39. Back at the ranch

16th January 2010. That sound you can hear is the last of the dust settling following Christmas and New Year.. We’re now back to our old routine.. no more champagne to drink, no more foie gras or galettes to eat. The trouble was that we stayed with 4 sets of friends in 9 days in and around Paris and each time we arrived at a new temporary 'home', the fatted calf would be killed anew and more bottles would be opened, with the result that when we finally returned home on New Years Day we were both feeling just that little bit jaded and desperately wanting to eat lightly for a few days.

That resolution lasted only 5 minutes once we got home.. because it was 5 minutes after opening the front door that I thought to check our mail box. The facteur (postman) has a master key to it and this explains how a fully formed Christmas Pudding (a kind thought from a friend in England) was found to be lurking in there.. along with all the other mail. Yes, a Christmas pudding - the one thing I hadn’t eaten over Christmas! So it was on the following Sunday that we nobly sacrificed ourselves to appease Ye Olde English Christmas Pudding Gods. The pudding was heated, hot brandy poured over it (“we have ignition..!”) and all conversation ceased for a few glorious minutes.. As always, the French have an apt expression for this moment: "Un ange passe". All was well with the world again. We retired early with snoring high on the agenda..

I could have done with this diagram on Christmas Eve - not having worn a tie for months!

Looking back over the holidays, I remember feeling 'hard done by' on Christmas Day.. With it being France, we had our Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve with O - Madame's brother - and F - his wife - and their family.. and it was excellent indeed. O knows his wine too and he offered us a wonderful Bordeaux.. The following day at 3pm, we sat down to a light lunch as we were going to be eating for Queen & Country later in the evening. This is where the mind can play terrible tricks.. I remember thinking that, at that very moment, upwards of 10 million sizzling golden brown roast turkeys were sliding out of ovens all over Britain. The fact that we’d dined like kings the night before was temporarily forgotten. As I said, it was just a passing thought born out of years of conditioning. What was it that Hemingway said about Christmas? - that "you don't know what Christmas is until you lose it in some foreign land". There is some truth in that. Although we'd eaten royally (or should that be republicanly if there is such a word?) on Christmas Eve, I did feel a sense of seasonal deprivation on Christmas Day in the Vittles Department, if only for a few moments.

Earlier on Christmas Day, we'd gone with F to the outdoor market in nearby Saint-Germain-en-Laye which to my complete surprise was open and busy. Quite a few shops were open as well. This is a manicured little town (now effectively an outer suburb of Paris) that is clearly a very desirable place to hang one's chapeau.

On Boxing Day, we’d been invited to F's sister in the afternoon. They live in the 9th arrondissement in Paris in one of those old apartment blocks that always look so inviting. Entering Paris from the north (Porte de la Chapelle) and driving through an ‘ethnic’ part of Paris, you could have been forgiven for thinking that we were in downtown Baghdad. We fought our way through the traffic and arrived at the address (just north of Pigalle). It was such a stylish flat with its polished parquet floors with decorative moulding on the walls and ceilings. Following hard on the heels of another outbreak of handshakes and cheek kissing all round on arrival, there was the unmistakeable sound of champagne corks being popped.. (again!)

More delights followed in the form of those little multi-coloured ‘macarons’ and other chocolatey nibbles. We had to leave fairly soon afterwards as we were expected at A’s, our second ‘home’ for the next couple of days in La Varenne-Saint-Hilaire, on the south east edge of Paris on the banks of the River Marne. 

I thought I’d trust the GPS to guide us through Paris – big mistake! We ended up stuck in heavy traffic before emerging to graze Boulevard Haussmann just at the point where the major department stores Galeries Lafayette and Printemps (left) are located. Fortunately, the chosen route led us away around La Madeleine (right) and then from there, an unexpected bonus, along the expressway along the banks of the Seine with its stunning views across to the Left Bank. It lifted our spirits to see again the city we love, the city that's full of memories for us. And, in the slanting late afternoon light, it really did look like what it is - the most beautiful city in the world. (OK, who's the comedian who said "After Birkenhead.."?)

