Days 13 & 14: A free man in Paris

First thing Tuesday morning, I got writing to TravBuddys who I thought might be suitable for the dinner at Hôtel le Bristol. I heard back from two and arranged to meet them as a way of gauging their interest and suitability. This had somehow turned into a kind of audition process. But I was determined to ensure that the company would be a good fit. I didn’t want anything getting in the way of my enjoying this night one hundred percent. Could I be any more self-serving?

First on my list was Jicky (pronounced with a French ‘j’ like ‘zh’), about whom I knew very little when we met up at the base of the statue in the centre of Place de la Republique. We walked towards the Centre Georges Pompidou and he narrated very informatively the whole way, filling me in on all manner of detail about the past and present of the area like a well-trained tour guide. He insisted, though, that he’d never done it before. It was just that he’d lived in Paris his whole life and knew it inside-out.

He took me for lunch to a chic and crowded little eatery near Forum Les Halles. The trick this place (and other places, I expect) employed to keep tourists away was to make the door impossible to find. In fact, it was just a flap of plastic that looked to be buttoned up, but was actually the only way in or out.

Over lunch, Jicky told me about himself. He had just gotten back from China where he had found a friend to show him around, and he saw my guided tour as a way of ‘giving back the change’. I asked him what he had been doing in China and his response was cagey. ‘I have been doing research.’ I had to press for more detail and was, indeed, beginning to feel like quite a nosey parker. It emerged that he had been conducting research into funeral practices, and that he was in his tenth year of research, years that had taken him around the world examining the attitudes countries take towards dead people. (Always ‘people’ rather than ‘bodies’, which I kind of liked.)

So what did he do for a living? Well, that was more difficult to answer but it seemed the bulk of his income came from teaching. ‘Teaching what?’ I ventured.

‘Embalming,’ was his reply. It was at this point, as anyone who knows me might have guessed, that I was beginning to think I had found my dining companion.

The conversation eventually came back to me and we talked a lot about films. He said he never thought he would meet an Australian (in fact, I was the first at all) who knew more about French cinema than he did, but I think I had just surprised him by being an Australian who knew anything about French films. Regardless, it was a comforting sentiment.

I ordered the special: foie de veau (calf liver) and fettucine. Having never eaten liver of any kind on its own, I ordered it as part of my ‘try-anything-once’ policy for the trip. On the plate, it looked like a steak, and it partly tasted like one, but inside, the texture was far more buttery, and it kind of stuck to the throat on its way down. I was only half-enjoying it and half trying to smother it in fettucine (which was perfectly cooked and drizzled with pungent olive oil). In the centre it was just too creamy and cloying and I left a little bit on the plate. I offered it to Jicky but even he felt it was too soft. And his lunch had been steak tartare!

We walked on through the Forum shopping centre, taking a quick tour of Fnac and their impressive collection of French soundtracks, the UGC cinema and the Bibliothèque du cinéma François Truffaut, an amazing library opened in 2008, devoted entirely to film. It was totally packed, the French passion for culture (especially its own) in full flight.

Then Jicky said he wanted to show me the whole of the Louvre. ‘But I have to meet someone just after six,’ I protested. But he told me the only way to see the whole of the Louvre is from the outside. We walked along the Left Bank and viewed the Louvre in all its majesty and girth. We trotted around Paris a while longer, passing through rue Montorgeuil and any number of unreasonably charming shopping arcades. I kept gasping, which Jicky said he enjoyed because it reminded him to appreciate his city, even though he insisted Parisians do, on the whole, know how good they’ve got it.

We stopped for a coffee and he began to tell me about his being half-Spanish. It emerged that he had a Spanish grandfather, which would really make him one-quarter Spanish, but he said he always told people he was half-Spanish. I told him that I was legitimately half-English but never called myself English-Australian. He told me I should. 

We parted, agreeing to meet up again even if he didn’t come to Le Bristol. I had a hunch he would, though.

I went off to meet an American, Clint, who had been living in Paris for sixteen years. I met him outside the Palais Garnier, where I knew I would be heading on Sunday night for a chamber music concert. I was glad I would get to legitimately see the inside of that breathtaking building.

We went for a beer at a nearby bar and chatted. Having worked in finance, he’d done a fair bit of fine dining around Paris and claimed to know the tricks top restaurants would employ to get you to pay more, like offering aperitifs. I told him I would probably order an aperitif anyway and he sensed my tunnel-vision commitment to this meal. Turned out he hailed originally from Salt Lake City, and I told him about my Mormon experiences (a whole other story for those who don’t know). He told me I looked like a Mormon. ‘Exactly,’ I said, even though I thought I’d done a reasonable job of blending in with the Parisian winter uniform (black on black, maybe a splash of dark grey).

He made a call to a restaurant he’d been waiting to visit, called Spring. He told me they could take us, and that it was a huge stroke of luck. We hopped in a taxi and found the restaurant, which had recently (in the last ten minutes?) changed hands and was now called Table 28. A tiny little place with two 8-seater tables, I knew we had landed in true foodie country. As it turned out, though, so had fourteen other Americans. Which was fine, except for the cheerleader-type at the next table trying desperately to impress her boyfriend’s parents and getting nowhere. The whole communal table idea is great until your community contains someone like that.

