Karen’s birthday is the day after Christmas. I thought it would be fun if we celebrated with dinner at Le Grand Colbert. This is the brasserie where Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson and Keanu Reeves dined in the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give.”
I phoned, made a reservation, 6 p.m. No problem. We like to eat earlier. Parisians as a rule don’t even think about finishing lunch until about 3, or going to dinner before 8 p.m., even on a Tuesday evening. We left the flat, hopped the Metro, got off at Le Bourse. We located Rue Vivienne and walked south, toward the Palais Royale.
It was just a couple of minutes before we saw the red neon sign down the street: “Le Grand Colbert.” We were ready for the weariness that is inevitable among hosts receiving ordinary Americans that stream to establishments made famous by movie stars. I was amazed, therefore, to see in the beautiful restaurant’s entryway windows a huge poster of self-commemoration: “Something’s Gotta Give” photos and publicity material. It was a level of tackiness that I believed, until that moment, was impossible for anyone French to achieve.
We pushed through the door. The café was large, deeper than it was wide, and beautifully appointed in brass rails, etched glass, and polished wood partitions, in the “belle époque” style. There was not a customer in the place. In front of us, mopping the floor, a young woman turned to us. We said we had a reservation. “You want to eat here? Now?” the woman said. Appearing behind her and brushing past was a most pleasant gentleman, the maitre ‘d, who welcomed us and showed us to a cozy booth in the very front of the café.
We ordered a carafe, or pichet, of bordeaux, munched bread, and studied the menu, which was in French and English. In the movie, Diane Keaton raved about the roast chicken, but we weren’t in Paris to go out for chicken. We took our time. I wanted oysters, but our waiter said the kitchen would not be prepared to serve seafood until 7 p.m. Karen chose a Caesar salad and rigatoni with three cheeses. I decided on escargots, oysters and a steak with marrow bone and French fries. You either like escargots, or you don’t. There is only one way to prepare them, in their shells, then packed with parsley and garlic butter. The meat is unremarkable; I think most people eat them for the green garlic butter, sopped up with bread.
Several kinds of oysters were on the menu. I had ordered the large ones and was not prepared for what arrived. These oysters were at least five inches long, larger than I would have dreamed an oyster could be. “They’re huge!” I said as they arrived. “Very American,” said our waiter, in an obligatory way. They were also great. Karen gave me the anchovies from her salad, and they were great too, very mild and fresh, compared to American service.
People were starting to arrive. Beginning at 7:30, Le Grand Colbert filled up like a stadium. An older couple was seated in the booth across from us and ordered in French. Presently her oysters arrived, same size as mine. My steak arrived. I had ordered it medium, having no idea how to order it Pittsburgh-style. But that’s how it arrived: charred on the outside, pink on the inside. With it, and the marrow and fries, was a whole head of roasted garlic. Le Grand Colbert was a really good experience.
Karen’s rigatoni was like the best macaroni and cheese you ever had in your life. But she couldn’t eat it all. At the end, she asked for a doggie bag. “We don’t do that,” said a new waiter, whose expression was most opinionated. He moved to take her plate, but she got a grip on it. For a couple of seconds, there was a small tug-of-war at our table. “I want to take it with me,” she said. “You can’t take it with you,” he said. “Just put it in something,” she said. “Non, madame,” he said. “Tinfoil?” “We don’t do that.” “Just do it. Wrap it up.”
He gave up, with a gassy shrug, and returned in a few moments with the tinfoil parcel of rigatoni and a wide load of disdain. He had a last laugh, though. I left the rigatoni on the table. As we were leaving, he said to me, “M’sieur, don’t you want your ‘doggie bag’?” I turned back, he went to our table, fetched the item and delivered it to me like he would never forget this and hoped I wouldn't either. He thought he had me, but he was wrong. There was the movie tackiness, leering at us again through the entryway windows. Let him shrug off THAT. And then we had Karen’s birthday rigatoni the next evening. It was really good.