With A, we walked along the banks of the Marne, lined with trophy houses, including the one where Charles Trénet’s mother lived. If you don’t know Charles Trénet (shame on you!), he wrote & recorded “La Mer” in 1946 - well before Bobby Darin’s English version came out in 1960. (Wait for it... "Who's Bobby Darin..?")

We walked down to A’s local market and I must say that I’ve not seen a better one. Food markets in the Pays Basque are very regional & very Basque with few, if any, outside influences. In genteel St-Maur, with it being Paris, all tastes and regions of France were represented and catered for and the meat, poultry, cheese and fish stands were a real treat for the eyes. A’s 2 sons were visiting – the elder being Madame’s godson – and we enjoyed catching up with them.

After a couple of days with A, we moved back into central Paris to stay with N – Madame’s copine of old – and A, who live in the 11th in a chic top floor flat with a terrace, not far from the Place de la Bastille. This is a lively area, full of arty workshops and designers who’ve been allowed by the Ville de Paris to establish themselves in the curved spaces beneath a long viaduct. We walked along this fascinating row of avant-garde ateliers (workshops), studios and galleries heading for the Place Bastille and then to the Place des Vosges (above & right) in the Marais. We walked around the square in the cover of the galleries before stopping for a hot wine to keep the cold at bay. We sat outside a café under a heater and gradually warmed up. This is one of our favourite places in Paris for many reasons and we always find ourselves homing in on this particular spot. Chekhov said it best: "The golden moments pass, and leave no trace."

I make no apologies for this next one - one of the greatest songs ever written:

 

The next day, we had a tasty lunch at a local Chinese restaurant in the 11th before leaving Chibby (our golden cocker spaniel) with N & A (as dogs aren’t allowed in the Métro) while we went off for a walk up the Champs Elysées. Privately we were already starting to miss the sea air of the Pays Basque and the sea side. 

When I first set foot in the Champs Elysées in the mid-sixties, it - and Milan - were undeniably the style capitals of the world and the ne plus ultra of luxury shopping in western Europe. The broad pavements were also the territory of some spectacularly beautiful nanas, either cruising or stepping hither and thither from one luxury shop to the next. 

Over the years, the general malaise in the standards of western society saw a decline in the fortunes of these emporia for the excessively wealthy as street fashion now largely dominates the pavements. When we were there, it seemed that every man and his dog was out there walking up and down – and many of them were in baggy jeans and back-to-front (ooh trendy) baseball caps. And to crown it all, white painted Christmas market stalls selling imported tat had been set up lower down the grand Avenue. I never thought I'd live to see it. I'd've thought anywhere but here. We walked past the Drugstore (above left) at the top of the Champs Elysées. This is the Drugstore in its current incarnation (right) – OK for the fairground at Southend perhaps but at the top end of the Champs Elysées..? I'd call it council-sponsored vandalism. In Paris, the lunatics are now officially running the asylum. We decided we'd escape the madding crowd and so we circumnavigated the Arc de Triomphe and it was with a great sense of relief we headed off down into the tranquillity of the Avenue Victor Hugo in the 16th. This was a different world.

At one point I spotted a stylish restaurant across the road and I realised I was looking at Prunier – the classic seafood restaurant of Paris that dates waay back. I think it’s fair to say that its heyday was probably in the Golden Age but I’d still give my right arm to have lunch there.

I found myself standing outside a shop for gents like wot I am and, looking in the window, I saw quite a few things I liked. Stepping inside, Madame said I was looking for a jacket. After a single practised look at me, the owner reached into a rail of jackets, selected one and held it open for me to try. It fitted as though made for me. I don’t think we spent more than 10 minutes inside the shop. My kind of shopping!

We went into a few shops looking for things for Madame but without much luck.

This area of Paris is almost like a village – only a few minutes walk from the Arc de Triomphe but a haven of peace and calm. I shudder to think what an apartment there would cost.. As the old saying has it: if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it. And with that, with night fast approaching, we headed back to N & A’s.

You’ll have to look elsewhere to find out how Johnny (Halliday) is doing.. he’s been headline news for weeks now in France with a near-death experience in Los Angeles due to medical complications arising from an 'op' he'd had in Paris. And then there was the Euro-tunnel fiasco with trains marooned for hours. I didn’t see an English newspaper but I’m sure that more than one of the tabloids would have been unable to resist that old headline: “Tunnel shut-down; Continent isolated..”

