Paris: rue du Dragon

 

The "dragon" in the living room

Tonight I spend my last night at the apartment on rue du Dragon, a block away from Saint-Germain-des-Pres in the 6th Arrondissement on the Left Bank. This secluded one-bedroom apartment, with its full kitchen/dining room and expansive living room––featuring a fireplace and an entire wall of French windows, graced by full-length drapes the same shade of pale celadon as the walls––has provided a welcome retreat from the City’s commotion and the constant lure of its treasure-filled boutique windows. 

Rue du Dragon: Living Room 1

I found the apartment through Chez Vous, a company that rents 25 dwellings for short-term vacationers and business travelers. Each apartment declares its own personality through unique furnishings, location, and association. Prices range from one-bedrooms at $320 per night to a four-bedroom, three-bath mansion for $1680. (NOTE: See my post from 11/15/08 about the neighborhood shops.)

Rue du Dragon: Living room 2

Rue du Dragon: Living room 3

Scattered throughout the very heart of Paris, in the 1^st, 4^th, 5^th, 6^th, and 7^th Arrondissements, in the neighborhoods of Le Marais, Saint-Germain-des-Pres, Ile St. Louis, the Luxembourg Gardens, Bon Marché, and a few, only steps from the Seine, the apartments bear names that evoke Paris at its historical (Voltaire), artistic (Picasso), literary (Colette), and whimsical (L’Air du Temps, La Chimère, Blanc de Blanc) best. A few, like Bonbon, Gigi, and Porquoi Pas?, are just plain fun.

Rue du Dragon: Living room 4

From my initial contact with the owner, Sharyl Rupert, I received highly personalized service. After a cordial conversation about my work as a journalist and former restranteuse, and my particular needs and reasons for visiting Paris, Sharyl selected the mythic-tinged Mélusine apartment, with a full kitchen for me, so that I would have the means to prepare meals, if I so desired.

Rue du Dragon: Kitchen 1

Rue du Dragon: Kitchen 2

Curious about who or what Mélusine was, I discovered that this mythical creature dates back to the early Celts and French Medieval folklore. But, surely, her archetype as a mermaid (in this case with two tails) is much older. In the French tale, Mélusine marries Raymond of Poitou. She forbids him to observe her while she bathes. Naturally, he goes against her wishes and spies on her one day and sees that she is half-woman and half-fish or -serpent. When she notices him, she turns into a dragon and flies off, never to be seen again. It reminds me of a reverse version of the Greek and Roman Amor and Psyche myth, that appeared in Lucius Apuleius’s novel, The Golden Ass, in the second century, in which it is Amor or Cupid who only comes to Psyche (or Soul) under the cover of darkness and forbids Psyche to look upon him. However, she lights an oil lamp one night, recognizing him as a god, but he flies off into the night. The same story eventually evolved into the Beauty and the Beast fairytale.

Rue du Dragon: Mélusine

In “The Bath of Mélusine,” one of 16 paintings by Guillebert de Mets from 1410, Mélusine is portayed as a woman with the wings of a dragon and the tail of a serpent. Today, the original painting resides in the French Bibliothèque Nationale.

Rue du Dragon: Bedroom 1

Rue du Dragon: Bedroom 2

In planning out the personality and décor of each of her rental apartments, it’s easy to imagine the enjoyment Sharyl, and her husband Paul, took in these delightful details. With this particular unit situated on rue du Dragon, inviting Mélusine as the apartment’s namesake introduces additional character and individuality––welcome qualities in a world overrun by McDonalds and Starbucks. 

So I’m off to a new apartment tomorrow. I have no idea yet, which one among the remaining 24 it will be or where it’s located––a bit of an unfolding treasure hunt.

Paris: Visiting Victor Hugo via Notre Dame

You know you’re in Paris when you see this glorious sight. . .

Notre Dame against a slate-gray sky

On my way to the roving, open-air market at the Bastille on Boulevard Richard Lenoir, I gasped when I looked to my left and glimpsed her majestic presence. Crossing the Seine at Pont de la Tournelle, I felt as suspended between the 12^th and 21^st centuries, as between the Left Bank and Ile St. Louis. The slate-gray sky hugged the ancient lady, like a comforting old shawl. I skipped across the bridge solo, only one young couple several yards away, too gripped by love to notice anything but each other.

