Paris
We travelled by Eurostar an experience I found greatly preferable to airplanes. Modern airports are so stressful, you are in the air for less than an hour and still have the journey from the airport to the city centre of Paris. On the Eurostar the seats are comfy, the carriage service efficient, you enjoy the countryside and before you know it you are in the Gare du Nord. Once there, we took a taxi and found ourselves totally gridlocked. The only thing that moved was the taxi meter. After 10 minutes Elodie went on an exploration trip and reported back that we were extremely close to the Rue de St Honore where our Hotel, the Costes was located. The cause of the jam was typically Parisian. There was a construction site at the junction of our side street and Rue St Honore and the drivers in the latter were not prepared to allow the traffic in. Much hooting, no movement.
On arrival the manager was willing to perform a task that Daffers appreciates, namely taking us to our room and giving us a tour to show how everything works. The dominant theme of the room was red: red curtains, red chairs, red brocaded wallpaper, red roses. The problem was how dark everything was with no central light and a baffling light system. Undeterred we unpacked and went down for a late lunch.
I had eaten at the open air courtyard restaurant before: the food is excellent, the ambience super-cool being one of the fashionable places of Paris but the service hopeless. This may be because the waitresses are chosen more for their looks than professionalism. Each vied with each other for sexy attire: mini leather shorts, dark figure-hugging cocktail dresses. We attempted to order cocktails which arrived with the first course, white wine, bread, nuts. Our waitress had to do quite a balancing act and I suggested she could do with another arm. She waived the two she had and told us she was a geisha girl. This flirting went down well with us and a cheeky rapport was soon established. The wait was so long for Elodie’s sole and my sea bass in curry sauce that our waitress waived the cocktails and mimicked a revolver “I go bang bang in the kitchen”. When both arrived they were simply delicious. I remembered the toilets were in the bowels of the earth and asked our waitress if the concierge had a Davey lamp for the journey to the catacombs This indeed proved hazardous as it was so dark you could not see any banister, let alone hang onto it it. When safely back we were shown the desert menu and we asked the waitress what was the sorbet minute. She replied what it says. Surely I replied it should be called 30 minutes as the kitchen was unable to produce any dish in a minute.
The food – light, flavoursome, fish- orientated cuisine – was quite delicious. People-watching we saw many a cool couple. One young black man surrounded by his African family must have been a footballer. Leather jackets for men and women were the fashion items. I’ve noted in Paris that dogs are often a fashion accessory. A chubby French bulldog duly did the rounds of each table and was offered food by diners. No one, least of all the restaurant, seemed to care.
When the bill arrived we asked our waitress if service was “compris”. Thus induced a no doubt much prepared speech that she only got 7 euros an hour, Paris was so expensive for accommodation. I half-expected her to say she sold the Big Issue between waitressing stints. As she had added much to our enjoyment I tipped her generously. She told us her name was Camille and she hoped to see us again. I am sure she did.
We walked down the Rue de Rivoli, crossed the Place de La Concorde and up the Champs Elysees admiring the width and splendour of the thoroughfares and architecture. Haussmann knew what he was doing when he laid out Paris. The Biennale des Antiquaires was not, as I thought, an antique fair but an art one. All the greats of twentieth century art – Picasso, Chagall, Modigliani, Miro and Leger were on the stands of the top class dealers and could be enjoyed in greater privacy than a museum or blockbuster show. I read in the Financial Times it costs £500,000 to exhibit and now even some of the big boys were assessing its worth. I guess you only have to sell one picture. After half an hour I felt the inevitable weariness in the limbs and diminishing concentration so we walked back to the hotel. My final impression in comparing London to Paris is that the latter has more style, whether it’s the elegance of the the dress, inner city, shops or hotels.
