THE TOUR FROM HELL

Our final excursion out of Paris was to be to one of the most dramatic sites – and sights --  in Europe: Mont St-Michel, situated almost due west of Paris on the Atlantic coast.  It sits atop a huge chunk of granite out in a tidal basin, and is visible from a long way off.  This is taken through the bus window.

We visited here with our Stanford group back in 1966, ate snails for the first time, got potted on cheap wine, and partied on the sands, daring the tides to come in and drown us.  We virtually had the Mont to ourselves back then, and it was not only a thrilling sight, but the village was quaint and not terribly touristy.  Well, times change.

There’s no direct train service from Paris (or anywhere, for that matter).  We would have had to travel 2 hours by train to Rennes, then hope that a bus would be available to take us another 70 kilometers to the Mont.  We didn’t want to chance bad, or no, connections, so opted to take a tour bus, even though the full drive by bus would be about 9 hours round trip, not counting the time at the Mont (13 hours in all).  The internet sources for such tours all required that you be able to print out a voucher to present to the tour operator.  We didn’t have that capability, so I looked for a tour that had an actual office address in Paris.

As an aside, if I were going to again go to Europe for some time, I’d try to take some really compact portable printer with me.  Most attractions sell tickets online, but you have to be able to print them out.  We could have saved many cumulative hours that we stood in lines to buy tickets for the museums, Eiffel Tower, and the like.  They all had lines (virtually empty) for visitors who already had tickets.

Anyway, we found a local tour place  -- France Tourisme (which probably was the actual operator for many of the online sources).  It boasted lunch with a view on the Mont, guided tour in English and other languages, and priority access.  Sounded good.  It wasn’t.  [Roll ominous music.]  We had to opt for a Sunday tour, as Saturday was booked, Monday they were closed, and Tuesday was the day before our departure.  Still, that was OK by us.  What we didn’t know then was that this was to be a four-day weekend, since Tuesday was a holiday.

Our day didn’t start out well.  We had to be at the tour office at 7:00 a.m. (sharp! they said) and the bus would depart promptly at 7:15.  Sunrise, by the way, would not be until 8:10.  We got up at 5:30 to shower and grab a quick bite, then hustled down to the Metro, hoping it ran frequently at that hour.  We had to wait about 10 minutes, not bad.  The plan was to take our line 12 down to the Concorde station (8 stops away), then transfer to the #1 line for three stops to the Rivoli station, near the tour office.  The best laid plans . . . Our train stopped four stations into our trip, and everyone had to exit and go topside.  They were repairing the tracks!  The friendly Metro people would provide a bus to take us to the next open station.  Auugghhh!  We’d been through that once before.   It takes forever to get it organized and going.  We’d never make it.  As we climbed out onto the street, we ran smack into a brawl going on right at the exit involving half a dozen people, all screaming, shoving, pulling hair.  The police were just arriving, so we quickly scooted away from the melee.  We didn’t want to get caught up in a general dragnet.  So, there we are, deserted streets, no bus in sight, way too far to walk, and Loni is not feeling well and needs a loo.  I went out and stood in the middle of the street, looking for a cab, waived at anything moving (cabs here turn their roof lights on when they have a passenger, not when they’re free – go figure).  After five minutes (seemed a LOT longer), a car stopped at my arm-waggling, and a roof light came on – yes!  We piled in, I shoved the tour brochure with the address under his nose, and we were off.  Made it right at 7:00, only to find a lot of people milling about.  At check-in, she said they’d be a little late departing.  Loni asked for a bathroom.  Sorry, don’t have one.  There’s a café open about two blocks away.  Too far.  Next door there was a café, not open, but a guy was sweeping the floor.  Beg beg beg.  Slap down some coin.  He shrugs and nods her in.  Saved.  At 7:30 they called to load the bus, and about two dozen of us boarded.  Then the fun began.  A Spanish family (elderly father, adult son and his wife) started getting into it with the tour guide.  Seems they had booked a different tour, not this one, according to the tour company.  The Spaniards denied it, said this is what they booked.  A big row ensues, with lots of hand gestures on the part of the old guy that even I could interpret.  The tour people wanted them to get off the bus, and they refused.  The son gets off to negotiate, but the old man stays put, verbally abusing the guide at the top of his lungs.  This goes on for nearly half an hour before the son gets back on, the guide sits down, the driver climbs in, and we leave.  Nothing more is said, but we’re way behind schedule.