Building of the Cathedral of Notre Dame began in 1163, by Maurice de Sully, Bishop of Paris, and completed in 1330. By my count, that’s nearly seven generations of architects, stonecutters, bricklayers, and overseers dedicated to and united by a holy cause. What an enormous sense of purpose. What an ability to envision a future result that only those alive at the end of the effort would behold.   

Notre Dame Cathedral from Pont de la Tournelle

Situated here, at the heart of Paris on one of two tiny islands afloat in the Seine––a river that slices through the City, dividing the Left from the Right Bank––imagine what she’s witnessed in her near-millennium of existence: the founding of the Sorbonne in 1253; the trial of Joan of Arc in 1430; the hunchback of Notre Dame in 1482 (oh, wait, that was fiction); the arrival of Leonardo da Vinci in 1517, carrying the Mona Lisa in his satchel; the reign of Louis XIV, the Sun King, from 1643 to 1715; the French Revolution; within her own walls, Napoléon declaring himself Emperor and his wife Josephine Empress of the French in 1804; a cholera epidemic which killed 19,000 people in 1832; the revolutionary impressionist exhibit at the Salon des Refusés, featuring works by Edouard Manet, Claude Monet, and Paul Cézanne in 1863; the erection of the Eiffel Tower in 1889; the birth of cinema in 1895; World Wars I & II; the rise of major artistic and philosophical movements: Constructivism, Dadaism, Surrealism, and Existentialism; the 1968 workers’ strike and student demonstrations––not to mention the opening of Disneyland Paris in 1992 and the early invasion by McDonalds and later, Starbucks.

If only stones could talk.

As I arrived at the market, vendors hurriedly closed up shop, or stands, as the case may be. But their frenzied activities proved amusing just the same. Like any worker, they couldn’t wait to get home for Sunday supper with their families. Most of the slick fish had been crammed back into their icy Styrofoam boxes. I couldn’t see them, but I could smell them. But, wait, at the end of the two-block long market, a fishmonger still selling his product: three-foot-long spider crabs, European shore crabs (much like our own Dungeness); several kinds of shrimps of varying sizes; flat flounder or fluke, with both eyes on one side of their head; piles of squid and sardines––both very popular in France and Spain. I wondered what they did with the left-overs. . . does it all go to a cannery somewhere or a giant deep-freeze? At outdoor markets fish always shimmer like squirming prisms and smell like the sea (the true signs of freshness). I bought some garlic, Italian flat green beans, tomatoes (amazingly, plump, juicy ones still find their way here, even though the temperature is dropping into the high 30s, brrrrr), a dozen buttery fingerling potatoes, and more purple grapes and sweet clementines.

Original Les Miserable poster at Musée Victor Hugo

With no plan in mind, I soon found myself in the center of one of Paris’ most dignified (and intimidating) squares, the Place des Voges, which dates back to the early 17th century. In a corner section of the square block of linked stone apartments, the author, Victor Hugo, lived with his wife Adèle and their four children for 16 years, from 1832 to 1848. The already highly touted author, who was only 30 at the time, rented a 280 square-meter apartment on the second floor of the Hotel de Rohan-Guèmènèe, where he wrote much of Les Misérable. His residence was converted into a museum in 1902, the centenary of Hugo’s birth. The apartment reflects the three major periods, which, according to the novelist, structured his life: Before exile, during exile, and after exile to the island of Guernsey. (His crime? Speaking out against the government of Napoléon III, or, as he referred to him, “Napoléon, le Petit,” whom Hugo considered a traitor for establishing an anti-Parliamentary constitution.)

(Incidentally, it was Hugo’s first novel, Notre-Dame de Paris or The Hunchback of Notre Dame, published in 1831, that shamed the city of Paris into restoring, and thereafter preserving, the tired and neglected grande dame.)

The self-tour begins in the antechamber (no photos allowed, rats!), where scenes from Hugo’s youth and portraits of his family are displayed, then continues through the Chinese living room and the medieval-style dining room, and finishes in a small bedroom with the same bed in which, it is said, he died. The shuttered and darkened rooms offer a fair facsimile of the times, I imagined, claustrophobic and bleak. 