January 29, 2007
January 20, 2007
Communion
We had visited Notre Dame, taken an hour-long train trip south to the town of Chartres to see the 12th-century cathedral there, and we had found a couple of smaller churches, near Notre Dame, that had been recommended by friends to Karen.
In each case, at the back of the churches, a crèche, or Nativity scene, had been laid out. In every case, Mary and Joseph were kneeling in hay, their attention focused on a place where the newborn infant would lay, but there was no infant there.
So it was at our neighborhood church, Sainte Elisabeth, on Christmas Eve. After “Silent Night,” the service continued, in French and Latin, an intriguing experience. Then a silence fell. The priest and acolytes left the altar and disappeared behind columns to the right. Then with a rustling of clothing and feet, people stood up, moved to the center aisle, and went forward, in otherwise hushed silence. Reaching the altar, they moved to the right, apparently to rendezvous with their priest somewhere.
Karen knew about this. The people were rising to escort the holy infant to his place in the crèche, and to attend him there. I had never heard of this ritual, but suddenly the other empty crèches made sense. The infant would not have arrived in the manger until Christmas. Worshippers escorting him to his starting place in their lives was a most appropriate, gentle and tender ritual. We could not see the crèche because of the columns, but it was easy to visualize the people attending him, and I could see the same thing happening at Chartres and Notre Dame, where the movement and the sound of the people moving toward the Nativity must have been stunning.
Just as quietly as they had gathered, people returned to their seats and pretty soon we arrived at Communion. My family, as I was growing up in Texas, attended the Methodist Church, where communion consisted of grape juice in little shot glasses nested in special trays being passed down the pews. Later, in California, I was confirmed in the Episcopal Church, so I learned of the more formal Communion, which recreates the original Communion in some detail, in a recognizable sequence, almost a cadence, that is recognizable in any language. So I knew that the Sainte Elisabeth priest was talking about the last night, and Jesus bestowing his symbolism to the bread, and to the wine. Sure enough, he lifted the wafer high, and then broke it, and I knew he was saying, “Take, eat, do this in remembrance of me.”
We didn’t take Communion. As the people started forward, we slipped out the back. They would have welcomed us, I know, but when I am a visitor, I always feel better observing their privacy, in the event’s intimacy. It was almost midnight when we climbed our tight spiral stairway to the cozy warmth of the flat, talking about how going to Sainte Elisabeth for Christmas Mass was one of the best things we had done in Paris.
In each case, at the back of the churches, a crèche, or Nativity scene, had been laid out. In every case, Mary and Joseph were kneeling in hay, their attention focused on a place where the newborn infant would lay, but there was no infant there.
So it was at our neighborhood church, Sainte Elisabeth, on Christmas Eve. After “Silent Night,” the service continued, in French and Latin, an intriguing experience. Then a silence fell. The priest and acolytes left the altar and disappeared behind columns to the right. Then with a rustling of clothing and feet, people stood up, moved to the center aisle, and went forward, in otherwise hushed silence. Reaching the altar, they moved to the right, apparently to rendezvous with their priest somewhere.
Karen knew about this. The people were rising to escort the holy infant to his place in the crèche, and to attend him there. I had never heard of this ritual, but suddenly the other empty crèches made sense. The infant would not have arrived in the manger until Christmas. Worshippers escorting him to his starting place in their lives was a most appropriate, gentle and tender ritual. We could not see the crèche because of the columns, but it was easy to visualize the people attending him, and I could see the same thing happening at Chartres and Notre Dame, where the movement and the sound of the people moving toward the Nativity must have been stunning.