On the way out, we got a view of the Eiffel Tower all lit up in the pre-dawn darkness.

After all the excitement, most of the bus settled in for a few winks as we made our way into the countryside.  We did get treated to a bit of Fall color, but the good stuff was probably a couple of weeks away.

We made one pit stop about halfway there, and we tanked up on raisin snails (danish, not gastropods) and orange juice.  We thought we’d be getting some commentary from the guide as we rolled along, but not one peep in nearly four hours.  We didn’t have a clue what we were passing through.  He didn’t come to life until we had the Mont in our sights off in the distance, and his remarks were limited, vague, and even wrong.  Ah, well.  It’s the visuals, not the story.

See that line of little white things on the horizon to the left.  Well, that turned out to be the line of cars trying to get to the parking area.  Priority access?  Hah.  Not for anything on wheels.  I think this must have been what Woodstock looked like.  Note the bird-streaked windshield.  That’s how we started the trip.  I’ve never seen a filthier windshield on a bus.

We finally crawled into the bus parking area.  At least it was closer to the Mont than the general parking for the cars and RV’s.  I think half of France must have decided to come here today.

Back in the day, the causeway itself used to go completely under water when the tide came in, making the Mont an island.  Visitors had to time their visits for low tide times, and get their vehicles out before the tide came in.  In the shot above, all the cars to the left, and the buses on the right, still would have to leave before high tide.  Only the center corridor remains above water.  Fortunately, high tides this day were at 8am and 8pm, so the water was largely receded by the time we got there, and no one had to worry all afternoon.

Now, the Mont is really a crowded place.  There’s only one street that winds its way up to the abbey, and it’s really narrow.  Imagine all the people in all the cars and buses that you saw in the picture above.  Now, imagine all of them trying to get to the abbey up this “road.”

Yup, that’s it.  The only way up.  Can you spell Z O O ?  By the time we got there, we were way late for our lunch reservations and, as you can imagine, the restaurant did not hold them with all these folks clamoring for tables.  It was 12:30, and the guide split us up, some into one restaurant, and the rest of us in another.  That table with a view?  HAH!  We waited while the guide pleaded for any seating at all.  We got crammed into a foursome right by the stairwell with a view of nothing but other tables.  The guide wished us well, said to take the left staircase when we went up to the abbey, and disappeared.  That was the extent of the guided tour.  He guided us to the restaurant.  We then experienced the worst meal of the trip, if not the decade.  The appetizer was three slabs of cold, heavy cheese.  I could only choke one of them down.  The main course was an omelet.  Well, that’s what they called it.  A thin sheet of fried egg (browned completely), folded over some foamy stuff.  Tasteless.  Dry.  Bordering on the inedible.  All this took quite some time to get to the table, as the place was absolutely jammed with tour groups (most of whose plates looked more appetizing than ours).  This was so bad, and we were running out of time to see the abbey (we had to be back at the bus at 3:15), that we left without even seeing the dessert.  Whatever it was, I don’t think we missed much.  The only saving grace was that we shared our table with a young couple from Singapore who were in France for a year for his business assignment.  They were delightful and we could converse in English for the most part.

Having escaped the Terrasses Poulard (never darken their doorstep) restaurant, we started up the hill, moving in lockstep with the masses.  It was useless to try to push through.  Once we got to the abbey, we looked for the “left staircase” the guide had mentioned.  There wasn’t any, but we walked up the left side of the single steps, much to the consternation of the legions who were waiting in line on the right.  That line snaked way, way out of this picture.

Turns out, the guide was right.  If you hold a ticket indicating you are part of a “guided” tour, you get to enter via the “tour” line, which is on the left.  Of course, there’s not a single sign that explains this, so a lot of dirty looks are exchanged as we “crashed” up the stairs to the head of the line, unsure we were doing the right thing until we got to the top and only then saw a small sign inviting tours to enter.  Once in, the abbey is as impressive today as it was then.  More so, perhaps, as we saw areas that we definitely did not view when we were here before.