View from Victor Hugo’s apartment at Place des Voges 1

* * * * * * * *

An aside: In 1975 director Francois Truffaut released his film The Story of Adele H. Starring the utterly beguiling Isabelle Adjani, the film recounts the tragic decline of Hugo’s daughter through her obsessive unrequited love for a French soldier. Apparently, when Adele most needed her father, he disowned her after she refused to return home. Adele, like so many “madwomen in the attic” during the romantic and Victorian periods, died in an insane asylum.

* * * * * * * *

One of the most striking discoveries for me in the museum was learning that Hugo painted. A visual artist of considerable natural talent, his pen- and brown- or black-ink-wash drawings and paintings express vitality and vigor of an almost abstract quality with wide, free strokes, also reminiscent of Chinese painting. I did a double-take on a few of them, as they seemingly could have been executed by Franz Kline or Mark Rothko. In fact, Delacroix, Hugo’s contemporary felt that, were Hugo to take up painting fulltime, he would outshine all other artists of the 19^th century. Three walls of one room hold sheets of a corrected handwritten manuscript above, and below, the corrected typeset galley proofs of that page. Thrilling to see the author’s handwriting and smudges from drops of wandering ink on his pages.

Javert–Poster of Les Misérable at Victor Hugo's Home

By now nearly everyone in the world knows of and has probably seen some stage, television, or film version of Les Misérable (which was published in 1863, after 30 years of work), but Hugo is better known in his own country as a poet, playwright, and, of course, a man of acute social conscience. At the museum, those versions seem endless. Posters and prints of all sizes and eras demanded my attention, and monitors throughout the rooms displayed various iterations of stories of human misery. Curious as to how many film adaptations there have been, I found 46 listed in a pamphlet. The first, in 1907, a silent film rendering, directed by the deeply underappreciated Alice Guy Blaché (the first Hollywood woman director), led the pack of versions by Japanese, Indian, Brazilian, Turkish, Belgian, Soviet, Mexican, Egyptian, English, Dutch, and, naturally, French productions.

View from Victor Hugo's apartment at Place des Voges 2

As a human rights activist, Hugo’s work influenced everyone from Matisse and Rodin to Camus and Polish artist Magdalena Abakanowicz. In fact, six of her strangely wonderful full-sized sculptures––made from a textile medium (these looked like gunny sacks or jute) molded around human figures––seemed at once incongruous and perfectly at home in this mid-19^th century domicile. I first saw the work of Abakanowicz at a retrospective in New York City, perhaps 30 years ago now. Her haunting work simultaneously astonished, frightened, and perplexed me. I love it.

“Bronze Crowd” by Magdalena Abakanowicz Photo: Carolyn Brown

It was dark by the time I headed back to the apartment on Rue du Dragon. Only a block away, I stood across from Les Deux Magots, the legendary café on Saint-Germain-des-Prés, where artists and intellectuals from the ’40s through ’60s rendezvoused, most famously, of course, Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre. The air was crisp, the foot and auto traffic brisk and plentiful, sounds of the Paris street filled my ears with French, German, Arabic, other languages I couldn’t quite identify, honking horns, ambulance sirens that sound like an auditory see-saw. I remained motionless, closed my eyes, and felt the flurry of Paris energy bustling around me. I did it, I thought. I did it. . .I’m in Paris.

Paris Night Energy

 

Paris: Viva La France!

Arrived yesterday. . .

 

La Seine w/ boats on an autumn day

 

My friend Pat wrote today: “You picked the ideal time to be an American in Paris.” Now that we have elected “President Obama,” in France––as I found in Spain––Americans are back in favor. I guess we don’t seem so hopeless (read: stupid) after all. 

La Tour Eiffel in the distance

A couple of interesting developments:

Earlier this week I was inspired to call friends in Sausalito who have a house in the Loire. Who knows, I thought, maybe they’re in Paris and we can meet. Well, they introduced me to another Calif. couple who own apartments in Paris and rent them out to Americans. Voila! My apt. sits on Rue du Dragon, right off St. Germain des Pres (a little cher for my taste, but fun to explore). Talk about good fortune. I’d been really roughing it in Barca in a tiny two-room apt. I shared with Bjorg, a 26-year-old Icelandic immigrant and her white-haired six-year-old son––a place I found through Craigslist. So, I deeply appreciate the luxury of this stylish Parisian apt. (especially my back––it’s the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in a month).