The food was brilliant. I had my second foie for the day, starting the meal with some foie gras and bread. This was followed by a roast chicken, the likes of which only your mother could cook (and I mean that, Ma!). The standard platter of incredible cheeses followed, and a piece of pear cake for dessert was light and satisfying. All the while I drank red wine. Which I just don’t do. I wouldn’t say I liked it, but it was tolerable. A shame to have it wasted on me, though.

I was surprised to see Clint send the first bottle back, even after he had tasted it and it had been decanted and poured. In all honesty, I couldn’t tell the difference between it and its replacement. But I’m unrefined, so it’s to be expected.

On the way out, the waiter told us about another customer who had whipped out a bottle of homemade absinthe for an impromptu tasting. We were both offered a sip. It was very easy to drink, with minimal burning, but therein lay its danger. We got out of there before the temptation to try more became too great. Clint kept saying he was really drunk, though he seemed pretty compos to me. I caught the metro home and slept soundly, confident that I had found my dining partner.

So Wednesday 3^rd of March arrived: the day I had been planning for and fantasising about for months. As I said in my first entry, I realise that much of this build-up is foolish, as impossible expectations will never be met. But a degree of anticipation, I think, is completely healthy and even commendable.

I contacted Clint early to tell him I had found a dining partner, and apologized, offering to go out some other time if he wanted. He said Saturday would be good and was understanding. Then I emailed Jicky and asked if he wanted to accompany me. He said (as he often does), ‘Of course.’ And that was that. I had my dining partner.

Jicky and I met up for lunch again, visiting a salad bar he frequented called Foody that offered great deals on a healthy buffet.

Before we met, though, I managed to find my way to one of the World’s Great Stores: Cine Musique, on the rue de l’Arbre Sec. Okay, so maybe a store that sells only soundtracks (most of them rare and expensive) isn’t for everyone. But I was continually gasping, finally holding in my hands CDs I had thought only existed in myth. I purchased a box set of Georges Delerue, frustrating the owner with my French in the process, but he eventually saw that he was dealing with a kindred spirit – a lover of film music – and we left on good terms.

Anyway, after lunch, we had a proper Parisian coffee – standing up at the bar, (though I really just felt like I was in the way) – and went off to see a movie we had settled on: A Single Man with Colin Firth. It was good but too serious and a little melodramatic. Excellent acting, even from Firth who usually annoys me. What really surprised me was the size of the crowd that had turned out to see it. I can’t imagine even the Nova in Melbourne getting that many people to a one o’clock session on a Wednesday of a film with such relatively limited appeal. [Correct me if I’m wrong, Jean.] Jicky loved the film, and afterwards offered some very perceptive commentary. He had certainly processed it much faster than I had been able to.

We did some more wandering, then resolved to meet up later at Place de la Concorde for a pre-dinner drink at a bar where a friend of Jicky’s worked. It just happened to be the bar at Hôtel de Crillon, one of Paris’ great luxury hotels. 

Jicky was running late so we only had time for one glass of very nice champagne in the very plush bar. The barman said it would take us no more than ten minutes to walk to the Bristol.

In the end, it took us forty minutes, because we turned the wrong way down the rue Saint Honore, when we should have been heading towards the rue du Faubourg Saint Honore. During our brisk walk, I confided to Jicky that being late sometimes made me feel physically ill. Thankfully, he was an ocean of calm, and assured me that, considering the amount of money we would be spending there, we could afford to be a bit late. Accordingly, he continued to narrate our journey, pointing out points of interest, such as the very glamorous Costes restaurant and hotel, and the Office of President Sarkozy.

We arrived at the Hôtel le Bristol about half an hour later than my reservation time. I was puffed out and stressed, certain that they would have given our table away and that it would all have been for nothing. When I told the nice lady my name and apologised profusely for our tardiness, she said, ‘No problem at all, sir. Follow me.’

And that was that. We were guided through a thin sliver of a door into the winter dining room. I tried to play it cool, acting like the aura of serene opulence was commonplace for me, but I’m pretty sure my gaping jaw gave me away. We were seated at un table pour deux on the periphery of the room, which had only yet had a couple of tables filled. There were certainly more waiters than customers at this stage, but it was still only 8pm. This was the view from my seat (with apologies for the imperfect photography).

Within a few minutes we were offered an aperitif and I gladly accepted a glass of delicious Krug. Jicky told me he really needed to go to the toilet for a snooze, when he meant a ‘sneeze’, the first of a number of wonderful malapropisms. I certainly envy the confident way in which he uses his English, very often trying out a word even if he’s unsure it’s the right one. Considering he speaks three languages with considerable fluency, I guess it’s a good way to learn.

Assuming that I was a guest of Jicky’s, the waiter gave him the menu with the prices in it, while I was given the moneyless version. At that point in time, I was happy not to know the prices. I resolved to have the onion from Roscoff for entrée and the pig from head to trotter for my main course. When the waiter took our order, though, I heard him talking up the stuffed macaroni, and changed my mind at the last minute.

