Paris Journal 2009 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com

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We have been surprised in Paris so often that we aren’t surprised to be surprised anymore. Yesterday afternoon we left the apartment at 1 or 2PM to go, so we thought, to the last day of the orchid show at 84 rue de Grenelle, the home of the Société Nationale d’Horticuture de France (SNHF). While we are no experts, we are very familiar with orchids. At home in southwest Florida, we have them growing in our house, on the front porch, on the back porch, and in the trees all around the house. There are frequent orchid shows on our island of Sanibel, and the shows are always free. We knew there would be something happening on the square in front of the Saint Sulpice church because we’d seen little white tents being erected there during the past few days. I’d noticed the little articles about an upcoming “vide grenier” (garage sale) event that would be scattered at various locations in Paris. Indeed, the vide grenier is what was happening on the Place Saint Sulpice. The little white tents were full of people selling their unwanted clothing and junk. The merchandise did not look very appealing to me. But the entertainment was funny. There were two characters on stilts and fully costumed, complete with paper maché heads. Here they are. They put on a show in which Monsieur kept trying on jackets from the vide grenier vendors. Madame would watch, and then indicate her approval or disapproval. We watched until they wandered away. Then we went on to the rue de Grenelle, to find the SNHF. (Here’s their English web site.) When we arrived at number 84, we went into the courtyard entrance, only to discover that there would be a 6 euro fee for entry. We were able to see this before reaching the sign-in table, which was busy at that moment, so there was no embarrassment in turning around to leave. Orchids to south Floridians are like coals to Newcastle; we aren’t going to pay to see them. So we decided to go for tea somewhere since we’d not eaten all day. I remembered that Marie Thé on rue du Cherche Midi is open on Sunday, so we headed in that direction, down the rue du Bac. But when we reached rue du Bac, we saw the Nemrod brasserie in front of us, and it was open. People were actually eating there in the mid-afternoon. Aha! We remembered. This is the place that our friends Linda and John frequent. So we decided to try it. Tom, as is his habit, wanted something sweet, and the brasserie advertises on its windows that its pastries are homemade. So he ordered the tarte aux pommes (apple tart), which was superb. Unlike many tartes aux pommes, this one was piled thick with very thinly sliced apples. Most tartes aux pommes are very thin. This one, however, was just as thick as the tarte tatin, which is also available at the Nemrod, but comes with much thicker chunks of apples and is prepared somewhat differently. Score 1 for the Nemrod. I ordered the smooth, brown soupe de poissons (fish soup) which is NOT a bouillabase, I’ll have you know! The Nemrod’s version of the soupe de poissons is very much like the soupe de poissons at l’Abri Cotier, but it costs 3 euros less. It also is not as fresh as the fish soup at Abri Cotier, and the garnitures aren’t as generous. The amount of rouille (garlic mayonnaise with saffron and, in this case, paprika) was about right, but perhaps could have been larger, and the amount of shredded Emmental was completely insufficient. The croutons were made with Poilane bread, which normally I love, but I think in this case, toasted pieces of baguette would be better. While the soup was good and warm on a slightly chilly day, I left feeling that it is worth the extra three euros to get the really good soupe de poissons rouille at l’Abri Cotier instead. Next time at the Nemrod, I won’t be so adventurous. But I do think it is probably a very good brasserie. Nemrod was a hunter (book of Genesis), so perhaps it is best to order meat and poultry here, not fish. We walked all the way up the rue du Cherche Midi to the boulevard Saint Germain to buy the Sunday newspaper, and then strolled back down the rue de Rennes, under the watchful eyes of the Dragon, to the Place Saint Sulpice where Tom lingered to examine the contents of each little tent. I went back to the apartment and snuggled up to read Saturday’s and Sunday’s newspapers as well as the remainder of the book with Marville’s photographs. We decided to dine at the Bistrot de la Grille Saint Germain. Tom doesn’t like being crowded there, so I suggested we go a bit early, around 7:30, in hopes to avoid crowding and to get a good table. It worked. We took possession of the corner table in the back of the dining room. By the time we left, it was a little crowded, but not bad. Tom ordered the salmon, which came with smashed potatoes (not mashed, not puréed, but really smashed). The portions were very generous. I ordered the duckling special of the day, which came with a delicious dark, rich demi-glace sauce and fine little white potatoes and olives. The duck was tender and very, very good. Our server was very nice, and we communicated well since we speak French. But we squirmed with discomfort as he tried to get the order from an American couple who came in a little after we did, and were seated just a couple tables away from us. It was excruciating to listen to. The Americans, who were just a little too loud, knew no French, and the server’s