Second Bingo!: Again, on a fluke, on Weds. I emailed the LATimes restaurant reviewer. (I first met Irene back in the late ’70s, when we both attended U.C. Berkeley. In fact, I took a Moroccan cooking class from her and her friend Joanne who had traveled together to Morocco.) I thought, what the heck, I have nothing to lose. I reminded her of how/when we met, congratulated her on her reviewing gig, reviewed my resume, told her about my trip in Barca and my ideas for food & travel articles, and asked if she would be willing to mention me to her food editor and/or provide an intro.

This morning she responded enthusiastically and, in addition to giving me the food editor’s contact info, suggested I also pitch the travel editor (with accompanying contact info). Exceedingly generous.

Went hunting for (what else) food shops yesterday afternoon and again today. Images of a few of my favorite finds:

Produce market on rue de Grenelle

Packed with quality, this tiny produce market displays fruits and vegetables to equal any open-air market: brilliant orange seedless clementines from Spain, over-sized and very sweet garnet cherries (with a price to match at 38 euros/kilo!), baby eggplant, giant Heirloom tomatoes, skinny hericots verts, half a dozen types of lettuce, yellow-skinned pomegranates, several varieties of fresh mushrooms, magenta passion fruits, golden pineapples that actually smell like they’re supposed to. . . . Yesterday, when I reached for a handful of concord grapes, the seller pushed my hand away, “No, Madame!” and he pointed to his chest to let the brash American know that only he touches the produce. I haven’t made that mistake again.

 

The Butcher Shop on Varenne

 

 

Here one can find every offal imaginable, but, not being interested in calves liver or pig snout, I happily measured an inch with my fore-finger and thumb and ordered “rillettes de foie,” a type of goose pate. One seldom sees rillettes––unless one is in Paris, of course. At Rountree’s I made duck rillettes, but that was long ago.  

 

The Boulangerie on rue du Bac

Bread for my rillettes. And Croissants for breakfast.

                                                           Dalloyau on rue de Grenelle

Dalloyau sells mostly baked goods––both desserts and savory, like a wonderful variety of little quiches. Their specialty is cookies made of puff pastry and crisp thin cookies made with butter, a bit of flour, nuts, and, yes, more butter. 

 

Barthelemy for French Cheeses

Goat, sheep, cow’s milk cheeses: all sizes, shapes, flavors. Here’s another shop-keeper who put me in my place. After unsuccessfully trying to describe my order, the stout woman in a white doctor’s coat said perfectly understandably, “No, I don’t speak English. No one speaks English here.” Oh, okay, well that sounded pretty good, but. . . . A nice gentleman came to my rescue and ordered a half-wheel of camembert, a miniature circle of chevre, and a small tub of “sweet cream,” which looked very much like ricotta to me. But when I mentioned the “r” word, arms flailed and voices rose to a panicked pitch, like geese being chased for slaughter. “No ricotta!” she honked, “Only French!” Well now I know. When guests of the French, we Americans must be trained in their special ways.

Oui!

And, how could any meal end without chocolate. . .??

 

Chapon...Chocolaterie

Eating Heaven: Catalan Nueva Cocina at Cinc Sentits

A friend emailed me: “What are you eating in Barcelona? You, of all people, not mentioning food . . .”

So far, my dining experiences have proven mostly a comedy of errors: miscommunication with waiters, misunderstood menu descriptions (I read very little Spanish, but many menus are written in Catalan, anyway, which is a sufficiently different language), mediocre restaurant selections, poor food choices, saving my euros, and just plain bad food, all contributed to a week’s worth of depressingly negative encounters with chow. I’ve been eating to live, rather than living to eat, which isn’t all bad, I guess. My loose-fitting jeans, for example, feel great. But my pleasure factor has diminished considerably––until this afternoon.

Cinc Sentits Dining Room, Barcelona

 

 Lunch at Cinc Sentits (Five Senses) revivified my joy of eating and restored my curiosity about and amazement of contemporary Catalan cooking. This four-year-old restaurant, in the chic, broad-boulevarded, L’Eixample neighborhood, fulfills the promise of its name: a quickening of one’s entire sensory system. Dining at Cinc Sentits is rarefied, like breathing pure oxygen, yet, earthy, like the taste of summer truffles.