Before entrée, we ordered wine – a Portuguese white, which turned out to be superb, and much cheaper than most bottles on the list – and ate a mise-en-bouche: an arty-looking composition in three parts on a long thin plate, with magnetised crockery. First I ate the stuff in the small white bowl, which was a mixture of warm cheese sauce and liquefied (more than pureed) spinach. I tried the cracker, which tasted a lot like Arnott’s Barbecue Shapes but which was actually two wafer-thin slices of fried cheese with tiny slivers of roasted capsicum inside. The fairy floss (or, as Jicky called it ‘daddy beard’) contained at its centre a small cube of foie gras. The combination of the sweet floss and the salty, almost chocolatey liver was very good. The green bosom was a tiny balloon of very fresh tzatziki which exploded in the mouth. It was all wonderful and served very well to arouse the appetite.

A variety of breads was offered, including seaweed, which I ordered but which the waiter mistook for ‘cereal’ (another option). I didn’t correct him, assuming fate was on my side, and was glad because the cereal bread was warm and comforting, especially with the excellent salted butter.

Before entrée, another mise-en-bouche was delivered, this time a mound of creamy fromage atop a jelly of beef stock, and sprinkled (well…decorated) with ham and croutons. Some wonderfully salty flavours, but the total effect was a little too watery. More crunch would have been pleasing. Still, the flavour was unforgettable. In a good way.

Finally, entrée arrived and looked like this:

Three long tubes of pasta, stuffed with foie gras and herbs, topped with parmesan and grilled, atop a chequerboard of foamy chicken broth and truffle sauce. For me, this was the dish of the night, and one of the most totally satisfying things I’ve ever eaten. To describe the flavour would not do it justice, so I’ll just let you look and imagine.

Between entrée and main, I asked Jicky more about his embalming experiences and techniques. He was impressed that I even knew how it was basically done, but clarified for me the differences between the English method, in which the embalmer will come into contact with blood, and the French method, which he considers more sanitary and respectful, where blood is siphoned directly from the aorta. He claimed to have embalmed some 3000 people during his career, and firmly believes in its importance as facilitating part of the grieving process for those left behind.

Honestly, I would never have predicted that embalming techniques would end up being a main topic of conversation at this dinner. But I like that it was.

Mains arrived with the fanfare that accompanies the arrival of any round of dishes here. Dishes are delivered on covered plates and unveiled simultaneously. When the table of seven nearby received their dishes, the waiters all assembled in a sort of choreographed dance to ensure that no customer would see their food a second before anyone else at the table.

Mine was essentially a collection of pig parts: some cured belly, a blood sausage, a trotter atop some mashed potatoes, and a ball of spiced mince inside the shell of a Brussels sprout. Everything was delicious, and adequately balanced with tiny spears of cos lettuce. Totally satisfying.

After mains, we selected some cheeses, giving Jicky the opportunity to lambast me for my predilection for what he called baby cheeses. In the end, I tasted a number of his much stronger cheeses and enjoyed them, but my own milder selections were also wonderful.

Before dessert, yet another mise-en-bouche arrived: a quenelle of delicate lemon sorbet on macerated pineapple cubes, topped with a crunchy musk stick. There were more flavours in there than I’ve mentioned here, but part of the beauty of this style of cooking is that you have to taste it to experience it. Anyway, it was very nice.

Dessert was a passionfruit and banana soufflé, accompanied by a tuile tube filled with spiced fruits and a glass of warm fruit cider, with pieces of mango and pear inside. Everything was, of course, superb, but by this stage I didn’t need as much of it. I’d have been happier with even half as much.

And then there were caramel macaroons, and a selection of sweet bites to have with coffee. I chose a caramel toffee and a praline chocolate, and enjoyed my café au lait while Jicky downed a glass of Remy Martin.

When the bill came, I simply handed over my credit card and let the Tim of April, May, June and July pay for the meal. Jicky, who was not accustomed to quite such decadence, told me I had put him on to a gem he would never have otherwise visited and remarked on the power of the fates to bring him such good fortune. He said he would return, perhaps on a yearly basis.

For me, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and I’m happy with that. Sure, if the opportunity to do something similar arises again, and I’m able to, I will. But there’s something about that way of living that I would never feel comfortable being part of every day. Before we left, we noted that no one else in the restaurant had been there as long as we had. (In fact, I thought they had turned on some unpleasant music to encourage us to leave. Might have been Michael Nyman?) And we were glad, because it meant we had appreciated it. Others had passed through in little more than ninety minutes, maybe because it was a regular occurrence for them, but it certainly wouldn’t have provided for them the kind of night they would remember for the rest of their lives, as I will, and as Jicky said he will.

I do remember sitting there while Jicky was ‘snoozing’ in the bathroom, wondering what I had done to derserve to be there. Jicky later tried to convince me it was my hard work and long-term planning. I’m not so convinced. For the night to be so perfect, something else must have played its hand. I don’t know what it was but, gee, I’m grateful for it.