Just as quietly as they had gathered, people returned to their seats and pretty soon we arrived at Communion. My family, as I was growing up in Texas, attended the Methodist Church, where communion consisted of grape juice in little shot glasses nested in special trays being passed down the pews. Later, in California, I was confirmed in the Episcopal Church, so I learned of the more formal Communion, which recreates the original Communion in some detail, in a recognizable sequence, almost a cadence, that is recognizable in any language. So I knew that the Sainte Elisabeth priest was talking about the last night, and Jesus bestowing his symbolism to the bread, and to the wine. Sure enough, he lifted the wafer high, and then broke it, and I knew he was saying, “Take, eat, do this in remembrance of me.”
We didn’t take Communion. As the people started forward, we slipped out the back. They would have welcomed us, I know, but when I am a visitor, I always feel better observing their privacy, in the event’s intimacy. It was almost midnight when we climbed our tight spiral stairway to the cozy warmth of the flat, talking about how going to Sainte Elisabeth for Christmas Mass was one of the best things we had done in Paris.
January 15, 2007
Christmas Eve
Paris has its Christmas traditions, but they don’t include very much of what Americans would call commercialism. A huge, modern department store across the street from the Hotel de Ville was closed on Christmas Eve. Nor did we see much of anything that would be described as Christmas lights or decoration – no trees, no Santas. The city was beautifully illuminated and festive, but it looks that way all the time.
Nevertheless, we had some last-minute shopping to do. On Christmas Eve morning, we strolled in cold, gray weather through the Tuileries, then crossed the bridge to the Musee d’Orsay and warmed ourselves in the Impressionists’ light: Manet, Monet, Seurat, Van Gogh, Renoir. Going home, we split up, Karen staying on the Left Bank with a couple of missions in the Latin Quarter, and I crossing the Seine to vendors’ stalls near the Chatelet.
We also wanted to attend a midnight Mass. The classic would have been Notre Dame, but Karen, walking past in the afternoon, reported throngs in the thousands already milling in the plaza. She had voiced another preference anyway, for a small church just around the corner from our flat, the Paroisse Sainte Elisabeth. Their Mass was to begin at 10:30 p.m.
My other errand was to our local supermarket, the Monoprix, very well stocked but very compact by American supermarket standards. We had decided on chicken for our Christmas dinner. A whole, four-pound chicken at the Monoprix was almost 20 Euros. I was not going to pay almost $25 for a chicken, and I wondered why chicken in France was so expensive. Later we learned that, on Christmas Eve, Parisians flock to Les Halles, a huge marketplace near the Louvre, where mountains of chicken and oysters are piled for holiday feasting. I wondered if the demand drove up the price of chicken. But two days after Christmas, I checked again, and Monoprix chicken was still hovering under 20 Euros.
They had a meager selection of cut chicken. I bought a packet of boneless, skinless breasts, some potatoes, onions, garlic, haricots verts (green beans), a couple of baguettes and a couple of bottles of wine, and figured we wouldn’t starve. I had learned a trick: In Paris, there is no supermarket parking lot with your car waiting just outside. Parisian shoppers bring a sturdy bag to the market with them if they have a lot to carry home. I stopped by the flat and got one of our carry-on bags and was glad I did. I was lugging it toward the Monoprix door when Karen walked in. On her ramble, she had gotten lost! Took a Metro train in the wrong direction, a moment of panic, then recovery and successful return.
The church was classic stone columns and high ceiling, an altar, brightly lit, at the front, and gloomy light in the back. No pews, no kneeling boards, only straightback chairs. In a dark balcony behind us was a substantial pipe organ and, for this occasion, other instruments – a couple of horns and strings, like a chamber orchestra. The sanctuary would seat probably 300, and about 250 were there. Maybe others were non-parishoners, or even Americans. No way to know. Coming in, we were given a program, four pages, presenting the liturgy, in Latin and French, for “Nativite du Seigneur, Messe de la nuit.”
After the entry of the priests and acolytes, and the processional march, the organ sounded a very quiet introduction to our opening music: “Silent Night,” or, in the program, “Douce Nuit.” The congregation sang the first two lines:
“Douce nuit, sainte nuit,
“Dans les cieux, l’astre luit.”