The history of the Mont dates back to 708, when Aubert, Bishop of Avranches, built a sanctuary in honor of the Archangel, Michel.  The mount soon became a major focus of pilgrimage (tourists, even then).  In the 900’s, Benedictines settled in the abbey while the village grew up below its walls.  It was an impregnable stronghold during the Hundred Years War, its fortifications resisting all English assaults.  AS a result, the Mont became a symbol of national identity.

The place is full of interesting architecture, having been built over the centuries by piling one structure on top of earlier ones.  The abbey (interior, center above; exterior, above right and left) stands on crypts that create a platform designed to take the weight of the church.  The bottommost crypt has massive pillars to support the upper levels.  It’s called the Crypt des Gros Pillers.  The women in the left photo below are standing in front of one of the more unusual features, a giant wheel.

The wheel was used as a huge pulley to haul up materials and provisions to feed the incarcerated after the abbey was turned into a prison during the Revolution, and continuing until the 1860’s.  There is a giant stone trough that angles down the slope from the base of the wheel to the town below which acted as the slide.

There is a columned, interior courtyard called the Cloister, which provided communication between the various buildings, and acted as a place of prayer and meditation.  It sits atop a building known as the Merveille, built at the beginning of the 13th century, and gives access to the refectory, kitchen, dormitory, and various stairways.  Below, top right, is the refectory, where the monks took their meals in silence while one of them gave readings from a pulpit on the south wall.  The floor is in the nave of the church.

The interior is a real maze of passageways, circular stairways, and rooms of all sizes and shapes on many levels.  The arched hall below left is the Knights’ Hall, built to hold up the cloister, it was the work and study room of the monks.  There is a specific route to follow (a handout is given at the start), and woe betide he that deviates, because it is easy to get lost, and you either go forward or retrace your steps, as there are not alternative routes to egress.  As a result, all of the visitors follow the same path.  This isn’t a problem until (a) you look at your watch and realize it’s 3:00 and you’re still in the bowels of the abbey, high atop the Mont, and (b) you’re behind a huge tour of Chinese tourists who are all trying to funnel into the one-person-at-a-slow-time circular stairway that is the only way out (below, top right).  We, ah, rather impolitely shoehorned ourselves into the middle of their group and squoze ahead.

Once we got out, we weren’t out of the woods.  We had to navigate from the exit at the rear back around to the front so that we could find the sole stairway down into the village.  Wandering around outside was just as interesting as inside.

We found our way back to the West Terrace, where you have a panoramic view over the bay, from the west in Brittany, to the cliffs of Normandy to the east.  The picture below only takes in the Normandy coast on the right, with the isle of Tombelaine sitting out there.  There are lots of signs posted in the parking lots warning visitors to NOT go out on the sands as there is quicksand and, when the tides are turning, that the speed of the incoming tide can outpace a running horse.  People have drowned and been swallowed up.  I guess nothing changes.  We ignored the same warnings back in the day, and those little dots you see down there are folks doing the same today.

Being the anal types we are, we hustled as much as we could, given the unyielding masses, back down to the bus.  We needn’t have bothered.  Lots of folks were late, including the worst offenders, the nice young couple with whom we had lunch.  No problem, as we were in no hurry to leave this gorgeous spot.

We didn’t tip the guide.

THE MIDDLE

No, not that sappy sitcom about life in Indiana, this is our visit to the Musee des Moyen Ages, aka the Musee de Cluny, the National Museum of the Middle Ages, one of the oddball but totally fascinating gems of Paris.  It was founded in 1843 in this very building, the Hotel (mansion) de Cluny, built in the late 1400’s and surviving almost intact to this day.  It was the first Parisian example of a private mansion between a courtyard and a garden.  

The other half of the museum is composed of the adjacent “northern thermal baths” of Lutetia, a Gallo-Roman structure built in the late 1st century.  It had cold, tepid, and hot rooms devoted to baths and physical exercise.  The only elevated portion remaining is the frigidarium, or cold room.  It’s ceiling reaches nearly 50 feet.

They had some nice examples of stained glass surviving from the early and mid 1200’s.  In this group, we have one showing the Charity of St. Martin, a Chevalier killing a King (“Off with his head!”), a depiction of the troubles of Job (looks like a lot of tortured barnyard animals to me), and one showing Christ toting the cross.