Jordi, the young chef-owner, along with his sister and mother (both of whom work the dining room), was born in Toronto (his mother is homegrown Barcelonin), then traveled to the Bay Area, where he started a dot com business during the boom, and left after the bust.

The entire family settled in Barcelona and Jordi spent a year reviewing local food purveyors, until he was satisfied with every element that enters his kitchen, be it fish (“only from the Mediterranean,” he told me and my dining partner after our meal, when I asked to meet the chef), the artisanal cheeses, olive oil, almonds, or the Iberian black-foot pig.

Appetizers (tapas) at Cinc Sentits

In the hands of this professionally unschooled, but imaginative and sophisticated chef, the finest and freshest raw ingredients transmute into edible jewels. The man is a culinary alchemist, a gastronomic wizard, whose passion for food, intellectual curiosity, and spirited sense of humor combine to produce a kitchen galley of treasures. 

I’d heard about Cinc Sentits through a Barcelona cooking school I’d contacted (and hoped to write an article about). They couldn’t accommodate me on a journalist’s comp, but offered suggestions for restaurants. Who could pass up a restaurant dedicated to the fives senses? Not I.

 

Aperitif at Cinc Sentits

 

Through friends, I’d been given an introduction to a couple, Montserrat and Jerry, who live part of the year in Barcelona and the rest of the year in Maine. We were supposed to meet for lunch on Monday, but, due to Montserrat’s scheduling conflict, Jerry and I were left on our own. I’d already planned an excursion to Cinc Sentits for Monday, as it’s the only day of the week they serve lunch. A trick I learned in Paris years ago: When dining at pricey restaurants, always go for lunch. It’s less than half the price, for the same quality. A more limited range of choices, yes, but essentially: same food, half the cost. [Note: It turns out that CS is open for lunch Monday thru Friday, and offers the same menu as in the evening.]

I mentioned the restaurant to my new found friends and Jerry was game. But, later, I wondered if I, the tourist, hadn’t been presumptuous in telling the “natives” where we should go. Not a problem. In fact, Jerry looked forward to a “new restaurant,” saying it was easy to get into a rut in terms of tending to eat at the same places.

So, we met at the restaurant at ten-to-two and, after four hours and an 11-course meal, reluctantly made our way out the front door. There are rare occasions in life when time stands still; this was one of them. 

 

Jerry at Cinc Sentits

Jerry, a retired attorney, Harvard graduate, and Faulkner authority, is a fabulous conversationalist and a convivial dining companion. We discussed art; museums; Barcelona landmarks; the economy; politics; in general, tomorrow’s election, in particular––he’s a Republican (uh-oh), who voted for Obama (whew!); his 36 trips to Albania, writing new laws for the newly democratic country after the Soviet fall; his and Montserrat’s romantic meeting (at a Faulkner conference in Oxford, Miss.); his children (three), her children (2), my one and only; the regions, wines, and foods of Spain (on which he’s an expert); along with a dozen or two other topics. I couldn’t have been happier.                                                                              

Now, the menu (I’m sorry to say that some of the photos turned out worse than others. Although none are great, at least they carry some basic information. I need a new camera!):

Course #1:

TAPAS

Marcona Almonds

House-marinated “gordal olive stuffed with pimento 

Course #2:

APERITIF of maple syrup, chilled cream, cava (Spain’s “champaign”) sabayon, and rock salt. The secret to this delight is imbibing the entire drink at once––the “bottom’s up” effect––so that the palate luxuriates in the confusion of sweet, salt, cold, smooth, and alcohol.

Prayer to the Food Gods: May the maple syrup, cream, cava sabayon, and rock salt confection at Five Senses be the last thing I taste, before I leave this Earth.

Course #3:

“PA AMB TOMÀQUET

“pometa” tomatoes, toasted peasant bread, arbequina olive oil, heirloom tomato sorbet, garlic “air” (really, it was divine!), and a slice of cured sausage

Course #4:

FOIE GRAS “COCA”

Crisp pastry on the bottom, leeks “melted” in sweet vinegar, burnt sugar crust, and chive puree

Course #5:

“ARROZ A BANDA”

Grilled calamari with saffron allioli, and a ball of rice for which I couldn’t quite figure out the flavors.

