Paris Journal 2010 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com

Photos and thoughts about Paris

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Moving around in the métro and train stations is not so easy sometimes. Sometime last week, a mother with a baby in a buggy and three more children, each dragging a heavy suitcase on wheels, were making their way through from the Montparnasse métro station to the Montparnasse train station, which are connected by a long corridor with moving walkways in the middle. The mother pushed ahead with the baby buggy, and the three small children followed behind her, each with a big suitcase. They each step onto the moving walkway, mother and baby buggy first, three little kids and suitcases behind her. A man comes up from behind and loudly expresses his outrage that the kids have the entire walkway blocked, instead of standing neatly in line on the right so that those who want to walk can pass on the left. He yells. That horrifies the kids, who scramble over to the right in a hodge-podge. The outraged man passes on the left. Because of their disarray, the first little kid is not able to disentangle himself and when he reaches the end of the walkway. He misses his opportunity to step off of it, and he tumbles to the floor, along with his suitcase. The next kid falls on him, with his suitcase, and the third kid and suitcase do the same. A forty-something year-old woman falls on top of them. Then a fifty-something year-old man, smiling, sees that he can’t avoid it, and he falls on them, too. Others on the walkway see what’s coming, and they start moving backwards on the walkway. More people fall. After several minutes, passers-by are able to come and help “disengorge” the walkway. Happily, nobody was hurt. Ah, the hazards of vacation travel. This was one of the daily “Public Way” transportation stories featured on the back page of the central section of Le Parisien. Often, these stories are about odd things that happen to automobile drivers on Paris streets or on the highways around the edges of the city. I usually find the train and métro stories to be a little more interesting and amusing. I was amused by this story, but also shocked at the outraged man who yelled at the kids and who probably has no idea of the chaos he caused. I can see myself in the same situation, and I know for certain that I’d just resign myself to silently waiting until the end of the walkway, and not trying to pass the kids, no matter how much of a hurry I was in. I feel sorry for any mom trying to travel with four little ones and baggage. We had plenty of time to catch up on reading these and other stories yesterday, because it rained all day long. It also was somewhat chilly, never quite getting up to 70 degrees F. Before dinner, we went out to run one nearby errand. Then we decided to go out to eat at the restaurant around the corner, behind our apartment building. I called just 15 minutes ahead, and that was a good thing because that’s the only way we were able to get a table upstairs on the second level. That’s much better than the ground floor. Do take a look at the photo of the restaurant’s interior on their web site. The restaurant, Le Café du Commerce, has improved over the past several years. Now the food is quite good. (This resto is not to be confused with the Commerce Café, our “neighborhood pub,” which is farther down the street at the Place du Commerce. The names are very similar, but Le Café du Commerce is a sizeable restaurant, and the Commerce Café is a real brasserie.) When we entered, the maitre d’hotel was gracious in his welcome and instructed our server to give us table number 121 upstairs. This maitre d’hotel looks like Mel Gibson in a gray suit. Our server took us upstairs, and then there was some confusion because that table was set up as a double table, set for three people. After some rearranging and discussion, we were able to settle into our chairs. We were given the French menus. Then our server asked if we wanted English menus, and we said “merci, non.” They have some real classics on the menu, like French onion soup. That was perfect for a day like yesterday, so that’s what I ordered as a starter. I’d seen the bowls the soup comes in, and I knew this would be a little copious. So I ordered the simple large-shrimp-with-wild-rice main course (belles gambas à la plancha, parfumées au tandoori, riz sauvage). Tom ordered a daily special, veal scallopini. The soup was terrific. I shared it with Tom, who adores onions. I told the server how good the soup was. He proudly stated that it is made in-house, and was a specialty of the house. This may possibly be the best French onion soup I’ve ever had. My large shrimp were good, and I enjoyed the wild rice very much. The menu had described the large shrimp as being seasoned tandoori-style, and indeed they were a little spicy. That was nice. But of course, being a south Floridian, I’ve had better shrimp before. I don’t want to be critical – these shrimp were good, considering how far from their Mediterranean home they were. Tom’s veal with tomato sauce was juicy and good, and the pasta appeared to be homemade. I amused myself by watching our server and the maitre d’hotel struggle with the restaurant’s computer system. Another server, an attractive young black woman, had to repeatedly interrupt her service to go help these two men with the computer. After several bouts of helping them, I could see that she was beginning to lose her patience. I think that maybe she should be the maitresse d’hotel. I hope these restaurants don’t realize how closely we observe their operations. Especially in the case of our server and the maitre d’hotel, it would make them self-conscious. After dinner, we didn’t have to walk far in the rain, thank heavens. We settled back in at the apartment and listened to the music of Ray Charles and others. Among the others was a French big band. I remarked to Tom that there was something about each French big band that we’ve heard that sounds a bit stiff. It has something to do with the beat, I said. He said they aren’t swinging their dotted eighth notes. “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.” Tom says it is difficult for a big band to swing. The smaller jazz combo’s that we’ve seen and heard in Paris do swing very well. Maybe the French can’t swing in their big bands, but they sure do know how to cook. Our friends Stanley and Pat left Paris this morning, to return to Tennessee. They had a wonderful time, and everyone treated them well even though they don’t know French. They always said “bonjour” and “merci,” and that is all the French you need these days in Paris. Sign my guestbook. View my guestbook. Note: For addresses & phone numbers of restaurants in this journal, click here.

Monday, August 16, 2010 Peeking into the courtyard of the Musée Montmartre. Building with red Chinese lanterns in the red-light district. Above, the side of Hector Guimard’s Hôtel Béranger in the 16^th arrondissement. Below, the front corner of the highly decorated early Art Nouveau apartment building. ← Previous Next →