Paris Journal 2012 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com

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We went to a real restaurant last night, en famille, and our granddaughters behaved like young ladies. I was very proud of them. They learned to say more things in French, like “du beurre, s’il vous plait,” “une carafe d’eau, s’il vous plait,” etc. I am amazed at how easily the pronunciation comes to them. This must be one of the several reasons why the experts say it is best to learn a second (or third or fourth) language while still quite young. The girls arrived in our neighborhood dressed in long sundresses, hoodies, and athletic shoes. They looked as cute as can be. Tom took them to the Louis Pion watch shop on the rue du Commerce, where they each selected a watch. All evening long, Sarah would periodically tell me what time it was, as she consulted her new watch. I’d reserved a table at Le Café du Commerce (not to be confused with the far more casual Commerce Café where we dined the previous night). Tom was disappointed at first that our table was not upstairs, but instead was in the side dining room on the ground floor. I understood, and urged Tom to accept it because it was Saturday night, after all, and we’d reserved late. It turned out to be a great spot in the restaurant for us to be. Dan and the girls sat on a long banquette that had short return walls on each side. That, along with the normal height of the ceiling and the stained glass windows gave us the feeling of almost having our own dining room. But we could still look around the larger space. We were not crowded at all. Our very tall server was as professional and nice as could be. He was charmed and pleased by the girls’ eagerness to learn and use some French words, and by how many times they said, “merci.” From the kids’ menu, Olivia ordered the steak haché frites and Sarah ordered the poulet frites. Sarah, Tom and I were delightfully surprised to see that the chicken was a supreme de volaille, a Frenched chicken breast, served with a dark and delicious mushroom sauce. Several times Sarah remarked about how nice the sauce was. Their fries were top-notch. I was seated directly across from Sarah, so I was able to give her a few pointers on how to hold the fork when cutting her chicken, so that she could be more effective at the task. She’s a fast learner. It was a long time between the arrival and consumption of the kids’ dishes and the eventual arrival of the adult dishes, so we entertained ourselves by Dan and the girls hamming it up for my camera (no flash, of course). I took many funny photos of the trio, which I emailed to the other grandmother back in Cleveland. Tom and I ordered fish – salmon for him, skate for me. And Dan ordered the duckling filet. Tom’s fish came with puréed potatoes, topped by sautéed pieces of turnips and peppers (escalope de saumon, plancha, vierge de poivrons, tian de legumes), and mine came with small, whole steamed potatoes. The skate (aile de raie à la grenobloise, beurre aux câpres et croûtons) came with a very generous amount of capers, and a butter sauce. I think it was the best skate I've ever eaten. I’m not sure why the ordinary croutons were added to the dish. Dan’s duckling came with pommes Ana. That turned out to be scalloped potatoes, carrots, and some green vegetable that Dan didn’t want (as usual). So I gave him one of my plain potatoes. But I thought pommes Ana looked interesting and good. (I do love vegetables!) We all had dessert, too: Tom and I sharing a great baba au rhum, and the girls sharing a mi-cuit au chocolat servi "froid" et sa crème glacée vanille and a petit pot de chocolat grand-mère. Dan ordered the traditional and correct crème brûlée à la vanille. It was a fine dinner, and a great French dining experience en famille. The staff gave us a big, friendly and approving round of farewells as we left. (Sorry, Steve C. I didn’t take photos of the food last night. I was pretty preoccupied with the girls.) Earlier, in the afternoon, Tom and Dan spent time working on the plumbing at the apartment in the 6^th. I picked up my new jacket from the leather tailor across the street from the apartment in the 15^th. There are places called “retoucheries” here and there all over Paris (except perhaps in the first 7 arrondissements where rent may be too high). These are generally tailors’ shops where clothing alterations are made. I’m sure it is hard to make a living in this business. So many retoucheries sell some clothing, and/or have a specialty that brings in more business. Right across the street from our apartment in the 15^th is a retoucherie that has sold clothing for some time. Now in recent years, it seems to be specializing