To round off our stay in Paris, here’s the incomparable Yves Montand singing Les Feuilles Mortes.. (Autumn leaves in the English version). Enjoy..

  

Places to go? An ideal day would start with an 'apero' (aka attitude adjuster, bracer, snifter, heart starter..) at Au Franc Pinot on the Ile St-Louis before walking to the Taverne Henri IV (13 Place du Pont Neuf) for a light lunch. Try their rillettes de canard (right) with some crusty bread and a glass (or two) of Madiran. In the afternoon, head across to the Place des Vosges area for a mooch around the galleries, cafes and shops various before dinner at Bofinger, just off Place de la Bastille. This is the oldest brasserie in Paris and you may need to book. Tip: ask (demand!) to be seated downstairs under the dome. Try their excellent fixed price 3 course menu - which used to include wine. (It was the equivalent of £18 for years - menus here) After that, stroll down to the Latin Quarter for a rhum or two at the Rhumerie. There's always the Slow Club to finish off with..

Aide memoire!
Start: Au Franc Pinot. 1, Quai de Bourbon. (A while since I was last here - heard it had closed - now believed to have re-opened. Might be worth one visit)

Lunch (or a long afternoon!): Taverne Henri IV.
Dinner: Bofinger.
Drinks after: Rhumerie.
Finish: Slow Club. You're on your own now..!

It occurred to me the other day that Woody Allen nailed the essence of New York with the opening credits of his film "Manhattan" - the marriage of images and music (courtesy of George Gershwin) has never been bettered. Has something similar ever been done for Paris? And if not, why not? Here's a reminder:

Edited to add: Woody Allen put together some great images of Paris to open his 2011 film 'Midnight in Paris'. Well worth enjoying if you haven't seen it.   

Three down, one to go..! Our final stop before returning home was at Tours but we thought we’d go via the cemetery at Chartres – to pay our respects to Madame’s father & mother. The family grave is well situated in a beautifully maintained cemetery with a splendid view of the great cathedral which soars up to dominate the landscape for many miles around. It’s not a sad place - it’s not overgrown with moss or ivy – and as a final resting place it’s hard to think of one better.

We had a problem when it came to leave Chartres in that it seemed to be in a ‘black hole’ as far as the GPS was concerned! Unable to get a signal, we battled our way around the tangled inner parts of the town which were already starting to clog up with the early evening traffic. I think it took us a good 30 minutes to leave Chartres behind and get established on the road for Tours where fortunately the GPS kicked in once again. The temperature was just above freezing and as we approached Tours I could see a classic “line squall” developing fast out to the west. One half of the sky was black as pitch while the other was a benign early evening blue. Suddenly, there was a deluge of rain and gusts of wind - the noise in the car was deafening and all road markings disappeared. The sheer volume of water that came down was astonishing but gradually it tailed off and we breathed a sigh of relief.

At Tours, we stayed with our good friends J-M and M. Two years earlier we’d broken our journey with them overnight on the way south when we moved down from England. It was lovely to see them again and on New Year’s Eve, we took a walk along the Loire on a bright but bitterly cold afternoon. He’d bought his boys a Wii thing, a Beatles program with a couple of ‘modded’ guitars but he was suspiciously well practised at playing along with the Beatles..!! All too soon it was New Year’s day and time to leave again and head south.

The wintry weather we’d had in Paris extended as far south as Tours and we were both feeling the cold. As we drove south towards the Pays Basque though, we saw the first breaks in the cloud and before long we were under a cloudless sky and the temperatures started to rise.

And when we finally turned off the autoroute at Bayonne and crossed the familiar bridge over the Adour, it seemed like we hadn’t been away. Beautiful, grand and invigorating though Paris is, we were glad to be back home in the south west, in the Pays Basque.

It struck me in the wee small hours this morning that I haven’t really said much about the ‘gastronomique’ specialities of the Pays Basque. In my view, it’s a significant part of what makes this corner of France so special.

