Charmes et Invalides

October 9

Breakfast yesterday consisted of yogurt, figs, a peach, and plums from a shop next door, croissants from a boulangerie around the bend. Very local, maybe even moderately—dare I suggest it?—French.

Coffee, however, was a large Americano from Starbuck’s on the corner.  It’s the only place I can get coffee to go with a lid.

We decided to visit the Galeries Lafayette store in Montparnasse to buy Joanna a Paris charm for her bracelet. It’s a reasonable distance, and we decided to walk.

From the hotel you go to the fountain by St. Medard’s church (where Life photographed the bride) and take Rue Pascal, which is a charming little alley, to the overpass where Boulevard de Port Royal goes overhead. You climb the narrow steps and then you come out onto the wet pavement of a broad avenue. The city has a truck out to wash the dog turds off the sidewalk.

I’ve been only to a few neighborhoods of Paris, but from what I can tell it is the second-dirtiest city that I have seen. I’m talking world-class cities. Newark doesn’t count.

Paris is not as dirty as New York by any means. The sidewalks here, for instance, are not decorated with the black dots where people have spit out their chewing gum. But even in the Louvre somebody left candy wrappers in front of a bust of Emperor Marcus Aurelius’s wife.

There was a site for a produce market along the boulevard, and vendors had left all kinds of debris behind—spoiled plums, corn husks, empty boxes. If that happened at a neighborhood fair even in New York, let alone the Saturday morning farmer’s market in Montclair, that market would never reopen.

The Blvd. de Port Royal eventually becomes the Boulevard du Montparnasse and we had to walk as far as Blvd. Raspail. The city has lots of boulevards, which is good, because they are hard to miss, even when you are distracted by the scenery. and there is plenty of that.

There are Belle Epoque apartment blocks, and streets lined with plane trees. In some parks, like the one behind the Eiffel Tower, the planes in rows are pruned into cubes, and that is downright fantastic. It is so clever and strange that you want to laugh out loud.

Turns out that right on the point where we wanted to turn lies Le Dome. It used to be a cheap place where hungry writers and artists hung out. So I took Joanna in for a glass of wine at the bar. The bar, we were told, is just a decoration. They serve drinks in a glassed-in patio, which was even better because we got to sit at a table, eat olives, and watch the traffic outside.

Maybe it’s here where you’re supposed to be able to sit and see everybody you ever met. I think I saw my second grade teacher, but I’m not sure.

We shared a glass of a house red listed as “Ballon Bordeaux.” It was tasty enough and went well with the dish of olives that came with it.

From here we walked down Rue Delambre, another narrow street, which had a few adult video stores in the mix. The store we were looking for on Avenue Maine was gone, so we went to Galeries Lafayette, which had what we were looking for.

The lady who sold Joanna the charms was named Tamea. She asked where we were from. We said, “New Jersey.” Where in New Jersey? Montclair.

“My sister opened a bakery in Montclair. It’s called Petit Paris.”

It’s near the library and Joanna had lunch there one day. We’ll stop by when we get back and say hi to Rimi.

Paris shopping malls are surprisingly similar to the ones at home, so we didn’t browse long. There was nothing as interesting as we found in Montreal, for instance, at Hudson’s Bay Co. No canoes, no tomahawks, no fur hats with ear flaps.

From there it is a straight walk to Les Invalides. This time, the gate was still open so we were able to sit in the formal garden. It has flowering plants in circular plots anchored by conical evergreens.

We took a cab back to the hotel because we had walked several miles, our feet hurt, and I have no clue how to use the Metro. Seems that to get to Les Invalides, for example, I take the local metro to one station, leave the system and walk to another station, take a train to a fourth station, get out again and walk to yet another station, where I can get a train to Les Invalides. It’s supposed to take 40 minutes, but I’m not sure I can do that all in one day.

Joanna went up for a nap and I went out for a drink. I had three and read the French papers at Cafe Lea, a couple of blocks from the hotel. There was a discussion of charges that Sarkozy misused public funds, a story about Islamists yielding power in Tunisia, and an essay about the U.S. as policeman of the world.

Of course, these were all in French, so I’m not absolutely sure what they were about.

We went to the St. Medard for dinner. We shared a salad that included gizzards, smoked duck breast, and foie gras. It was wonderful. We had chicken skewers for the entree, because we weren’t in the mood for steak or salmon, which were the other options.

Wine notes: Langue d’Oc merlot van de Pays d’Oc—smooth and easy.

Sud Ouest Gaillac AOC 2010 Chateau des Saurs—sharp and spicy, acidic in a good way.

We had dessert at a small place on Rue Mouffetard, the narrow commercial street above St. Medard. There are lots of cafes and creperies, but also stores that sell fish, meat, and bread. It feels a lot like the old city of Prague. The streets are blocked off part of the time, but not all the time, so pedestrians are everywhere. Many seem to be local people.

We ordered crepe and marrons. The crepe was covered with chocolate syrup, vanilla ice cream, and whipped cream. The marron is a chestnut flavored pudding also served under whipped cream.

I ordered a glass of Bordeaux in French and wound up getting a small bottle, but that was all right. It didn’t go to waste.