in leather jackets and coats, for both men and women. All the sales are going on now in France, and this retoucherie was no exception. When we went out for our walk on Friday, Tom wanted to go in and look around, because we both need warmer jackets for later this summer, including the month of September when Paris can be chilly. Inside we found a real tailor, working in the middle of the back half of the shop at his old, pretty, and professional-looking sewing machine. His wife greeted us. I generally don’t like to shop for clothes in France, and one reason is that my long-distance swimmer’s physique and the clothing in French stores usually don’t have much common ground, when it comes to fit. But there was one jacket that Tom found on the rack that was just a dream for me. It was finely made of the supplest suede, and it gave me room through the upper arms, shoulders and chest so that I could even wear a sweater under it, without being too bulky through the middle and the hips. Plus, it was just the right length overall. The only problem was that the sleeves were too long. Not a problem, I was told. Monsieur the tailor could fix that. I asked how much that alteration would cost. It cost nothing; it is included in the cost of the jacket, said Madame. One thing I liked about shopping there was that even as I tried on jacket after jacket that did not fit (before Tom found The One), Madame was not disdainful or subtly mocking (as so many silly Parisian shop girls can be). Madame, after all, has a chest that is even larger than mine. Her friendly, warm attitude serves her well, and she sells more jackets with her kind treatment of customers than the icy shop girls can sell in their boutiques. It is rare, very rare, for me to spend real money in France on clothes. I generally find shopping in the U.S. to be a much better experience and value. (I adore Chicos, which was founded on Sanibel Island.) Tom did not find anything to fit himself, however. But the retoucherie couple said that more men’s jackets were coming in on Tuesday. Great! We went ahead with the purchase of my jacket, and Madame marked one of the sleeves with a binder clip. I explained that my arms are different lengths (aren’t everyone’s?), and so she marked the other sleeve, too. She said the jacket would be ready at 4PM the next day, Saturday. I was surprised. I said, “Le weekend?” And she explained that yes, Saturday was an important day for the shop to be open. Sure enough, when I returned shortly before 4PM yesterday, there was a line of four or five women waiting in the shop! One woman was having black jeans altered, and Madame was down on the floor, backside toward the door, marking the jeans for the new hems. Nevertheless, she said, “Bonjour, madame!” as soon as I entered the shop. I have no idea how she could see me from the position she was in, but she did. I said “bonjour,” took my place at the end of the line, and was a bit embarrassed when she got up from the floor and retrieved my jacket instantly, leaving the other women staring at me like “who the heck is SHE?” I quickly tried on the jacket, which was perfectly altered for my arm lengths. I approved, said “merci, madame,” and was about to be on my way, but Madame insisted on finding a nice shopping bag for me to put the jacket in. I said it wasn’t necessary, because I lived across the street, but she persisted and gave me a lovely, big red shopping bag, throwing in the high-quality coat hanger to boot. She was sure to remind me that my husband should come back on Tuesday, and I agreed. “D’accord.” I guess she dropped everything to get my jacket (leaving the alterations customers waiting) because it was a significant sale, and Tom’s potential purchase would be another significant sale. It is true, it seems, that it is tough to make a living on alterations alone. We’re happy to help stimulate the French economy; it is the least we can do, right? I am just delighted by this jacket, and I’m no longer worried about being cold as the days grow shorter. This is just one little problem resolved, for us, the subtropical swamp people in Paris for the summer. Find me on Facebook

Sunday, July 22, 2012 The weather has improved enough that I have now had to water all the many plants on the balcony twice. These are the LU “biscuits” that I wrote about yesterday – the ones that would be a fine replacement for graham crackers when making s’mores. Tom and I irreverently call these “bastard cookies,” so we can remember the name of them, which somehow I still forgot yesterday. The Retoucherie du Commerce, across from our apartment. I’m delighted with my soft, new suede jacket . . . . . . but a little shocked that I spent significant money for a change. ← Previous Next →