Speaking of which:

38. It's a sign!

Sitting in traffic this evening I felt my attention being drawn to a hypnotic green neon sign for a Pharmacie (chemist). The green cross design was sequencing through a mind-boggling series of rotations and flashes, including displaying the time and the temperature before going back into the flashing cycle. It reminded me of yet another difference in daily life between this side of the Channel and the other. Some French shopping institutions have evolved their own particular street signs - here are a few for the pharmacy.

The other distinctive ones I can recall are for Tabac (Tobacconists) and (this is where it gets slightly curious) Chevaline - horse butchers. You might wonder why they bother but if you happen to be looking for a specific type of shop they do make finding one that little bit easier.

I was trying to think of the UK equivalents.. and all I could come up with was the red and white spiral-striped barber's pole and the three golden balls for the pawnbrokers. Chemists sometimes had a gold mortar and pestle sign.

The illuminated Tabac sign is said to resemble a double ended carrot, often with TABAC spelled out.. Apparently the 'carrot' symbol stems from former times when pipe smokers would keep a piece of carrot in their tobacco pouch to keep their tobacco moist. When I used to smoke and I was gasping for a ciggy, the illuminated Tabac signs were a godsend.

I can understand the need for a easy-to-spot sign if you've a desperate need for a pharmacie or a Tabac - but a horse butchers? The sign for a horse butchers is a gilded horse's head that juts out from the wall. How many times have you found yourself dashing out of the house, all of a quiver for a horsemeat steak ("Just gotta have one!").. running around town with wild eyes looking for a shop with the gilded horse's head sign..? Exactly.. Here's a somewhat battle-damaged horse butchers (above right) from what looks like the immediate post-war years - and, incidentally, I don't think I'd be busting a gut to step inside this shop, would you? I'm reminded of the butchers in the film "Delicatessen".. 

I'm not sure that many Brits would ever contemplate the idea of eating horse meat - I think most would find the whole thing quite repugnant - but I must be honest, having tried it on 2 occasions, I have to admit that they were two of the best steaks I've ever had. I tried it once knowingly in France and the second time, in Italy, unknowingly. I won't be doing it again though.

During the Balkans conflicts in the mid 90s, over a period of 4 years I probably spent half that time based in Italy, just to the north of Venice. Madame came out a few times and, on one memorable occasion, we were out having dinner in a traditional restaurant in town with J, the wife of a colleague who was working. I'd become reasonably adept at decoding Italian menus and, being all pizza'd out, we decided we'd go for a meat dish. Feeling like trying something different, looking at the meat section, I spotted filetto di puledro.. It was clearly a fillet of some kind of meat so we ordered three. They arrived served in a reduced red wine sauce and we enjoyed them very much.. When it came to the bill, I asked the waitress what they were and eventually she said the word for a horse in Italian (cavallo) and then said 'piccolo' - meaning little.. ie, a foal. Eek!

Neither Madame or I felt too happy about that but our unease was as nothing compared to J's. I should have mentioned that she was a keen horsewoman. She went white and so I quickly ushered her outside as I thought she looked very close to a spectacularly lavish demonstration of projectile vomiting..

Moving swiftly on, while we're on the subject of Italy, one year I found a delicatessen in Italy that stocked two of Madame's favourite things combined into one.. It was a tin decorated in an ornate fin de siècle style that contained marrons glacés* that had been dipped in plain chocolate. To say that these hit the spot would be understating the case. And needless to say, I've never been able to find them again since.** And, coming back to the Pays Basque, last Christmas I went around all of the specialist chocolatiers in Bayonne hoping that one of them might have them, or might make some for me. I described what I was looking for but I met with the same universal response - or rather, lack of response - everywhere. No-one was interested in dipping a few marrons glacés in dark chocolate for me.. It was a demonstration of French culinary chauvinism -

"We don't do them like that here.."

Yes, I know that, but could you - just this once?

"If you want marrons glacés like that, you'd better go back to Italy.."

Etc etc.

Back to more domestic issues, we're having our Christmas dinner here at the weekend before we leave next week to go up to Paris. Commander-in-Chief (Home) has decreed that a Christmas pudding might just be on the agenda. Be still my beating heart!

* The brand was La Castagna Glassata Di Majani.. ricoperta di finissimo cioccolato fondente..

