Paris! Here we go...
Paris, day one..
It was a long flight. Twelve hours made more bearable with my sleepy pills. The folks in the row in front of us liked to recline their seats rather far back, and one of them snored like he was drowning. Toward the last quarter of the flight it was exciting to look down and see the Alps going by a field of frozen whitecaps, and spot rivers and autobahns. There was also a brief moment of excitement when a fighter jet arrowed past under us.
CDG is a big airport. We took the shuttle train to Terminal 2, then took the light rail(RER) out to Paris and even then the first couple of stops were still airport. We changed over to the metro at Chatelet-Les-Halles, taking Line 1 to La Defense, getting off at Tuileries. As it turned out, we should have gotten off at Concord instead; then it would have been half a block instead of four and a half to get to the hotel.
My brother met us and let us freshen up in his room - ours wasn't yet ready - before we set out. We went first to one of the iconic patisseries, Pierre Herme, at their flagship shop. We went a little mad on the pastries, as the branch near the hotel - two doors down - only carried the famous chocolates and macarons. We adjourned to a little cafe nearby that served as the unofficial Pierre Herme cafe, where they let you enjoy your purchases as long as you order drinks. We swooned over an Isfahan - raspberry macaron with a rosewater filling, fresh raspberries and lychees - and then the tarte au citron, with a custard cream so fine that it flowed when you broke through the delicate crust. We shared a Gianduja - chocolate and hazelnut filling - and a rose - filling of almond paste, raspberries and rosewater, topped with candied rose petals - croissant. Strangely enough, my capuccino was a strong black coffee (now I know why they call it french roast!) topped with peaks of wispy milk foam.
All this was very light, and did not stop us from heading to lunch at Le Comptoir. This is an amazing restaurant with unassuming décor and frontage, but a big reputation. If it wasn't for the fact that they don't take reservations for lunch - we queued outside with the rest of the crowd - there would be no getting in. Dinner bookings start at months in advance.
We ordered a half-litre carafe of a yummy dry house red, and for starters a plate of charcuterie and a salade de cou d'oie farci. The former came with a basket of rustic sourdough, and included salami, porchetta, terrine, fried lardons, boudin noir and tiny cornichons. The latter was a sausage stuffed into the skin of a goose's neck, served sliced with tiny dice of apple, hearts of lettuce and a light mustard sauce.
For main, I had beef cheeks braised in red wine and shallots, with tiny macaroni. My brother had suckling pig, rolled and poached before being roasted and served with green lentils. All amazing. TigerEyes had roast duck breast with panfried pear and a decadent potato puree. Alas he found his duck wing undercooked. We were far too full for dessert and I was slightly squiffy. We decided to walk it out.
Walking past the cathedral at Notre Dame, we noticed a couple of large white tents set up out front. They turned out to be an exhibition of bakers from Quebec. The tents were crowded and smelled wonderful; one of them was filled with people gawking at a full sized bakery in action. The bread baked was sold in the other tent, but we couldn't elbow through the crowd. We wandered over to the Ile St Louis, one of the largest islands in the Seine. Long, narrow cobbled streets with tiny little shops all over. We went looking for Berthillon, the best ice cream in France. It spoke volumes how many cafes in the area (and outside of it too) proudly assert that they sell Berthillon's ices. In our search we found a tiny shop that sold foie gras and other duck products from a little farm in Burgundy. I commiserated with the proprietor about how hard it was to bring foie gras into Australia (his daughter lives in Melbourne with her husband) and he offered me a taste, along with a sip of sweet white from Angis (“You cannot have foie gras without a drink.”) When we got to Berthillon, TigerEyes went for redcurrant, my brother had the insanely rich salted butter caramel, and I opted for the bitter (not so much) cacao sorbet. Tiny golf ball sized scoops, but oh, you truly don't need any more than that.
We opted to wander back to the hotel through the Jewish Quarter in the Marais. En route we stopped for a felafel at L'As de Felafel, widely regarded as the best in Paris, if not France. The pita was filled with chopped, lightly pickled vegetables and roasted eggplant; wonderfully fresh and savoury. The winding streets were filled with tiny shops with menorahs and kosher certificates in the windows, bakeries heaped with piles of bagels, rugelach and slabs of cheesecake.
By this point the travel fatigue was setting in with a vengeance and we hopped back via the metro. After finishing the last of the Pierre Herme pastries, a shower and a short nap was in order. Then a very light dinner at a little Japanese place a few streets away - Naniwa-Ya. My brother had katsu-curry, I had maguro-don, and TigerEyes just had gyoza. It was strange to be more comfortable ordering in japanese than in french. :P Wandering around in the dark meant we got some spectacular views of the Opera building, all lit up. We also saw the most unlikely church in the Place de la Madeleine, which was huge and looked like a Greek temple with all its columns. I was squeeing in the square, running from window to window. Fauchon, Hediard, Maille, Maison de Truffes, two caviar houses; they were all there. I made a vow to return.
