Paris Journal 2011 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com
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I just watched a video of an interview with Anne Mansouret, the mother of the writer Tristane Banon (who’s accusing DSK of a rape that occurred 9 or so years ago). Anne, who was/is a leader of the Socialist Party, brought up an additional point about DSK’s unpopularity within his own party: unlike all the other Socialists, Anne explains, DSK is so “bling-bling” and has this caviar diet when everyone else is eating pasta. Good point, Anne. It reminds me of a time when I sold my house, before Tom and I were married, and the person I sold it to was a self-described Marxist. He paid cash for the house – no mortgage necessary. We don’t have such interesting contradictions. We are what we are – middle-class, politically centrist (well, maybe Tom’s more left of center than I am, but close enough), moderately intellectual, patriotic, citizens who always vote. We are middle-class, that is to say bourgeois in French, and we went met our bourgeois English friends, Carol and Ron, to join the bourgeois Parisians at Restaurant La Gitane last night for dinner. I made a reservation in the afternoon. It was necessary. When we arrived, Olivier Mayeras looked a little worried. He thought he might have to turn us away, and he didn’t want to. I said good evening, and that we’d telephoned for a reservation. As soon as I said “les Cooley” and “quatre personnes” his face brightened, and he said “Ah, OUI!” and went to his book to check us off the list. Much to my surprise we were given the VIP table – a card with our name on it sat in a little brass holder on the table, in the front nook just to the right of the entrance. Being in the front nook made it easier to hear each other as the restaurant filled up and came alive with many French voices chattering away. Olivier could have squeezed in another couple at a table next to us, but instead he pushed the table up to ours to make ours bigger, and he removed the extra place settings. I felt that we were being pampered, but this is just how they treat regulars. He recognized us as the Floridians, but had not yet quite matched our name to our faces. Now he does. Bless him for not trying to correct my pronunciation of our own name by saying “kooo – lay.” Corinne Mayeras took our order. When I asked simply for the entrée du jour and the plat du jour, she was very pleased. The server had already strongly recommended both. Tom and I shared the entrée du jour, and Carol and Ron shared another one. This starter course consisted of small shrimp and small girolle mushrooms in a delicious, creamy cheese sauce. The shrimp were not overcooked, and therefore were tender. The plat du jour was swordfish and fresh vegetables, lightly cooked, in a pool of lemon beurre blanc sauce. Ron and I had each ordered this wonderful concoction. It was as beautiful as it was delicious. Carol had the chicken (blanc de poulet fermier en salade with sweet-and-sour sauce), and Tom the duck breast in balsamic sauce (magret de canard poêlée au vinaigre balsamic acidulé) with roasted potatoes. That was all excellent, absolutely top-notch, and it made me think that the regular chef must have returned from vacation, although whoever has been chef during the interim has been wonderful, too. With the mobs of Parisians back in residence and the precision of this cuisine, the food was slow in arriving. But that is a good thing. Food this heavenly does not come quickly. We thoroughly enjoyed to time to sit and talk about all kinds of things, and we enjoyed being so clearly in the place to be on Saturday night in the upper 15th arrondissement. Tom and Carol had fruit tarts for dessert. Tom’s was made with both kinds of plums, purple and gold, or quetsche and mirabelle. It was tasty. We were among the last half dozen tables of guests to leave. Corinne and Olivier both gave us a nice farewell. We walked Carol and Ron to the number 10 metro at La Motte Picquet, and called it a late evening. Before dinner, Tom and I had walked up the full length of the Champ de Mars. It was still serene, except for a very few illegal vendors of Eiffel Towers. When we reached the base of the tower, we saw a paddy wagon and a police car, but no police. They were busy doing something, I guess, and the few illegal vendors were seizing the moment of opportunity to break the law again. One approached me, tried to sell me a trinket, and I said, “C’est illégal.” He spoke again, trying again, in English again. I repeated, “Illégal.” He looked Pakistani, and I guess because he could not understand “illegal” pronounced with its French vowel sounds, he must not speak any French. That’s going to be tough, trying to make a living in France without speaking French. He better get busy and learn the language. In his situation, it is essential. When Tom was approached, he simply tried to sell his umbrella to the vendor again. The strange Americans, that’s us. Sign
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Sunday, August 28, 2011
Fish snobs
that we Floridians are, we found no fault with this swordfish, and the
vegetables were divine. This was the
daily special at La Gitane last night.
Part of my
favorite bridge, the Pont Alexandre III, where
we’ll be walking later today.
Looking
down the Terrasse du Bord
de l’Eau at the Louvre.
La Tour et la
Seine.
More
Carmona sculptures along the Left Bank. |