English was super minimal. But fortunately, all three of them were patient, and they struggled through. It took quite a while for the server to get that order. These Americans clearly were accustomed to servers who knew how to speak English. I guess that was our evening’s entertainment. My friend Carolyn Simms Myers from high school days asked if we’ve ever been to the Moulin Rouge. I haven’t, but Tom was there thirty years ago. It was during the daytime when Tom was there with his son and wife at the time, and there was food served but no show. I guess we aren’t into that kind of entertainment, or else we’d have gone there together by now. We aren’t night owls, but if we do stay out late, it would be to hear live jazz, like we did a week ago at the Café Laurent. We also like the kind of entertainment that we just stumble upon on our walks through Paris. That’s the best kind for us. I just found a horror story by Robert W. Chambers (1865-1933) in which the Cour du Dragon is described as it was perhaps a hundred years ago. Here is an excerpt. The whole story can be found by clicking here. I live in the Court of the Dragon, a narrow passage that leads from the Rue de Rennes to the Rue du Dragon. It is an "impasse"; traversable only for foot passengers. Over the entrance on the Rue de Rennes is a balcony, supported by an iron dragon. Within the court tall old houses rise on either side, and close the ends that give on the two streets. Huge gates, swung back during the day into the walls of the deep archways, close this court, after midnight, and one must enter then by ringing at certain small doors on the side. The sunken pavement collects unsavoury pools. Steep stairways pitch down to doors that open on the court. The ground floors are occupied by shops of second-hand dealers, and by iron workers. All day long the place rings with the clink of hammers and the clang of metal bars. Unsavoury as it is below, there is cheerfulness, and comfort, and hard, honest work above. Five flights up are the ateliers of architects and painters, and the hiding-places of middle-aged students like myself who want to live alone. When I first came here to live I was young, and not alone. I had to walk a while before any conveyance appeared, but at last, when I had almost reached the Arc de Triomphe again, an empty cab came along and I took it. From the Arc to the Rue de Rennes is a drive of more than half an hour, especially when one is conveyed by a tired cab horse that has been at the mercy of Sunday fete-makers. There had been time before I passed under the Dragon's wings to meet my enemy over and over again, but I never saw him once, and now refuge was close at hand. Before the wide gateway a small mob of children were playing. Our concierge and his wife walked among them, with their black poodle, keeping order; some couples were waltzing on the side-walk. I returned their greetings and hurried in. All the inhabitants of the court had trooped out into the street. The place was quite deserted, lighted by a few lanterns hung high up, in which the gas burned dimly. My apartment was at the top of a house, halfway down the court, reached by a staircase that descended almost into the street, with only a bit of passage-way intervening, I set my foot on the threshold of the open door, the friendly old ruinous stairs rose before me, leading up to rest and shelter. Looking back over my right shoulder, I saw him, ten paces off. He must have entered the court with me. He was coming straight on, neither slowly, nor swiftly, but straight on to me. And now he was looking at me. For the first time since our eyes encountered across the church they met now again, and I knew that the time had come. Retreating backward, down the court, I faced him. I meant to escape by the entrance on the Rue du Dragon. His eyes told me that I never should escape. It seemed ages while we were going, I retreating, he advancing, down the court in perfect silence; but at last I felt the shadow of the archway, and the next step brought me within it. I had meant to turn here and spring through into the street. But the shadow was not that of an archway; it was that of a vault. The great doors on the Rue du Dragon were closed. I felt this by the blackness which surrounded me, and at the same instant I read it in his face. How his face gleamed in the darkness, drawing swiftly nearer! The deep vaults, the huge closed doors, their cold iron clamps were all on his side. The thing which he had threatened had arrived: it gathered and bore down on me from the fathomless shadows; the point from which it would strike was his infernal eyes. Hopeless, I set my back against the barred doors and defied him. Now I bet you’ll want to click on that link up there to see how the story ends! ← Previous Next → Sign my guestbook. View my guestbook.

Monday, September 14, 2009 Dragon over a doorway near the beginning of the rue de Rennes, not far from the boulevard Saint Germain. The street called rue du Dragon is the next street over to the west. Before 1943, there was a passage called Cour du Dragon connecting the rue de Rennes at about number 50 to the rue du Dragon at about number 7. Perhaps this dragon on rue de Rennes marks the spot where the Cour du Dragon used to go through. Below is a 1913 photograph of the Cour du Dragon taken by Eugene Atget, found on the French Wikipedia. Click on it to get a larger view. And don’t miss the great description of it from the Robert Chambers horror story, below left.