It was one of the most beautiful things I ever heard. We understood them perfectly. Language divides, music unites. Yet in our world, the speakers have evolved as the leaders, and singers only entertain.
Nevertheless, we had some last-minute shopping to do. On Christmas Eve morning, we strolled in cold, gray weather through the Tuileries, then crossed the bridge to the Musee d’Orsay and warmed ourselves in the Impressionists’ light: Manet, Monet, Seurat, Van Gogh, Renoir. Going home, we split up, Karen staying on the Left Bank with a couple of missions in the Latin Quarter, and I crossing the Seine to vendors’ stalls near the Chatelet.
We also wanted to attend a midnight Mass. The classic would have been Notre Dame, but Karen, walking past in the afternoon, reported throngs in the thousands already milling in the plaza. She had voiced another preference anyway, for a small church just around the corner from our flat, the Paroisse Sainte Elisabeth. Their Mass was to begin at 10:30 p.m.
My other errand was to our local supermarket, the Monoprix, very well stocked but very compact by American supermarket standards. We had decided on chicken for our Christmas dinner. A whole, four-pound chicken at the Monoprix was almost 20 Euros. I was not going to pay almost $25 for a chicken, and I wondered why chicken in France was so expensive. Later we learned that, on Christmas Eve, Parisians flock to Les Halles, a huge marketplace near the Louvre, where mountains of chicken and oysters are piled for holiday feasting. I wondered if the demand drove up the price of chicken. But two days after Christmas, I checked again, and Monoprix chicken was still hovering under 20 Euros.
They had a meager selection of cut chicken. I bought a packet of boneless, skinless breasts, some potatoes, onions, garlic, haricots verts (green beans), a couple of baguettes and a couple of bottles of wine, and figured we wouldn’t starve. I had learned a trick: In Paris, there is no supermarket parking lot with your car waiting just outside. Parisian shoppers bring a sturdy bag to the market with them if they have a lot to carry home. I stopped by the flat and got one of our carry-on bags and was glad I did. I was lugging it toward the Monoprix door when Karen walked in. On her ramble, she had gotten lost! Took a Metro train in the wrong direction, a moment of panic, then recovery and successful return.
The church was classic stone columns and high ceiling, an altar, brightly lit, at the front, and gloomy light in the back. No pews, no kneeling boards, only straightback chairs. In a dark balcony behind us was a substantial pipe organ and, for this occasion, other instruments – a couple of horns and strings, like a chamber orchestra. The sanctuary would seat probably 300, and about 250 were there. Maybe others were non-parishoners, or even Americans. No way to know. Coming in, we were given a program, four pages, presenting the liturgy, in Latin and French, for “Nativite du Seigneur, Messe de la nuit.”
After the entry of the priests and acolytes, and the processional march, the organ sounded a very quiet introduction to our opening music: “Silent Night,” or, in the program, “Douce Nuit.” The congregation sang the first two lines:
“Douce nuit, sainte nuit,
“Dans les cieux, l’astre luit.”
It was one of the most beautiful things I ever heard. We understood them perfectly. Language divides, music unites. Yet in our world, the speakers have evolved as the leaders, and singers only entertain.
January 11, 2007
Paris after dark
We had not seen Paris after dark until our exit from the Louvre. It was the end of our third full day, and we were starting to feel a comfort level in the city. We were developing a sense of where we were on the map at any given time, and we knew how to get home. We had heard the usual cautions about the city’s dark side, but they could not stand up to the appeal of the city’s bright side after dark. From the Louvre, we caught the Metro down to the Place de la Concorde.
The huge oval, with its signature obelisk, is the most open space in Paris. Views are wide open to the west, south and east. To the west, curving slightly uphill away from us, according to the rising arc of the street lights, was the Champs-Elysees. We had been at the other end, in daylight, at the Arc de Triomphe. Looking at it from this end, after dark, was a completely different experience.
