

It was a real find, I wish it had an equivalent where I live.

 

(Actually, it does. If you live in west London you could save the price of the Eurostar ticket by booking a table at Le Petit Citron in Shepherds Bush).

 

 

La Fontaine de Mars

 

We were able to revisit La Fontaine later in the week. It’s one of those reassuring places that never changes; even the waiters seem to sign up for life.

The menus are laminated, and there’s a classic every day. ‘It’s Sunday, so it must be poulet roti, pommes de terre puree’. Evidemment.

They bring a blackboard to your table with daily specials (there’s always cassoulet)  and my starter of asparagus and poached egg with foie gras sauce didn’t disappoint.

The FT’s restaurant critic recently wrote something like ‘it couldn’t be more French than Piaf singing La Marseillaise with a string of onions round her neck’. He wasn’t wrong.

Read more about La Fontaine de Mars in “Paris is always a good idea” https://wp.me/p7AW4i-iV

 

http://www.fontainedemars.com

129, Rue Saint-Dominique, Paris 75007     0033 (0)1 47 05 46 44

 

 

La Fontaine de Mars

 

Asparagus, egg, foie gras

 

 

 

D’chez eux

 

On the day of departure it made sense to have lunch locally. “Our” apartment in the 7th is in a residential neighbourhood, and there aren’t many restaurants on the doorstep.

We booked d’chez eux, which very roughly translates as ‘from their home’.

It was Mothers’ day, so there were several tables of three….

The menu is on the pricey side, and we weren’t looking for the full ‘Français’ before taking the train home, so we went for the prix fixe, choosing oeufs russes followed by the seabass, which was beautifully cooked, and a glass of Aligoté.

 

 

Seabass, endive and vegetables

 

 

We’re not big on puddings, but this was our main meal of the day, so a crème caramel seemed appropriate, as did something that looked like Irish coffee on the menu, and turned out to be a plate with dark chocolate mousse, a scoop of vanilla ice cream, a profiterole, and an espresso on the side.

 

 

Pouding

 

http://www.chezeux.com/fr/

 

 

Market shopping on avenue de Saxe

 

 

We shopped at Avenue de Saxe midweek,

where the best produce attracts the longest queue….

 

 

“Greengrocer number 5, please”

 

 

I’ve always been amused by the expression ‘French breakfast radish’

 

 

Breakfast. Just add butter and salt

 

 

It’s more than a food market, and everything is in season.

 

 

Summer chapeaux

 

 

The Ladies of the 7th go out in force with their trolleys

 

 

Chariot at the ready

 

 

 

 

Food shopping recommendations on rue Cler & avenue de Saxe    –    https://wp.me/p7AW4i-k5

 

 

 

Lunch on rue Cler, where it had been a long day for the fishmongers

 

Le Petit Cler is a café owned by La Fontaine de Mars. We pitched up for a late lunch, and it was filling up fast; we didn’t have a reservation, but the manager was charming, and promised to seat us – he had a booking who hadn’t turned up yet; he would give them another five minutes, then he would give us their table.

On the dot of the fifth minute they arrived, but shortly afterwards we had secured a table outside, and felt very smug as a queue formed on the street.

As we tucked into our croque monsieur and tartine de chevre, it became obvious that the fishmongers opposite at La Sablaise had had a long and busy day; closing the shop was a laborious process. Quantities of ice were being shovelled into the gutter outside to be flushed into the drain.

They too were in need of refreshment.

A waiter from nearby Café Roussillon delivered a big bowl of frites, and a tray laden with beers, a glass of wine and an Aperol spritz.

Outside a couple of passing children invented a new street game; ‘Breaking the Ice’.

 

 

Breaking the ice on rue Cler

 

 

Shortly afterwards one of the mongers took the tray back to the café, and returned with another round of drinks.

 

And more frites. Naturellement, comme d’habitude….

 

Night at the Museum

After an interesting encounter last year with Napoleon the Strategist at the Musée de l’Armée in Paris, it seemed rude to miss an opportunity of making closer acquaintance.

Talent or ambition – which is more important in the making of a genius? I wrote about it here: https://wp.me/p7AW4i-kE

The museum was open free of charge on the evening of 18th May 2019, and in spite of a downpour later in the evening, it welcomed 8,000 visitors on ‘La Nuit des Musées’.

For one night only, a group of re-enactors gathered outside Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides.

 

Napoleon’s last resting place

 

 

On the bicentenary of Waterloo in 2015, Jeremy Paxman visited a re-enactment of the battle, and commented on the age of those who participated in the rôle of senior officers.

They were of ‘advanced years’, which he put down to the fact that they were better able to afford the cost of their uniforms and equipment.

 

French infantry in the uniform of the 1790s. It seemed like only yesterday….

I won’t comment on their age….

