le Pergolése, Bon Appétit

A 3-Star Michelin Restaurant in Paris? There are only a handful of 3-star ratings in the world and I have been invited to one, le Pergolése near the 16^th Arrondissment on the right bank – look it up on the Internet. http://www.lepergolese.com/fr/home.html

Thank goodness I didn’t ditch the little black dress when switching suitcases. Although I was told that the black boots I was wearing with the dress, had to go. “But I like them and they are in style,” was my protest. So okay, the boots are trendy and this dining experience is NOT. I remind myself to shut-up and get in the taxi – with my boots on. Elegant? I’m not! But trendy? Oui!

We arrive a few minutes early for our 8:00 reservation. The décor of le Pergolése has a basic French traditional backdrop with intimate seating and rather bright lighting, at least by my standards. A bit stuffy really, but who’s complaining? I am escorted to my plush seat and pushed in to the table just as I lower down to sit. Apparently the waiter has done this before and the timing was right on. Otherwise, pushing while sitting at the same time could be a disaster.

A Kir Royal was ordered for starters – crème de cassis with Champagne, meant to enhance the appetite by stimulating the taste buds. I open the menu and see the plats du jour for this evening offers pigeon breasts, among other tasty delicacies such as Créme de sardines. In France it is common to order the plat de jour, normally the best bargain as it includes a choice of two, three or four courses for one price. However, the breast of pigeon was enough to have me immediately turn to the next page of the menu – Á la carte entrees.

The prices are exorbitant. Appetizers start at 34 euros, equating to $56.44. Sorry, I can’t help but do the math. I suggest to my friend, who incidentally is buying, that we share one. OMG, how tacky of me to even consider such a thing. I am to have my own whether I am that hungry or not. I can merely sample it and leave the rest. After another sip of the Kir Royale I had no choice but to reply: “I’m sorry but that seems like a wasteful approach when people all over the world are starving.”

No, he did not take me home.

Apparently sharing is not an option. Haute cuisine essentially means fresh, in season choices arranged artfully on a plate. Translation? Smaller portions. I resist asking if the fresh pigeons came from the Champs de Mars where people are feeding them French bread every morning when I walk Bella. She even chases them. Instead, I order the Langoustines appetizer.

Had I known placing the order would get the gorgeous Chef out of the kitchen and tableside, I would have done it sooner. Stephane Gaborieau was not only handsome but also extremely charming. And, the Langoustines? Well, they looked like art on a plate and the taste was outrageous. No worries about eating them all, I wanted to lick the plate!

Had I done so, he would have taken me home.

I consider myself a “foodie” - going out to dinner often to various restaurants and enjoying exceptional food with fine wine. Some would even call me a critic having co-owned a steak and seafood restaurant that boasted fine wine, fine food, & fine art. So, I am not exactly a novice at dining out. However, the Michelin stars are taken very seriously, and losing one can often drive a renowned Chef over the edge, sometimes even leading to suicide. So, needless to say a 3-Star dining experience is also taken very seriously. In many ways I feel a bit overwhelmed particularly since I don’t speak French trés bien and reading the menu is indeed a challenge.

Without further ado I will share the menu choices I selected. I am happy to say I ate the whole thing even though parts of it were unknown to me. Bottom line, I don’t have a clue what the hell I really ate, but it was delicious and beautiful!

Sorry no photos. If I can’t share an appetizer you know I can’t take a picture! And remember, the French language does not translate into English word for word; therein lies the confusion.

Kir Royale: Crème de Cassis with French Champagne. 18 euros

Appetizer: Langoustines en nage d’agrumes, farandole de jeunes légumes, envolée de feuilles parfumées.  Translated: lobsters swimming in a flavored citrus fruit sauce with baby vegetables and perfumed leaves. 34 euros

Entrée: Rouget rôti aux graines de cumin, cannelloni d’aubergines aux saveurs du midi, goutte de piquillos. Translated: Fresh mullet roasted with cumin seeds, cannelloni with eggplant, and topped with drips of piquillos.   36 euros

Cheese Tray: Le plateau de fromages affinés par notre fromager. Translated:  Assortment of fine cheeses. 18 euros

Dessert: Tarte chocolat, éclat d’olives noires, glace basilic aux pignons de pin torréfiés. Translated: chocolate tarte with black olives, basil and pine nuts.  18 euros

Plus, a magnum bottle of chilled wine. When asked my preference I said Sauvignon Blanc and was immediately corrected. In France you do not order wine by the grape name, but instead by the year and vineyard.  150 euros

After clearing away the plates, I heard the waiter ask if I would like a digestif, meaning Cognac or another choice of liqueur. The French reason that finishing a meal off with a liqueur is important for aiding the digestive process. Sounds good to me. But, before I could answer I heard: “Merci Beaucoup, but she’s had enough to drink.” I decided to let that one go. But I will try Absinthe before leaving France.