Remember those statues that lined the front of Notre Dame?  The ones that had been hauled down and busted by the mobs, then replaced in the 18th century?  Well, the originals ended up being buried for safekeeping, and later unearthed and installed here.  They were not restored.

Much of the stonework in this part of the museum is not original to the site, but was brought from other locales to be installed and displayed here.  They’ve gone to some effort to preserve the atmosphere of stone passageways and carved walls.

But it’s not all statuary and ancient chambers.  There is some exquisite stuff lurking within, like the gold work in these 7th century votive crowns from Visigothic Spain, and the delicate 1330 Minucchio da Siena Golden rose, from Avignon.

My favorite piece of all, however, was this astonishing folding carved altar piece, the Triptych from Saint-Sulpice-du-Tarn.  I’m just blown away by the fact that each panel was carved out of a single slab of ivory, yet has great depth and graceful detail.  It’s about two feet high, and depicts scenes from the birth and death of Christ.  At the bottom, the Virgin, who had been cradling the Child (which has since disappeared), is between two angels, with the Magi in adoration to her left. To her right is the Presentation to the Temple. The Crucifixion is framed by the Carrying of the Cross to the left and the Removal of the Body to the right.  Dates from the late 1200’s.

There was way too much here to see in just a few hours.  We should have allowed a full day.  There were rooms devoted to arms, shields, and armor, but I found more interesting this medieval manual on the art of hand-to-hand combat.  I should think one good kick with those pointy shoes would do the trick.

Loni really liked the elaborate ceiling supports in the Chapel of the Hotel de Cluny.  How’d you like to dust all that?

But her favorite item was the set of tapestries called The Lady and the Unicorn.  These occupied their own rotunda room, kept very dark to avoid light damage (and to frustrate would-be photographers).  They are deemed one of the most stunning examples of “millefleurs” style tapestries, referring to the background composed of thousands of flowers.  There are six pieces which illustrate the five senses, along with the sixth “sense” of love and understanding.  Well, that’s their story and they’re sticking with it.  When we got there, a class of grade schoolers was doing their best to ignore the nice lady trying to explain it to them.  I had to use my Gorilla Pod to steady the camera for this long exposure.

That’s supposed to be “sight” in the middle (she’s holding a mirror and the unicorn is gazing at its reflection), “taste” on the right (foodstuffs in the basket), and “hearing” on the left (hard to see, but she’s playing a harp).  You’ll have to imagine the other two.  The sixth panel hangs by itself on the back wall.  It contains the words, “A mon seul desir,” an obscure motto (wikipedia speaking now), variously interpretable as "my one/sole desire", "according to my desire alone"; "by my will alone", "love desires only beauty of soul", "to calm passion".

This tapestry has elicited a number of interpretations. One interpretation sees the lady putting the necklace into the chest as a renunciation of the passions aroused by the other senses, and as an assertion of her free will. Another sees the tapestry as representing a sixth sense of understanding. Various other interpretations see the tapestry as representing love or virginity. It is also debated whether the lady in "À Mon Seul Désir" is picking up or setting aside the necklace.

Saturated with history and art, we headed for home via the Metro, boarding at this beautiful station.  Having just left the giant remains of the 2,000 year old Roman baths, I couldn’t help wondering if all this would get buried over the eons, and what some future discoverer would think of this huge space and its cryptic art.

PILGRIMAGE TO CHARTRES

The cathedral at Chartres sufficiently impressed us as students that it was one of the places we most wanted to revisit.  Chartres lies about 90 km southwest of Paris, so it was up early and off on the Metro to the train station once again.

Chartres is too close for a TGV train, so we got the local instead, and the trip took about an hour and 20 minutes, with stops along the way.  The cars on the local were a little worn around the edges, but quite comfortable . . . except for not having any operating bathrooms!  We got to Chartres just before 11:00, and as we left the station we saw one poor guy relieving himself against a wall between some trash bins.  Uh oh, are we going to have a problem today?  As it turns out, nope.  Chartres depends heavily on tourism, and there was a public facility on our way to the cathedral.  Unfortunately, the women’s side was unusably filthy, so Loni had to wait until we found one of the many shops sprinkled around the town that offered their facilities for 50 cents a go.  The tourist bureau had a map that showed where they all were, unlike in Paris. 