Paris has a city official whose sole duty is to illuminate the city after dark. I read a feature story about him one morning in the International Herald Tribune. His busiest time is at the Christmas season, when the city’s illuminations are at their most extravagant. Karen was not at all happy that her camera battery had gone dead. South of the Arc de Triomphe was the Eiffel Tower. It is always lit at night, but at Christmastime, every hour on the hour, sparkling lights, like you see on a Christmas tree but much brighter, are fired off for 10 minutes. The tower looked like a fireworks sparkler.
Behind us in the distance, Notre Dame was illuminated. Directly behind us, on the east perimeter of the Place de la Concorde, was a huge ferris wheel, brightly lit. The view from the top must have been fantastic, but you would not have gotten me on that ferris wheel for all the Euros in Europe. I don’t remember seeing any airplanes while we were there. Small planes, I mean. On clear days to the north, airliners were visible on their ascent out of Charles de Gaulle, and if you were on an airliner departing at dusk, and you were sitting on the left-hand side on a clear night, the view of the Paris lights must have been worth the ticket.
But no small planes, no Cessnas so common above urban America. No helicopters. I Googled “Paris aerial tours.” No hits. Maybe there’s a ban. I Googled “Paris from space at night.” No hits. Somebody is missing a good bet. To our south were the buildings on the Left Bank, all illuminated. All the bridges across the Seine were illuminated. The river itself was illuminated by the reflections, the movement of the water slicing the light into strokes of color. It was truly modern art. None of the masters of light in the museums, none of the Impressionists, saw Paris like this.
Yet Paris makes such an impression in artificial light. Apparently the only artist working in that medium is the city official I read about. And Karen, smitten by Paris after dark, and a dead camera around her neck. Every night thereafter, when we got home, the battery went into the charger before the coat came off her back.
The huge oval, with its signature obelisk, is the most open space in Paris. Views are wide open to the west, south and east. To the west, curving slightly uphill away from us, according to the rising arc of the street lights, was the Champs-Elysees. We had been at the other end, in daylight, at the Arc de Triomphe. Looking at it from this end, after dark, was a completely different experience.
Paris has a city official whose sole duty is to illuminate the city after dark. I read a feature story about him one morning in the International Herald Tribune. His busiest time is at the Christmas season, when the city’s illuminations are at their most extravagant. Karen was not at all happy that her camera battery had gone dead. South of the Arc de Triomphe was the Eiffel Tower. It is always lit at night, but at Christmastime, every hour on the hour, sparkling lights, like you see on a Christmas tree but much brighter, are fired off for 10 minutes. The tower looked like a fireworks sparkler.
Behind us in the distance, Notre Dame was illuminated. Directly behind us, on the east perimeter of the Place de la Concorde, was a huge ferris wheel, brightly lit. The view from the top must have been fantastic, but you would not have gotten me on that ferris wheel for all the Euros in Europe. I don’t remember seeing any airplanes while we were there. Small planes, I mean. On clear days to the north, airliners were visible on their ascent out of Charles de Gaulle, and if you were on an airliner departing at dusk, and you were sitting on the left-hand side on a clear night, the view of the Paris lights must have been worth the ticket.
But no small planes, no Cessnas so common above urban America. No helicopters. I Googled “Paris aerial tours.” No hits. Maybe there’s a ban. I Googled “Paris from space at night.” No hits. Somebody is missing a good bet. To our south were the buildings on the Left Bank, all illuminated. All the bridges across the Seine were illuminated. The river itself was illuminated by the reflections, the movement of the water slicing the light into strokes of color. It was truly modern art. None of the masters of light in the museums, none of the Impressionists, saw Paris like this.
Yet Paris makes such an impression in artificial light. Apparently the only artist working in that medium is the city official I read about. And Karen, smitten by Paris after dark, and a dead camera around her neck. Every night thereafter, when we got home, the battery went into the charger before the coat came off her back.
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