The tab was handled discreetly, obviously not for my eyes. I estimate the total amount including tip to be around 450 euros because I did the math. Translated: $747 (and that does not include the $150 taxi fare). Merde sainte!

This was no doubt an experience that cannot possibly be duplicated – at least any time soon. The life of the international dogsitter extraordinaire continues to be amazing.

Bon Appétit and Merci Beaucoup! 

A Surprise Visit

Our evening walk down Boulevard de Grenelle took us along the Seine for a look at the many houseboats, and past the Yacht club where scrumptious bread was lurking in the bushes for my four-legged friend to snag. The looming Tower is everywhere and has become my landmark. Getting lost in this neighborhood is not possible. After a couple hours we returned home, I fed Bella her evening meal, freshened up and was on my way out the door to grab dinner when there was a rap at the door?

I opened the door to find a French woman and a man on the other side, smiling at me. My first thought? Surely there are no soliciting Mormons HERE? My fear was that she was going to speak to me and I was not going to be able to reply except with the required Bonjour Madame. Instead I heard the man on my right ask if this was Tails-By-The-Bay, in English? At first it didn’t register, I was so confused then suddenly I realized it was my British friend, but wait - he’s not suppose to be here until lunchtime tomorrow? And who is the woman?

And so the story goes. . . he arrived in Paris a day early and had been walking around the Champs de Mars for a couple hours in search of a black & white Dalmatian and me. Finally, on the verge of giving up for the evening he convinced the French woman at the entrance of the complex to let him in the building. He is not only extremely charming, but speaks French fluently albeit with an English accent. Although he did have the street address he had no idea which apartment to find me. Apparently he identified where I might be by describing Bella. At that, the woman knew immediately it was the apartment next door to her, and invited him in.

And so it was - a late dinner at La Gauloise in the neighborhood.  A Kir for starters followed by French onion soup (no cheese), rich boeuf bourguignon, vin rouge, and a light lemon custard for dessert. The waiter informed me that I was now French after eating this delicious stew. Really? Can I expect to wake up speaking the language tomorrow? NOT!

A very confusing, yet delightful evening for this jetlagged American in Paris! And tomorrow night? Dinner at a Michelin 3-Star Restaurant in the heart of the City. Stay tuned.

Where Am I?

I woke up many times in the night confused, wandering “where am I?” And then contently remembering the apartment in Paris and falling straight back to sleep. The windows of the flat were left open and the mosquitoes were vicious taking more Alaskan blood than I had to give but, I was really too tired to care. I thought it was early when I had a shower and took Bella to the Champs de Mars for her morning walk. Since my computer and I Phone are not functioning in the apartment I have no idea what time it is. Only after seeing a clock on the square did I realize it was actually 9:30 AM.

What a beautiful morning with a bit of wind and lots of sunshine - not that different from Homer this time of year, just warmer. The runners were out in masses at the park so I decided to give it a go. However Bella prefers searching for scraps on the ground more than running with me. She adores French bread and can seek it out of unsuspecting places, like underneath a pile of leaves.

After a nice long run, a trip to Starbucks for Internet access and the Sunday outdoor market I returned to the flat intending to write. But the special mushrooms (that’s how they were described to me at 22.95 lb.) and the organic brown eggs from the market looked so appetizing I made a lovely omelet complete with bread, cheese AND a glass of vin rouge instead. It wasn’t long before the eyelids were heavy and dozing off was the obvious option until. . . OMG, 5:00 PM! Yikes, jetlag has hit. Bella didn’t mind a nap and she certainly doesn’t have the ten hours time difference to deal with.

Meeting Bella

I arrived at the flat on Boulevard de Grenelle punched in the door code and like magic, the door swung open. Climbing one flight of stairs and knocking on the door to the left, I heard the bark and knew I had found Bella. Just in time to meet Elena before her departure to Ethiopia.

Bella was thrilled because of course it was time for her evening stroll around the neighborhood and she was happy to show me the way in the 15^th Arrondissement – the Eiffel Tower, a concert in Champs de Mars, a rain shower, and shopping for a fresh baguette, camembert cheese, Bordeaux & chocolate for dinner! Plus, she crawled under the covers when it was time for bed (don’t tell Zippy). Wow! I can get used to this. Life is good in Paris and I only just got here.