** Just found another site in Italy that has them! Guiliani I'll order some when we return in the New Year.

33. Christmas countdown..

25th November 2009. With the erection of 40 or so wooden chalets (aka garden sheds) in front of the Hôtel de Ville in Bayonne - ready for the Christmas market - there's now no hiding from the fact that Christmas is coming. The lights aren't up yet though.

When I was over in England in September, the previously mentioned Major Bloodnok was kind enough to make me a present of 2 large Christmas puddings. They've been sat in the cellar ever since and each time I go down there I'm tempted to bring one up into the light of day and sweet-talk Madame into heating one up. (Fat chance!) She does like them - but only at Christmas. (Rats!) I think that, as a food item, appreciation of them is usually limited to those of an Anglo Saxon origin. We're going up to Paris to stay with Madame's brother for a few days over Christmas and, for a few crazy moments, I thought that one of the Pudding Brothers would make an excellent contribution to the Christmas fare. That is, until the mental image of a table full of chauvinistic Gauls swam across my mind - each regarding their steaming slice of pudding with the utmost suspicion, poking and prodding it with looks of disdain as if it were still alive.. reluctantly tasting a morsel that could be harbouring e-coli at the very least. And this from a nation wot eats andouillette!! No, I don't think I'll bother. The French have a great expression for this: donner de la confiture aux cochons.. or to give jam to pigs!

At the risk of annoying those who live to the north, I must mention the unseasonably good weather we've been enjoying here for the last week (after the storms!). Temps of 24C and today it must be ~18-20C.. with matching blue skies.

With my knees giving me gyp at the moment, it's clear that our Golf is too small for us (ie, me) if we want to visit Tante S, Madame's auntie who lives in the Jura near the Swiss border (830kms away) as well as doing any long trips of exploration into Spain and Italy. After an hour's driving, I need to extend my legs which, in the Golf, I'm unable to do. So for the last few months we've been looking at all the options. We've test driven all kinds of cars and now we've homed in on the VW Tiguan as being the most suitable. With a little luck we should have one in time for our Christmas jaunt up to Paris..

Mentioning Tante S reminds me of the time when she and her now late husband were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary one summer in the mid 90s. They'd decided to have a celebratory dinner and had invited a representative from each part of the extended family (to keep the numbers down to a manageable level) and so we came to be invited. We'd planned our annual visit to the Pays Basque such that at the end of it we could drive up & across to the Jura to arrive in time..

We wanted to avoid the boredom of the autoroutes so we thought we'd simply "straight-line it" across France - going by the Departmentale* roads - thus seeing a bit more of the country. After driving all day on lonely roads through mountains, forests and villages we stopped overnight at a village called Bourganeuf (between Limoges and Clermont-Ferrand) which is as near as dammit in the centre of France. We quickly dropped our bags in a 2* "Logis" hotel in the centre and then went out for a swift leg stretch before dinner. I remember being amazed to find a fish shop still open at 7pm. What's more, the display of gleaming fish on ice under the lights looked as fresh as could be and - remember - this was in a village 200 miles from the coast..!

We returned to the hotel and went into the cosy and heavily beamed dining room. Looking around, it was clear that this was the real France (aka la France profonde). After browsing the menu for a few minutes I realised that this was somewhere that took its food seriously. All the classic dishes were there. Madame often says that food is the second religion in France but I'd go further and say it's the first - as more people go to restaurants than go to church. Looking through the wine list I couldn't believe what I was seeing - most of the wine was priced at somewhere between £200 and £800 a bottle.. There were some fabled wines there that I'd only read about - Château Palmer, Château Gruaud-Larose, Château Haut-Brion and Château Yquem - and this in a un cheval village in the middle of nowhere.. Who was buying this? Needless to say, we had a bottle of something far more modest!

/to be continued..

* Autoroutes (motorways) are A roads.. as in the A63 from Bayonne to Bordeaux (UK equivalents? The M1, M5, M6 etc).

Nationale roads are N roads (as in N7) - these equate to the A roads in the UK.

Departmentale roads are D roads - and are equivalent to the UK's B roads.

Hope that's cleared up any confusion there may have been!