Church and Somebody’s Idea of Heaven

October 7

I’ve heard that, if you sit long enough in any of the cafes along the Champs Elysees, you’ll eventually see everyone you’ve ever known walk by. The logic behind this idea has always escaped me. It’s probably an advertising gimmick so people will try it and buy more coffee and wine from restaurants.

In any case, today Joanna and I gave everybody a chance to see us.

But that was after dark.

While we were walking around Notre Dame last night, we found that the 10 a.m. Sunday service is Gregorian. Had to do that.

According to my bio clock, that's 4 in the morning. So I was feeling strange when we set out—not bad, only strange.

We passed the Arenes de Lutece on the way, and there was a soccer team warming up. Dozens of scouts were also assembling there. These were “Scouts Marins” according to their hats. They were dressed in shades of blue and wore scout-like bandanas.

Closer to the church, we passed a couple of women who were clearly wrapping up a night of hard partying. They looked a little the worse for wear and one was heroin-thin. They were with one man, who may have been the pimp. That or they were aspiring fashion models who had stayed out too late.

The experience of the church is also very strange. Sort of like holding a service in a public park. The place after all is a world cultural landmark. Where else do you have a deformed bell-ringer swing down from the belfry to sweep up Maureen O'Hara and then somehow—get this—swing all the way back up? We all remember that, I hope. Any church where you can do that is deservedly special.

To this day, I can't hear the phrase "Notre Dame" without hearing Charles Laughton cry "sanctuary" in that tongue-tied way.

There is a large bronze on a marble pedestal outside the cathedral. The statue represents one of the great medieval German heroes, Charlemagne. France, after all, is named for a German tribe, the Franks. Charlemagne was one of them.

Damn. I like France. I hope they’ll let me back into the country after I publish this.

The center of the nave in Notre Dame is reserved for services. There are two lines when you go in: Messe and Visite.

We were in the congregation this time, and all around us there were tourists going up and down the side aisles, outside the columns. It was pretty well packed.

I haven't seen so many people together at one church service since Jimmy Swaggart got caught with the hooker. Actually, there weren't really as many as Swaggart used to draw. More like a few hundred at Notre Dame.

On the way back we stopped for breakfast at place called the Cardinal. Bird or archbishop, I’m not sure, but it was on Rue Monge not far from the Boulevard St. Germain.

I had to get some coffee to ward off caffeine withdrawal. Joanna, who has to stay away from caffeine, ordered the warm milk. I don’t think I’ve ever seen warm milk on a menu before. We had crepes and I had a glass of an almost sweet white called Sancerre, which went really well with the bite of Grand Marnier in my pancakes.

We passed a staircase with flowers that I later learned is Rue Rollin. the map shows the Rue Rollin meeting Rue Monge. It does, but only for pedestrians. At the top is a narrow street made to look like a medieval lane, with the gutter in the middle.

Back at the hotel, Joanna needed a nap, and so I went for a walk. I stopped as I often do at a bar named for a church. It’s the St. Medard, around the corner from the hotel.

When I got there, a street market was breaking up and a chanteuse was finishing her set. People were dancing in the street. So the French don’t dance only on the bridge at Avignon.

There is a photo on the wall inside the bar that may have been taken for Life Magazine decades ago. It shows a bride—veil, flowers, and all—walking past the fountain outside, and you can clearly read the name of the cafe on the awning.

I had two more coffees with Bordeaux chasers and was ready for a stroll.

Rue Mouffetard climbs a hill from the square. This is one of those ancient tourist streets that you find in Europe. In the U.S. they are usually new streets made to look old, or highways like the one through Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

This one was like some of the streets in the Old City of Prague. the rue is narrow and full of tourists and places that cater to them, but many of the shops—a butcher, baker, fishmonger, for instance—looked like they served local trade. There’s a street in Amsterdam—maybe the Nieuwendijk—that is almost like that, but the locals stay away.

I got back to the hotel and took a short nap myself.

When we got out it was past four, so we took a cab to Les Invalides, because it looked like an easy matter to stroll from there to the Eiffel Tower.

We did that, although I led us the long way because I took a wrong turn.

Not entirely lost time, though, because it took us past a green wall—an entire garden growing vertically up the side of a building that faces the Seine.

The Eiffel Tower is impressive. We walked under it, photographed each other standing in front of it. We got there at the last light, so we watched it switch from day to night mode. The truss work is lighted from below, so there is a kind of golden glow to the entire structure.