It’s easy to navigate around in Chartres.  The cathedral easily dominates the skyline, and you can almost always catch a glimpse of one of the spires.  The countryside surrounding Chartres is quite flat, and you can see the towers from 30 miles away.  When we rounded the final corner and got our first glimpse of the whole front façade, we were dismayed.  It’s undergoing renovation!

It was more than just a facelift.  They had completely removed the beautiful rose window from this front face.  When we got inside, we were presented instead with a huge silkscreen on which they had imaged the window.  Clever, but a pale substitute indeed.

What they’re up to on the interior is a good cleaning and a painting of the inside surfaces.  Yup, paint!  I didn’t think they did that to stone, but apparently in olden days they had quite a variety of hues adorning various surfaces in churches.  They’re sticking with white here, and the one area they had completed was ten times brighter than the rest.  The place should be transformed when they’re done.  We had made sure we arrived on a day and at a time when we could take advantage of a tour given in English by the “legendary” Malcolm Miller, an Englishman who decamped from England to Chartres for his thesis back in the ‘50’s.  He liked it so much, he has been here giving tours for 56 years!  In fact, I asked him afterwards if he had ever been engaged by Stanford to give tours for its students here back in the ‘60’s, and he said yes, he had.  So, we very well might have soaked up some of his exposition 45 years ago.  He’s internationally recognized as an authority on the cathedral, and received two of the highest French civilian honors:  knighthoods in the National Order of Merit and the Order of Arts and Letters.  He still puts on a good show.  The windows and statuary come to life when you know what they are portraying.

The ones above are part of the North Porch entry.  The figures in the big picture are those to Loni’s left in the smaller one.  From left to right, these are the priest-king, Melchizedek; Abraham (holding his son Isaac, in preparation for sacrifice. Isaac’s feet are bound, I guess to indicate he wasn’t fully on board with the program.); Moses (pointing to the brazen serpent with which he healed those bitten by poisonous snakes); Aaron or Samuel (knifing the sacrificial lamb); and King David (who prophesied Christ’s passion, so carries a spear and a crown of thorns).  What was going on here was religious education for the masses carried out in glass and stone.  A “pictorial catechism,” if you will, of prevailing religious thought of the time.  It’s pretty neat, once someone decodes it for you, and old Malcolm knows more about it than anyone in the world.  He’s on auto pilot by now, but still makes it interesting.  We all got earphones and listened via bluetooth as he murmured into his microphone.  We could hear perfectly, and he wasn’t disturbing the other visitors or tours.

The present cathedral is at least the fifth to stand on this site.  A decree from the reign of Charlemagne’s father, Pepin the Short (751-768), mentioned gifts to the ‘Church of St. Mary’ at Chartres.  The devotion to Mary was strengthened in 876, when Charlemagne’s grandson, Charles the Bald, gave to Chartres the “Sancta Camisia,” the garment believed to have been worn by Mary when she gave birth to Christ.  Talk about snake oil.  Anyway, as Mary grew in theological importance, Chartres grew in importance as a pilgrimage shrine as the faithful flocked to view the nightie.  Today, they have it preserved in Lucite behind bars.

 

The previous cathedral (#4) kept getting damaged by fires (they had wooden roofs), was rebuilt in bits and pieces over centuries, but probably originally dated from 876, with new towers built in the 1100’s.  All was for naught, as a devastating fire in 1194 destroyed most of the town and the cathedral.  The Chartres we know today, consecrated in 1260, was built in only thirty years (!), with then-unprecedented height, numbers of sculptures, and use of glass.  44 windows were given by royal or aristocratic donors, and they are memorialized by their heraldry set out in the panes.  Another 42 windows were given by various merchant fraternities (bakers, farriers, butchers, masons, etc.), and they are represented in scenes portraying their trades.

Because of the current renovation, a lot of the glass was covered up, but what was still visible was impressive. In addition to acting as bragging boards for the guilds and individuals who ponied up the money to build the cathedral, the windows tell Bible stories.  This one below tells the story of Adam & Eve.  This shot was taken from about 50 feet away, looking up, so it’s a little distorted.  The upper quadrant of the center rose has God showing A&E the forbidden fruit;  in the circle above that (unfortunately in a shadow), Adam, on the right, clutches his throat after eating the apple.  Hundreds and hundreds of Bible tales are enacted in the windows, but this heathen really needs a guide to tell what’s going on.  The other scenes in this panel tell the story of the Good Samaritan. 

