Mounts and Rues of Martyrs

October 14 (Monday)

We thought the neighborhood would cool down a bit on a week day, and it did, but not all the way. The pedestrian mall, which I think is Rue de Steinkerque, was still full of pedestrians in the morning. People were bringing kids to the carousel. We had to wait in line to get into the funicular.

This is a cable car that runs up the most part of the serious climb from Rue Gabrielle to the steps of Basilica of Sacre Coeur. The basilica, especially its dome, is the dominant landmark in this part of the city. From the steps you get an overview of three-quarters of Paris.

It’s fun, but in daylight at least, an overview of Paris is less interesting than looking out over Valencia, New York, or Prague. Paris is kind of beige all over, and most of it has to be seen up close in person to have any flavor. Sort of like a real painting by Van Gogh.

But it was fun to see a few things we could recognize from this distance. Joanna picked out the gold dome of Les Invalides. Once she found that, we knew approximately where to find the Eiffel Tower. We had to move to our left because that part of the view was obscured by some trees on our right.

Notre Dame gets completely lost. We found it only by looking at the crib sheet, a panorama the identifies various landmarks.

We sat inside the nave of Sacre Coeur for the end of a mass and saw the monstrance in the sanctuary that holds the perpetual adoration of the consecrated host.

The church is new by European standards. Construction started in the 1870s and the building was consecrated in 1919. The perpetual adoration began in 1885.

Around the sanctuary there is an inscription: S’mo cordi Jesu Gallia poenitens et devota et grata. My approximate understanding of that is: To the most sacred heart of Jesus France is penitent and devoted and grateful.

St. Therese of Lisieux is also associated with the basilica. I’m not exactly sure of the connection because the explanation was written in more French than I can understand. I believe there was a ceremony here in which her relics were exhibited. I don’t know if there is any other connection.

The neighborhood around the church is a mix of very upscale residential properties and streets full of hawkers. There are guys—one even in a straw hat—who come up to people sitting outside cafes and hound them to have a sketch made. Everywhere I’ve gone, there are large numbers of vendors selling tiny Eiffel Towers. Up here, too.

Joanna’s crepe and my croissant were far in the past, so we ordered moules frites at a small cafe near the church of St. Peter. The waiter brought a huge bowl of steamed mussels and a plate of fries. I can’t remember when I have eaten as many deep-fried potatoes as I have in the past 10 days. No wonder we call them French fries.

The Church of St. Peter dates back to the 1140s (or maybe the 1410s) and was an abbey church until late in the 17th century. It bills itself as the parish church of Montmartre.

In our wanderings we passed another artists’ cafe, Le Consulat. One of the artists who hung out there, in addition to Picasso, was Maurice Utrillo, who was born in Montmartre. I have seen prints of Utrillo paintings of streets in Paris with people going about their lives and the come of Sacre Coeur in the background rising above everything.

The picture of the day is Harry Gets Artsy Again.

This is the view from the street by Le Consulat. Sorry. Couldn’t pass it up.

The capitals of some of the columns have worn in time. That gave it a feeling of kinship with St. Bartholomew the Great by the Smithfield Market in London. If I remember right, that one started in the 1100s too.  There was one curious statue, which looked at first like a bishop with very bad posture, maybe an old one bent with age and a calcium deficiency. When we got up close, I saw what it was.

This part of town is called Montmartre because, according to tradition, St. Denis, the patron of present-day France was beheaded here about the year 250. Diocletian was a boy then, so I don’t know whose persecution this one was.

The bishop of the statue was St. Denis. He was shown standing, with his head held before him in his hands. According to his legend, which I just looked up, after he was beheaded, he picked up his head and walked six miles while preaching a sermon.

On the way down the hill, we ran into a group of guys that Thomas had warned us about. Apparently they put a string on your finger and try to keep you there while they talk to you. About what I don’t care. I don’t do restraints symbolic or otherwise.

Just above the park where the carousel is, an African guy tried to put a colored string on my hand. No.

Why are you afraid?

I’m not afraid. Nothing gets tied to me.

During our late-afternoon rest stop at the hotel, I opened the bottle of Petit Pont. I had expected something rough, maybe a cross between Gallo hearty burgundy and vinegar. But no, it wasn’t bad at all. Not as good as many of the wines I’ve been drinking here, but certainly worth drinking slowly. So I finished the bottle.

We set out to find dinner at a restaurant called Mon Oncle, also on the hotel’s hit list. Much of the route to the place, according to Google Maps, follows Rue des Abbesses. All right, we were there last night. What we hadn’t seen the night before is that there are 2 (deux!) Rues des Abbesses. We took the wrong one and never did find My Uncle.

Instead, on the way back we went up the Rue Des Martyrs to La Cave Gourmand, which was serving boeuf Bourguignon.

We started with bone marrow and rare terrine with Armagnac. The marrow, served with a dish of sea salt and some toast, was in a bone split lengthwise. It was much too big to be human, so it was OK to eat.

I looked up “terrine” the other day in the Collins translating dictionary, and it is translated as “earthenware pot,” which is what I remembered. It can also mean “potted meat,” which is what this was. Think high-class French Spam. It had little chunks of something in it, possibly soft nuts. It was OK.

Joanna and I both preferred the bone marrow, though. It was as good on the bread as on the toast. A sprinkle of sea salt brought out the flavor.

Boeuf Bourguignon is a comfort food. It is made from a cut of beef that probably would break your jaw, and maybe your knife, if it wasn’t simmered for hours in a sauce heavy with wine. But it is cooked that way, and it’s wonderful. It is much like American beef stew, in that it is slow-cooked tough beef with carrots and onions, but I also detect a bitter mixed with the fat and the sweet that not only gives it character, but also makes it a great dish to go with red wine.

We had a couple of Bordeaux: St. Emilion Petit Fourney 2010, and Chateau Latery (I think) ’09.

The owner was covering the tables and assured us that he used local ingredients whenever possible and always as close to home as possible. I think there are fewer cows walking around the Montmartre tonight.

We tried to find that wine shop again, but couldn’t. We walked the length of the Rue des Abbesses and Rue d’Orsel, but it wasn’t there. Now wonder a cheap wine was so good, the store that sold it was supernatural.

And so another day of indulgence ends in the Ile de France.

Happy days, all.

Harry

October 15

Charlie!

Did you read that?

Bone marrow!

And he found it without even looking.

In case you didn't know, Harry, Charles and I are big bone marrow enthusiasts. I spent quite a bit of time and energy looking for it in Budapest. The truth is, however, the best I ever had was in Paris, served as you described. My guess is it was broiled, and looked like a dish Fred Flintstone would eat.

And if you're interested, Harry. There's a place in Singapore that makes a dish from lamb bones. Not broiled, but cooked in a radioactive-looking red hot sauce. You suck out the marrow with straws. Messy but good.

I still prefer the broiled cow bones, myself, but the stewed lamb's bones might be interesting.

Larry