We crossed the river on a bridge and were on the steps of the Palais de Chaillot when the real light show came on. We heard a woman nearby gasp in surprise, turned, and saw the whole thing covered with sparklers.

On the far side of the palais is a traffic circle with a statue of Marshall Foch.

One of the roads coming into the circle is the Avenue du President-Wilson.

We took Avenue Kleber, because that took us to l’Etoile, the big traffic circle where the Arc de Triomphe is. That’s the top of the Champs Elysees, the high rent district modestly named for the old Roman heaven.

We strolled the boulevard and stopped at a restaurant called the Clement, which was celebrating its 20 years in business. It was on our side of the street and had sidewalk tables. We ordered a rose and a white from Cave du Clement, which I took for the house wine.

They were good, refreshing, lighter than reds, and went perfectly with the snails. We were given English-language menus and I saw “coquille of winkles.” Wow. What is that? I have no idea. I didn’t look any farther.

I wondered if they would be clam served in a milky broth, like the scallops in milk of coquilles St. Jacques. No. They were tiny black snails served cold in the shell on a bed of crushed ice. We had to pick the meat out with needles.

I say “we” because this is the way the Chinese serve snails. Most of my experience has been with escargots, which are bigger and easier to manipulate, in or out of the shell.

I usually have trouble getting the meat out of the little snails. This time, I got the first winkle out all right, which was just enough to give me a false sense of confidence and increase my frustration with the second one.

Joanna took over. She coaxed the meat halfway out of each shell for me so I would have chance to do the rest. She claimed that she was eating her share of the snails, but I’m not sure. I don’t see when she would have had time.

After snails and vin we walked the rest of the way down the Champs Elysees. We hailed a cab and went to the hotel. It was around 11 when we got back and as it turns out, that’s closing time for most of the local bistros. We found one, Verse Toujours, a couple of blocks from the hotel.

We had tapas, three spreads served with toast and bread. One was avocado, another salmon tartare, and the third egg plant with basil. Very good.

The wine list included one called Irancy, something I’d never heard of. The menu said it was from Domaine Heimbourger, which for all I know could be a joke. Maybe it’s recommended to go with ground beef, right? It was billed as the winner of the gold medal at Borgondia 2012. Not being an insider to the wine world, I couldn’t tell if that was a real contest or maybe a bunch of winos out back.

So with all those doubts, I had to try it. It was fruity, smooth, and full of flavor.

When the chicken satay arrived, I played it safer. I ordered to St. Nicholas de Bourgueil. It was “cuvee du vieux pressoir.” I remembered Larry telling me what “cuvee” meant. It isn’t an official designation like “cru” or “grand cru,” which are government controlled, Instead it’s the vintner’s term for his best grapes.

Didn‘t know anything about that one, either, but hey, what wine named for Santa Claus could be all bad. That had a bit more acidic bite, but I enjoyed it as much as I did the Irancy. Joanna preferred the first one.

After that, it was time to give up. We stumbled back to the Hotel de France Quartier Latin and called it a night and a day.

Luck still holding, gang. More later.

October 7

A few thoughts:

1) You've been in Paris two days and haven't eaten a proper meal? Quite odd. Snacks are for Spain. You're in the City of Light! Please correct this.

2) Sancerre sweet? I can't imagine. Generally a bone dry white (they also make a red and rose). There is a lot of low-quality stuff they can label as Sancerre, unfortunately, but they usually taste like battery acid. A sweet Sancerre? I'm almost as taken back by that as the fact you haven't eaten a real meal in Paris yet.

3) Nicholas de Bourgueil: very similar to the Chinon I wrote about. A Cabernet Franc red from the Loire Valley, from the area around Tours.

4) Irancy: a red from, I believe, Northern Burgundy, not far from Chablis, which is an area more known for whites. (I'm trying to exercise my brain to see how much I remember from my wine trade days.) My best guess is it's a pinot noir. I seem to remember drinking one in Paris at the someone's home (remind me to tell you about this Parisian dinner party I got myself invited to).

Otherwise, sounds like you're having a great time!

Now please, help me with some vicarious thrills and find a place for a proper dinner with a good bottle of wine. I trust you found at least one dining destination during your pre-trip planning. And details, please!

Thanks.

Larry