Are we there yet?

While waiting in Amsterdam for the connection to De Gaulle I had a Caprese Panini with an ice-cold Heineken on draft in a café where everyone spoke English. I exchanged $440 dollars for 290 Euros, and was happy to see the Euro had fallen  @1.66.

I arrived in Paris, retrieved my bag from baggage claim and found the RER B line without a blip. Once again I thanked the Universe for allowing me the good sense to leave the monster bag at home. The ride into the city from the airport is about l.5 hours and can be done by taking the RER B train and changing to the Metro.  In the crowd the language was spoken so quickly that comprehension of any dialogue was impossible. I was content to be a voyeur in the sea of oblivion. There is a certain amount of freedom associated with being separate but still present, and not really minding it. The French language was music to my ears whether I understood it or not.

The train stopped directly across the street from the apartment. On the walk over I saw a bottle of wine at the Marché Franprix for 4.05 – conversion? $6.72. Not bad for a 2008 local Bordeaux. Camembert cheese is 2.94 = $4.88, and a fresh baguette from the neighborhood bakery is 1.05 or $1.74. Some things are cheaper in Paris. And the quality, well it’s amazing.

After returning from the South of France last April I was very excited over Camembert and immediately went to the local grocery in Homer to buy it.  Unfortunately the taste of what I bought was nothing like what I remembered in Aix-en-Provence. The French have the market on cheese and apparently the richness, creaminess, and texture cannot be duplicated. 

Day of Departure

It was a great find, the huge suitcase from Pick ‘N Pay for $2 – almost as tall as me with wheels to pull it around.  Sitting on a table in the bedroom for a whole week before the flight meant things just kept getting tossed into it that may or may not be needed.  My rationale was that if I bought something I could just toss something out to make room. After all 90% of everything packed was indeed thrift store treasures and the plan is to find more in Paris. It is all about recycling or as some call it “upcycling.” Whatever, it’s the search that drives me.

Finally after months of anticipation the morning for departure finally arrived. I zipped the suitcase smugly shut since I usually have to coerce the zipper on my old bag by sitting on it, and pushing and pulling until it finally acquiesces but the strain on the seams is severe. But not today, the upcycled suitcase closed easily with actual room to spare.

Ready to go I attempt to lift the case off the table, which proved to be easier said than done since it is in my studio surrounded by artwork in progress. After moving things around to make room on the floor for the massive bag containing everything imaginable, I gave it a serious pull and it fell off the table with a bang. I wrestle the case to a standing position and attempt to roll it forward to the staircase in the loft. OMG! This is obviously why it was only $2! What on earth was I thinking? This thing is almost as big as me and to drag it around the Paris airport searching for the RER train station, and then the metro #6 line would be difficult at best and certainly not a graceful sight.

A word flashed through my mind – SIMPLIFY. Of course, this is what I have been attempting to do in all areas of my life. I tend to make things much more complicated than they need be. It’s 8 AM and my ride for the airport will be around in an hour. In an instant I made a decision, grabbing by old bag off the shelf placing it beside the big one and quickly sorting out the basics I really need for Paris (and trust me, it’s not 6 pairs of shoes!). Seriously, I won’t miss anything I left behind and probably wouldn’t have worn most of it anyhow. After all I did splurge on the new skinny jeans before I left Homer. And really, what more does a girl need in Paris besides a white shirt, a few tees, a little black dress, a cashmere sweater and a leather jacket? 

Dogsitting in Paris

Tails-by-the Bay has gone international! I have a dogsitting gig in Paris for two weeks in September, and again for the better part of December. Now how you might ask, did I manage that? Well, it’s one of those networking deals – a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend thing. 

When people ask why I am going to Paris – do I really need a reason? – I tell them I am dogsitting and they are for the most part, flabbergasted. The Alaska Airlines attendant asked the question when I checked-in and was so amazed that she shouted to her coworker at the next desk – “she’s going to PARIS to dogsit!” 

Well okay it’s not a paid position. But it is a trade for an apartment on the Boulevard de Grenelle a stone’s throw from the Eiffel Tower. To explore and live like a Parisian with a dog to show me the way, can it get any better? Needless to say I am thrilled for the opportunity to hang-out with a black and white Dalmatian named Bella in the City of Light where we will become Tails-By-The-Seine for a time. 

Life continues to be amazing for the dogsitter extraordinaire!