That Distant Smile

October 8

Hitting the street around the crack of noon, we were headed for the Louvre.

We stopped for a bite up the street at Cafe Parisien. I was able to order two coffees and a cup of hot water from a waitress who spoke no English. I felt good about that.

The food selection, except for the salads, was kind of heavy for lunch, and we didn’t want just salad for breakfast. We ordered quiche of the day with salad on the side. OK, that should be balanced.

When quiche was a rage in the States at least 30 years ago, there was a book that was a mild sensation for a week or two, “Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche.” It’s where all the “Real Men” this and “Real Women” that came from. I guess it sort of peaked and died when somebody published, “Real Mean Eat Anything They Want.”

So we shared a salmon quiche and green salad. Since we were headed for a museum, I wanted to have a clear head—don’t know why, maybe so I could feel that I was getting my euro’s worth. So anyway, I wimped out and didn’t order wine. And that was approriate enough: after all, I was eating quiche.

I tried to figure out how to use the Metro. After a few minutes trying and failing to find our local station, Censier Daubenton, on the map, I gave up and we took a cab. It was only later that I realized my folding map had diagrams of two different public transit systems and I had been studying the wrong one.

We’ll try the Metro another time.

The Louvre is downright daunting. It has that ugly glass pyramid with the exposed trusswork in the middle of a huge courtyard surrounded by monumental apartment blocks that only kings in high heels could call home.

Imagine having a piece of Laguardia airport stuck onto the Statue of Liberty.

They got us in quick enough. After you get tickets you have to decide which wing you want to try. Joanna wanted to see the Mona Lisa.

So we went to the Renaissance. I like the Renaissance almost as much as I like the Dutch masters. There is a Vermeer, the Lacemaker, somewhere in the museum, and I may get to see it if we get back to the Louvre again. But it is in an entirely different wing, which would put it about a two- or three-mile walk from where we were.

The Mona Lisa has a wall to herself. The painting is small and is kept behind what appears to be bullet-proof glass. It has been stolen at least once before, I believe. If I remember right, it was replaced with a great fake and either nobody knew the real one was gone, or the few who did kept it a secret. The original turned up some time later. Or maybe it is the fake on the wall. Who can tell? You can’t get within 10 feet of it.

And still, the people were packed in there shoving and desperately trying to snap amateur photos of a painting dimly visible under glass. Everywhere you look there was the light of a smart phone, and some people came armed with iPads.

And I mean really shoving. A tiny Asian lady was pushing people out of her way so she could hold her cell phone up. I heard Joanna say, “Wait your turn.” But the lady snapped a shot and was gone.

It may be the most famous picture in the world. Certainly it is one of the top three holdings of the museum. I forget what the other two are. They may be the Winged Victory of Samothrace and the Venus de Milo. Didn’t Art Buchwald once brag that he was so efficient finding his way through the Louvre that he was able to see all three within five minutes?

Maybe that lady was trying to beat Buchwald’s time.

Joanna took the photo of the day. It’s “Harry Visits Mona Lisa.”

I have never been a big fan of Mona Lisa, but everything else was terrific—one after another, all these world treasures. By the time we were half-way through, I got the feeling that I was actually personally acquainted with John the Baptist and Hercules.

We must have covered four galleries at most before we were chased out at 6 p.m.

We strolled back along the river toward Notre Dame. My cousin Bill had written to recommend a restaurant near the cathedral, so we decided to go there.

We crossed a wonderful footbridge not far from the Louvre. Couples put padlocks on the fencing of the bridge. Hawkers on the banks sell the locks. Some people clearly bring their own because they are engraved with names and dates, like the couple who became engaged on Sept. 9. When you see it in the distance, the bridge glitters with white and yellow metal.

We strolled on the quay past the houseboats on the left bank and then found ourselves drifting up a ramp toward the street. I don’t know why we chose that ramp, but I was eager to get up to the street. I mean, here I was. Somebody else was doing the driving. The clock was pushing seven—well, over here, nineteen—and I hadn’t had a drink all day.

So we came up to street level and I realized the angels were still watching over me. There was not just a bar on the corner, but a Belle Epoque survival.

The lounge was filled with plush chairs and sofas covered in whorehouse-red velvet. They had wine. Upstairs a hallway was lined with private dining rooms. One of the rooms seemed to have one big table and three waiters. This was the big time in the old-fashioned style—right out of a Victorian porn novel. They even had a special menu of cocktails pour deux.

We sat at the bar where I took a couple of verres of pinot noir. Once I had been properly nourished, I was ready to lead Joanna to the restaurant that Bill mentioned. It is on the Rue Petit Pont and the restaurant is called le Petit Pont.

The Petit Pont itself is the bridge from the Left Bank over the river that takes you to the front of the cathedral. You know, where Charles Laughton swung down on a rope.

Sometime in the 9th century a bunch of aristocrats, now buried in the crypt under the church, fought at the Petit Pont against a group of storming Normans. I read that on a sign somewhere.

We had snails, of course, and fried frogs’ legs, and followed that with duck breast in a pepper sauce with mashed potatoes.

Our server was having troubles, though. We had just sat down when he brought us two glasses of wine, before we had ordered anything. We were pretty sure the drinks weren’t compliments of the house so we suggested they might be for someone else. We were right.

Next he comes out with a tray of desserts decorated with sparklers. He takes those to another wrong table, turns around and promptly launches a parfait onto an empty chair and then to the floor.

I ordered two glasses of different wines. The kid puts them on the table and runs off, not telling me which is which.

Service aside, the food was fantastic—thank you, Bill—and so was the wine, a Bordeaux and something else (I forget).

We passed the Pantheon on the way back to the hotel. The neighborhood is named for it, but I didn’t know the significance. The signs there say it was begun as a church—maybe by the last Louis while he was still king. After the Revolution it was converted into a secular temple honoring prominent citizens. Voltaire, Rousseau, and Victor Hugo are buried there.

We stopped for an apple tart and a white Sancerre at the restaurant called Village Monge, up the street from the hotel.

Then we packed it in.

Be well all. More nonsense to come.

 October 8

It sounds like you are having a wonderful time.

I need to make a slight correction.

I was recommending the "Le Petit Pontoise" not the "Le Petit Pont." I have never been to the latter. If the food was good, which is the most important thing, than no harm, no foul.

Apparently they are both by Notre Dame. Le Petit Pont is on the southwest side and Le Petit Pontoise is on the southeast side.

Bill

October 8

Snails, frogs' legs and duck breast. Now we're talking!

Sancerre with apple tart? Doesn't the wine taste a bit sour with dessert? To each his own.

And you survived the Louvre. I agree, the Mona Lisa is probably the most overrated piece of art I've ever seen. Are you going back?

The Rodin Museum is great and worth checking out if you like modern (as opposed to contemporary) sculpture.

Larry