In the past, I’ve only liked squid deep-fried in rings, with a slather of tartar sauce and/or hot sauce. Unequivocally, this was the best squid I’ve ever eaten. So tender, it had the texture of abalone, which I love, but of course, where does one find it these days?!

Cinc Sentits–Squid w/ Saffron Allioli

 Course #6:

MEDITERRANEAN TUNA

Smoked tomato water (I know, sounds weird, but it works with the other ingredients in unexpected ways), lemon peel compote, and black olive salt

For this dish, dried black olives are hand ground with a special salt, and rubbed on the tuna before it’s grilled. The smoked tomato water is intentionally salt-free, because it absorbs the olive salt. The dish ends up with a saucy consistency.

Cinc Sentits-Mediterranean Tuna w/ black olive salt

Course #7:

IBERIAN SUCKLING PIG

With apple in two textures: sautéed apple slice and apple puree, and a wine reduction.

A simple-tasting dish, with a complicated preparation.

Jordi explained how the purveyor brings in the pigs on Weds., with the innards still attached, so he knows it is absolutely fresh (as the innards are the first part of any dead animal to go bad). He sections out the different parts: thigh, belly, shoulder, and layers the various types of meat (each has a different texture and flavor), so that every serving consists of some of each part of the pig. Then the meat is vacuum-sealed and cooked for 24-hours at a very low temp. But, wait, there’s more . . . the meat is then cut into rectangular pieces, with a slice of skin on top, which is fried crisp, just before serving. The meat is so succulent it defies comparison to anything I’ve ever tasted before.

 

Iberian Suckling Pig w/ two textures of apples

Course #9:

ARTISANAL CHEESES

With three contrasts

Arzua-Ulloa: a smooth, soft and creamy cow’s milk, served with orange peel and marrón glace

Turó del Convent: a raw goat’s milk w/ onion-cocoa compote

Valdeón: a goat and cow’s milk blue w/ Puigcerda pear and white truffle honey

I have been wanting to try Spanish cheeses, but haven’t known where to start. There are now three that I love.

 

Artisanal Cheeses w/ three contrasts

Course #9:

TEXTURES OF LEMON

Lemon cake, lemon curd, lemon ice cream, lemon foam w/ vodka ice

This served as a palette-cleanser, and served well its purpose. A celestial experience, if I’ve ever had one. The mix of textures and temperatures was positively erotic. Honestly, how does this man think these things up?

I would have been perfectly satisfied ending here . . . but, no . . .

Course #10:

CHOCOLATE WITH BREAD, OLIVE OIL, AND SALT

Bottom layer of chopped macadamia nuts, a layer of warm, rich “grand cru” 67% chocolate, olive oil and vanilla ice cream, and “shattered” bread (the kitchen makes a specific bread for this dessert). Jerry and I agreed that the amount of bread (too much) was the only element that didn’t quite work in this dish. We found no other flaw in the entire 11-course meal, however. 

 

Chocolate w/ bread, olive oil ice cream, & macadamias

Course #11

“ICED” COFFEE WITH CREAM AND CRUMBLED COFFEE COOKIES, and A CHOCOLATE CARAMEL

I have no idea how they make the mousse-like chocolate appear to be in the form of ice cubes (hence “Iced” Coffee), but, as with every dish (except the previous), this one was a winner.

 

“Iced Coffee” w/ cream & crumbled coffee cookies

As you may have noticed, each course was placed in a dish that perfectly complimented its size and shape.

And complement is a perfect word to describe this food: a complement of flavors, textures, colors, shapes, and scents. We didn’t really “hear” the food, but the fifth sense, as I perceive it, is a blending of all the previous four into a harmonious unity. Cinc Sentits confirmed itself as a uniquely transcendent dining experience. 

Cinc Sentits–Entry

 

Post Script:

Jordi was gracious enough to humor my request to observe in the kitchen, during dinnertime the following evening. He then went further by allowing my to do a few hours of prep work the next morning. Both were very special experiences, which I will write about soon.