A feature of many medieval French cathedrals was a labyrinth set into the floor of the nave.  Most of these have not survived, but the one at Chartres is the largest and best preserved in existence.  Some references say that the purpose of the labyrinth is not clear.  Our boy Malcolm says that pilgrims would walk it, or go around it on their knees, as a spiritual exercise, perhaps a symbolic pilgrimage to Jerusalem.  This one dates from about 1200, so it was part of the previous church that burned down.  It has never been restored, and looks today, worn and chipped somewhat, just like it did 800 years ago.  It’s made of flagstones from quarries in Bercheres enclosed by bands of black marble, and is 261 meters long.  In my picture, most of it sits below the chairs.

Despite the restoration work, the Rose window and lancets over the North transept are visible and luminescent.  In the diamonds are the twelve kings of Judah, as Christ’s ancestors; four doves and eight angels surround Mary and Child in the center.  Beneath the rose, the center lancet shows St. Anne with the Mary child;  flanking her in the other lancets are four Old Testament figures who are trampling underfoot smaller figures, antichrists.

Left to right, they are:  Priest-king Melchizedek carrying a chalice representing the virtue of faith;  David, with his ten-stringed harp (below him, defeated King Saul is depicted committing hari kari with a broadsword, a logistical conundrum given its size); to the right of Anne is David’s son, Solomon, and under his feet is some idolator worshiping a golden calf; and finally, high priest Aaron wears the Jewish ephod (priestly apron?) and carries the flowering rod given to him by Moses.  All very cool stuff when someone points it out.

His hour and a half up (at 10 euros each, minimum party of 12), Malcolm bid us adieu, pointed out the nook where the gift shop resided which, conveniently enough, was laden with various tomes on Chartres by yours truly.  We did spring for one, which is how I sound like such a smartypants above.  It was getting on towards 2:00, so we wandered into town in search of a place to eat,

and found a cozy spot with a great prix fixe menu for mixed grill and frites plates.  A nice pichet of red wine (500ml), and we were set.  Again with my extended arm self-portrait.

We wanted to take a walk after lunch through the old medieval town, but we had to hustle back to the station to make our train back to Paris.  Chartres was an excellent day trip, and we had a relaxing ride back.  I think we had learned the night before that Stanford had just squeaked by USC in triple overtime, hence my sporting the colors 6k miles away.

PUTTIN’ ON THE RITZ

You come to Paris for many reasons, and one of them surely is to eat.  Eating really is different here.  They take it seriously, both in terms of service and quality.  We only had one bad meal the whole time; more on that in another post.  But this post is about two sublime evenings, courtesy of one who asked not to be named.  I’ll honor that, but wish I could give  credit where it is so richly deserved.

I’ve already blogged about our lunchtime Slumming at the George V.  Now we move to the evening and a couple of dinners that also were extra special.  The first was at a place called Terminus Nord, to which we were turned on by our friends Osea and Emily, who had recently returned from their own excursion to Paris.  They went to this restaurant with their apartment host, and their raves fell on our eager ears.  We hit the Metro for the short ride to the Gare de Nord, for which the restaurant is named.  Being a major “Grande Lignes” station, it has some loooong connections between it and the Metro system.  Sorta looks like a scene out of a scifi movie.

Across the street from the entrance to the station, we found the restaurant, all lit up.

As you can see on the awning, it’s a relative baby, only in business since 1925, and apparently is stuck (in a good sense) in a time warp, with the original 20’s ambiance: a copper bar, waiters in white aprons, brass and mirrors everywhere. 