 

 

Artilleryman of the Imperial Guard

….but you can’t deny their enthusiasm

 

 

 

Un Grognard (a grumbler) of the Guard Artillery

There was a moment when one young infantryman realised that someone was stealing his dinner

 

 

Excusez moi?

There was a senior officer, recruiting for

La Garde Imperiale….

 

 

 

Oui, mon generale!

….and a trumpeter of Chasseurs à Cheval

 

Guard trumpeter

 

Were their uniforms authentic? The exhibits in the museum spoke volumes

 

 

This one is the real thing

 

There were Horse Artillerymen demonstrating where to put a shell….

 

 

“La bas!”

….and a couple of cool dudes.

(Well, maybe one)

 

 

An officer of Voltigeurs. And a guy with a clipboard.

 

And they were all there to honour the memory of Napoleon Bonaparte

 

 

Napoleon’s hat, coat and campaign bed in La Musee

 

‘Vive l’Empereur!’

 

 

Night at the museum

 

 

 

https://www.musee-armee.fr/accueil.html

See two of my photos of the event in the museum’s compilation on Instagram:

https://www.instagram.com/stories/highlights/17858945278409830/

A tale of two Frenchies. Well, actually five.

Frenchie Restaurant in Paris opened on rue du Nil in 2015, and quickly became a hot ticket. We tried to book a table for dinner in May this year, but they still fill the restaurant months ahead.

Frenchie Wine Bar opposite doesn’t take reservations; it opens at 6.30pm, and the advice is to turn up early. We were first in line when the door opened. ‘Table for two?’

There are two small rooms, one with a view of the kitchen, the other of the bar. You sit on bar stools at shared tables.

We elected to sit right next to the glass partition looking into the kitchen, where we could watch every dish being prepared. It’s a tiny space, ruthlessly organised, where five staff were producing all the food: one male chef at the stove, two girls meticulously assembling cold mains and desserts, a female chef on the pass, and a washer-up.

 

‘Everything. I want to eat everything’

 

The friendly, helpful and informative waiting staff wear T shirts printed with the legend ‘Everything. I want to eat everything’, and reading the menu I began to see what they meant. Dishes are served when they’re ready, so we started by sharing three cold dishes.

 

Frenchie Wine Bar

 

 

An assembly of home made Ricotta, crumbled with confit Meyer lemon, fresh fava beans and peas, buckwheat for crunch and earthiness, and chive flowers, was a beautiful celebration of early summer – outstanding, one of the best dishes I’ve eaten this year (so far).

 

 

Ricotta, AKA summer in a bowl

 

Green lentil falafel came with smoky harissa, and pickled cucumber for sharpness and texture.

 

Green lentil falafel

 

 

A gutsy terrine with piccalilli and mustard seeds balanced textures and flavours, with sharp accents from the pickle. (It was so good, I failed to take a picture. Oh, the pressure).

 

Garnishing is precise, pretty and delicate; the chefs each carry tweezers clipped to their aprons, which they use to place herbs on each plate.

 

 

The sommelier wore a similar shirt to the waiters:

 

‘Everything, I want to drink everything’

 

Wines by the glass are poured at the table. We chose a petillant Montlouis from the Loire as an aperitif; gentle bubbles, golden colour.

A Cotes Catalanes rosé was a good match for our first dishes, with strawberry fruit and fresh acidity.

Then we went our separate ways. Pappardelle pasta for her, with lamb ragout, Kalamata olives and lemon confit. And another glass of rosé.

I picked crispy sweetbread nuggets with gribiche sauce. Two juicy morsels of moist tender veal arrived in a thick coat of crunchy batter perfection. Gribiche is a mayonnaise-style emulsion of hard-boiled egg yolks and mustard, finished with chopped cornichons, capers and herbs.

 

 

Crispy sweetbread nuggets, sauce gribiche

 

 

And a glass of red Saumur Champigny 2017, poured from a magnum; unusually intense and dark for the Appellation, a ‘fruit bomb’ of berries and herbs.

 

 

Be careful what you wish for

 

The owner and head chef is Gregory Marchand, the eponymous Frenchie. He earned the nickname working in the kitchen at Jamie Oliver’s restaurant Fifteen in London.

The London influence shows, there’s English wine on the list, and cheeses are from Neal’s Yard Dairy.

Gregory dropped in to observe the chefs at work and chat to them. I asked the waiter if I could say hello, if he wasn’t too busy – I met him last year at a panel discussion in London, where he has a restaurant in Covent Garden – and he came over to our table.

 

The sweetbreads were so good, I said I could eat another portion for dessert….

(I was joking).

 

A few minutes later, the waiter reappeared at the table with another plateful; he nodded towards the window behind me. There was Gregory outside, grinning, with his thumbs up to check I approved.

 

They were just as amazing the second time.

 

 


 

Frenchie

We resolved to go back next year and book ahead for the restaurant, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the wine bar is more fun, where you can arrive at 6.30 and stay as long as you want. There are clearly two sittings in the restaurant: 6.30 and 9.