Then it was back to the hotel and to bed.
It was a long flight. Twelve hours made more bearable with my sleepy pills. The folks in the row in front of us liked to recline their seats rather far back, and one of them snored like he was drowning. Toward the last quarter of the flight it was exciting to look down and see the Alps going by a field of frozen whitecaps, and spot rivers and autobahns. There was also a brief moment of excitement when a fighter jet arrowed past under us.
CDG is a big airport. We took the shuttle train to Terminal 2, then took the light rail(RER) out to Paris and even then the first couple of stops were still airport. We changed over to the metro at Chatelet-Les-Halles, taking Line 1 to La Defense, getting off at Tuileries. As it turned out, we should have gotten off at Concord instead; then it would have been half a block instead of four and a half to get to the hotel.
My brother met us and let us freshen up in his room - ours wasn't yet ready - before we set out. We went first to one of the iconic patisseries, Pierre Herme, at their flagship shop. We went a little mad on the pastries, as the branch near the hotel - two doors down - only carried the famous chocolates and macarons. We adjourned to a little cafe nearby that served as the unofficial Pierre Herme cafe, where they let you enjoy your purchases as long as you order drinks. We swooned over an Isfahan - raspberry macaron with a rosewater filling, fresh raspberries and lychees - and then the tarte au citron, with a custard cream so fine that it flowed when you broke through the delicate crust. We shared a Gianduja - chocolate and hazelnut filling - and a rose - filling of almond paste, raspberries and rosewater, topped with candied rose petals - croissant. Strangely enough, my capuccino was a strong black coffee (now I know why they call it french roast!) topped with peaks of wispy milk foam.
All this was very light, and did not stop us from heading to lunch at Le Comptoir. This is an amazing restaurant with unassuming décor and frontage, but a big reputation. If it wasn't for the fact that they don't take reservations for lunch - we queued outside with the rest of the crowd - there would be no getting in. Dinner bookings start at months in advance.
We ordered a half-litre carafe of a yummy dry house red, and for starters a plate of charcuterie and a salade de cou d'oie farci. The former came with a basket of rustic sourdough, and included salami, porchetta, terrine, fried lardons, boudin noir and tiny cornichons. The latter was a sausage stuffed into the skin of a goose's neck, served sliced with tiny dice of apple, hearts of lettuce and a light mustard sauce.
For main, I had beef cheeks braised in red wine and shallots, with tiny macaroni. My brother had suckling pig, rolled and poached before being roasted and served with green lentils. All amazing. TigerEyes had roast duck breast with panfried pear and a decadent potato puree. Alas he found his duck wing undercooked. We were far too full for dessert and I was slightly squiffy. We decided to walk it out.
Walking past the cathedral at Notre Dame, we noticed a couple of large white tents set up out front. They turned out to be an exhibition of bakers from Quebec. The tents were crowded and smelled wonderful; one of them was filled with people gawking at a full sized bakery in action. The bread baked was sold in the other tent, but we couldn't elbow through the crowd. We wandered over to the Ile St Louis, one of the largest islands in the Seine. Long, narrow cobbled streets with tiny little shops all over. We went looking for Berthillon, the best ice cream in France. It spoke volumes how many cafes in the area (and outside of it too) proudly assert that they sell Berthillon's ices. In our search we found a tiny shop that sold foie gras and other duck products from a little farm in Burgundy. I commiserated with the proprietor about how hard it was to bring foie gras into Australia (his daughter lives in Melbourne with her husband) and he offered me a taste, along with a sip of sweet white from Angis (“You cannot have foie gras without a drink.”) When we got to Berthillon, TigerEyes went for redcurrant, my brother had the insanely rich salted butter caramel, and I opted for the bitter (not so much) cacao sorbet. Tiny golf ball sized scoops, but oh, you truly don't need any more than that.
We opted to wander back to the hotel through the Jewish Quarter in the Marais. En route we stopped for a felafel at L'As de Felafel, widely regarded as the best in Paris, if not France. The pita was filled with chopped, lightly pickled vegetables and roasted eggplant; wonderfully fresh and savoury. The winding streets were filled with tiny shops with menorahs and kosher certificates in the windows, bakeries heaped with piles of bagels, rugelach and slabs of cheesecake.
By this point the travel fatigue was setting in with a vengeance and we hopped back via the metro. After finishing the last of the Pierre Herme pastries, a shower and a short nap was in order. Then a very light dinner at a little Japanese place a few streets away - Naniwa-Ya. My brother had katsu-curry, I had maguro-don, and TigerEyes just had gyoza. It was strange to be more comfortable ordering in japanese than in french. :P Wandering around in the dark meant we got some spectacular views of the Opera building, all lit up. We also saw the most unlikely church in the Place de la Madeleine, which was huge and looked like a Greek temple with all its columns. I was squeeing in the square, running from window to window. Fauchon, Hediard, Maille, Maison de Truffes, two caviar houses; they were all there. I made a vow to return.
Then it was back to the hotel and to bed.