Hearty, traditional fare is the byword here, and seafood is a specialty.  Loni had just finished reading Julia Child’s memoire of her early days in France, and Julia’s introduction to French cooking.  The first real meal she had was filet of sole meuniere:  dredged in flour, then sauteed in brown butter, parsley, and lemon.  I think Loni (and Julia) like it for the same reason I like lobster – the opportunity to gorge yourself with butter.  Anyway, Loni started with an onion soup, and I had pate, both excellent.  When they brought the mains, they first brought the sole displayed on a large platter, and asked Loni if they could proceed with preparing it.  We hadn’t a clue what that meant, but said oui oui.  “Preparing it” turned out to be an elaborate deboning process, transferring to a plate, garnish, etc.  Then they brought both plates to the table.  I had chosen a cod with a sauce that I can’t now remember what it contained.  I just know we both really enjoyed them, washed down by a yummy Chablis.  Chablis in France is not like the watery dreck we often get in the States; here it has good body and flavors.  For desserts, Loni got a café legionoise (sp?), a heart attack potion of coffee, coffee ice cream, and chantilly cream.  I got a more sensible (yeah, right) warm flourless chocolate cake on raspberry sauce with hazelnut ice cream.

We both had a ridiculously great time, including killing the whole bottle.

In between these outings, Loni makes good use of the kitchen in our apartment to make meals with a little less butterfat content so that we don’t croak.  She tries to make “one pot” meals so that we don’t have a lot of cleanup, much like we do when we travel in the RV.  The French have some absolutely wonderful canned products, like lentils that were smaller and tastier than what we get at home, and stews with real hunks of lamb or beef, not the reformed processed mystery meat in Dinty Moore’s, etc.  We get a can of each, and combine them, and add in some fresh carrots, garlic, onions, bell peppers, etc., and cook them up.  It makes a delicious dish, with a side salad and some baguette slices.  And, of course, some wine.  We couldn’t possibly have eaten out every night.  Our stomachs would have rebelled. 

They certainly weren’t rebelling when we went out for our next fancy dinner, again courtesy of “X.”  There are hundreds of fancy restaurants to choose from.  The super-top triple-Michelin-starred ones require more advance reservation time than we had;  some of them required many weeks or even months.  We also wanted to make sure that the menu wasn’t overloaded with shellfish items, as Loni is allergic.  We perused the guidebooks and internet, and limited our search to places that had good, recent reviews and menus posted online.  We decided on Les Elysees du Vernet, a Michelin-starred restaurant located in the Le Vernet Hotel, just off the Champs Elysees,

as we liked the tasting menu they had posted.  We made reservations for 8:00, figuring that was a suitable French dining hour, but we got there a bit early so we wandered up the way to get a night shot of the Arc de Triomphe.

After we killed a quarter hour, we went over to the Hotel.  When we got there, we were warmly greeted by multiple staff and led to a nice table

where we could observe the room . . . which was empty!  We were the first to arrive.  Augh!  Oh, well, it was a gorgeous room,

with a century-old Gustav Eiffel skylight ceiling which was beautiful even at night.

Our waitress was a fairly young gal, whom I thought was a little cool to us at first.  Turns out she was just nervous.  She was new to the restaurant, having just moved from London where she had worked for 4 years, and she was just learning French.  She was from Sicily, of all places, with family in New Jersey!  As we spoke more, and asked her about Sicily, she warmed up and became a real chatterbox.  We settled in with a glass of Champagne, then ordered a bottle of Meursault.   

Here’s the tasting menu that attracted us:

• Artichoke Veloute, Fois Gras Custard Royale, Duck Confit nem
• Frog Legs Tempura, Tandoori (the dark half-rings encircling the legs, very hot); Watercress juice
• Crunchy Sea Bass Filet, Baby Spinach
• Braised Veal Cheeks, Crunchy Vegetables, Ginger Saute

• Goat Cheese Cromesquis (not pictured)
• A pre-dessert “palate cleanser” custard cream with a hazelnut mousse
• Araguani Chocolate Douceur (with edible gold)
• (Extra) some mini macaroons and meringue puffs

Oye.  This was a great meal.  It lasted about 3 hours.  Absolutely everything was scrumptious.  We ostensibly were celebrating Loni’s birthday a little late, and the birthday girl was beaming.  If you look at the reflection in the mirror to the left, you’ll see the face of a woman facing this way.  She was a dead ringer for an aging Faye Dunnaway, complete with fright wig hair.  If the three of them hadn’t obviously been French, I would have bet money it was her.

Quite a night.  Thank you, “X”, for two wonderful evenings!