 

 

Frenchie Restaurant

 

 

 

Playlist in the wine bar: high energy hip-hop, cool, funky and fun, much like Frenchie’s. It’s just on the right side of loud on arrival. As the evening progresses they either turn it down, or the clientele drown it out as the wine bar fills up.

 

Rue du Nil is a tiny street. As well as the restaurant and wine bar, there’s Frenchie To Go, and Frenchie’s wine shop.

Marchand’s energy has attracted a community of small and perfectly formed retailers to the street: a butcher, a fishmonger, a bakery, a greengrocer, a coffee roaster. A ‘bean to bar’ chocolate shop will open shortly.

 

Purple asparagus at the greengrocer on rue du Nil

 

 

http://www.frenchie-ruedunil.com/en/home/

 

There’s also the London outpost, in the National Restaurant Awards 2019 ‘top 100 restaurants in the UK’ for the 4th year in a row:

 

http://www.frenchiecoventgarden.com/

https://www.nationalrestaurantawards.co.uk/profile/frenchie/

 

 

My dessert. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly….”

 

 

A croissant worth crossing Paris for

Word was circulating that a new bakery is producing the best croissants in Paris. On a visit to the city in May, naturally I went to investigate rue Oberkampf, looking for No 61. The 11th Arrondissement is roughly equivalent to London’s Shoreditch, with little independent shops, a market, and tattoo parlours.

 

 

rue Oberkampf & the market on Boulevard Richard Lenoir

 

 

Arriving at the shop, I explained to the young man behind the counter (in my best French) that je suis escrivain d’un blog, and asked if I could take some photos.

‘Would you prefer to speak in English or in French? I’m English’ he replied (in French). ‘English’ I said, ‘it’s probably safer’.

 

 

The patient Englishman

 

 

Between customers, he was able to answer some of my questions. One of the first was how the bakery found its name.

 

 

It’s called ‘The French Bastards’

 

The business was founded in January 2019 by friends Julien, Emmanuel and David. Julien had worked in Australia, where his colleagues called him ‘the French bastard’, and back in Paris the friends decided to use the nickname for their shop.

 

 

The French Bastards put out their shingle

 

 

The counter display comprised neat ranks of colourful pastry: red fruit tarts, black fruit tarts with dark chocolate….

 

 

Black fruit tart with dark chocolate

 

 

….lemon meringue eclairs, alongside the usual chocolate and coffee.

 

 

Lemon meringue eclairs

 

 

Then there were three kinds of sandwich piled high for the lunchtime trade; admittedly expensive at €7.90, but each looked as if it would feed a small family (my eye was caught by the 36 month Iberico ham, with sun dried tomato & mizuna salad).

And viennoisserie, row upon sticky row of flaky bronze pastry, including all the classics, and more creative offerings like the Babka, made to a Polish recipe – chocolate brioche, purposely undercooked for ooze; and the Cruffin, a croissant crossed with a muffin, filled with raspberry purée.

 

 

Babka (centre) and Cruffin (right)

 

 

There was a coffee machine, and I decided we should try out the simplest emblem of the French patissier’s art, the humble croissant.

We sat at the table at the back of the shop, where behind a glass screen we could watch four bakers going about their useful work.

 

 

Croissants: their useful work before

 

 

…and after

 

 

The coffee was the best we’ve had in Paris (they use Peruvian beans)….

 

and as for the croissant….

It wasn’t too big, with a darker colour than is usual, apparently derived from the rich butter they use. It was very flaky and light, but still had substance, a rich taste, the merest hint of caramel from the butter, and not at all greasy in the fingers.

 

 

…and during

 

 

A baker came out of the kitchen and introduced himself as Emmanuel, one of the business partners. He asked what we had tried, and agreed the croissant was a good choice. ‘It’s like choosing spaghetti with tomato sauce in an Italian place; if it’s good, you know you’re in safe hands’.

Although they’ve only been open a few months, they’re already looking for more sites. The first shop is close to Le Marais and the Picasso museum, on rue Oberkampf, close to a busy street market on Boulevard Richard Lenoir.

As well as pastries they make very good bread, from Le Tradition (the baguette) to a Pain de Campagne with honey, turmeric and Corinth grapes, ‘yellower than your gilet’.

 

 

Bread at The French Bastards

 

 

Before leaving, I had to admit to another motive. While it had been worth crossing Paris for the croissant, I couldn’t resist making it known that I have another occupation.

 

 

As an English longbow archer, I had wanted to come and take a look at the French Bastards. 

 

 

‘Maison Fondee Hier’ (founded yesterday)

 

 

 

The FRENCH BASTARDS, 61, rue Oberkampf, Paris 11eme. (The Bastards take ‘Thursday Off’)

Nearest Metro Filles de Calvaire

Playlist: mellow. As well as the table, there’s a battered leather sofa. 

 

 

 

Your sofa awaits

 

 


 

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