I, however, did. And so, wasted again, Harry made it back to Point A and slept the sleep of the just. The just made it, that is.

Actually, it wasn’t all that bad. You can ask Joanna. She will have a better memory of the walk home.

Love to all.

October 9

Harry

You are in Paris and I am on my way to Philadelphia. Life is unfair.

Have a nice glass of wine and don't gloat too much.

Charlie

October 10

What part of Philadelphia?

I was at a Best Western on Chestnut near Liberty Hall. Belgian beer at one bar, craft brews and billiards  at another, the City Tavern around the corner, a short walk to Little Italy. It was a fantastic weekend.

Harry

October 12

I'll say!

I'm hoping to get back to Provence this spring. Want to meet me there, Charlie?

Larry

October 15

Right across from the  new Convention Center, which is either the world's newest, biggest boondoggle or a far-sighted business catalyst for a second-tier city.

Couldn't get out much, but did find a nice restaurant with good food, beer, and wine near Rittenhouse Square neighborhood—Pennsylvania 6. A touch of class in a city that desperately needs it.

Charlie

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

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

So This Is Paris

October 5, 2013

Right now, I'm in the 5th Arrondissement at a tiny hole-in-the-wall hotel on Rue Monge. (Not Morgue, as in Edgar Allen Poe and as I first thought when I booked the room through Agoda.com, but Monge. Not sure what it means.)

The Hotel de France Quartier Latin is very cute. It has the tiniest elevator we have ever seen. Each of us has one large bag on wheels and one carry-on. The elevator couldn’t fit both of us with our suitcases, so we had to make two trips.

We got here a little after 11, took a nap, and then went to a café, Dans Les Landes, across the street for breakfast—duck hearts, sardine rillettes (a kind of spreadable paste), some coffee, and a glass of Bordeaux. About a month ago, I had a Bordeaux at Artisanal, a restaurant on 32nd Street in the same building as my office, that was very smokey and wonderful. This was almost as good.

So far we visited the local mosque and a church dedicated to St. Medard (whom I had never heard of) dating to the 15th century. Stones in the floor are worn from so many years of people walking on them.

Wow, you don’t often see that at home. I am some place else.

It's a pretty great neighborhood—good-looking bistros and brasseries on nearly every corner.

I have read that there are several museums in the area, including one that includes the ruins of the old Roman baths. Tomorrow, though, we are going to head for landmarks. We are not too far from the Champs Elysees, Notre Dame, and the Louvre, which I hope to take in over the next few days before we go to Avignon.

We stopped in the Arenes de Lutece, a Roman amphitheater that is not a museum but a city park. Kids play ball there. Grown-ups play bocce. We saw an iron grate in the wall sticking up from the sand. Maybe that lighted the room where gladiators put their armor on. Who knows?

If gladiators get into knife fights there now, it’s probably only late at night. The place was kind of laid back when I saw it.

We got to Notre Dame a short time before night fall. We sheltered from rain on the way at a bistro where we had a fruit tart ( I have always been fond of tarts) and wine.

It’s late now and a lot of glasses of wine later, so I have to sign off.

As Santa Claus says, Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night.

October 5

An excellent time of year to be in Paris, Grasshopper.

I wasn't sure when you were going. This is very big news. You finally made it there.

I can tell by the tone of your note that you are getting into the spirit of the place. 

Duck hearts? I've had chicken hearts and beef heart, but I don't think I've had duck hearts before. I'm sure they were great. I've had rillettes of pork, rabbit, and duck, but not sardines. Sounds like you're off to a good culinary start. 

Many French people are convinced Bordeaux is the best wine in the world. I often prefer the whites, believe it or not.

A wine that's a darling of Parisian bistros is a red called Chinon, from the Loire. Generally not as rich or complex as Bordeaux, but a less tannic and fruity number that goes well with those "in-between" foods that are not obvious matches for white or red: pork, chicken, rabbit, and even salmon and oilier fish. I've grown quite fond of the stuff, served ever-so-slightly chilled.

Cru Beaujolais can also be good—look for the villages of St. Amour, Moulin-au-Vent, and Morgon, in particular. A little less serious than the Chinon—fruitier and less tannic—but fun with a slight chill. Another good "in-between" choice you'll see in Parisian bistros.

For whites, it might be a good chance to check out some interesting things from the Loire Valley. Chenin blancs: Vouvray (make sure it's sec) and Savennieres (bone dry, age worthy and often fabulous); sauvignon blancs: Sancerre (of course, but overpriced), Pouilly Fume (very similar and usually a better deal) and, if you can find one, Menetou Salon (the best value of the bunch, but often not as complex, unless it's from a good producer).

There's your wine lesson for today.

Larry

October 5

Harry,

I wondered what you were up to, and kind of thought you had another trip up your sleeve. I'm glad I was right.

You are in my mother's favorite city—she was a real Francophile. I've been there a number of times, including on my honeymoon. Certainly a fabulous city. Have a great time.

Eat as much pastry as you can. No one has better pastry than the French.

Peter

October 7

Delighted you’re in Paris!

Fouquet for elegant, fantastically delicious food and an interesting history.

Deux Magots for frivolity and a sense of the 1920s.

Hotel de Ville—history!!

Enjoy!

Beatrice