elle's Trip Report : Paris est pas mal!
Apr 14th, 2004, 06:40 AM
#21
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 3,994
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Hi Elle. Loving your report and your style!
Speaking of that "madamoiselle's" pink hose... did you also notice the funky colored, print hosiery (opaque but colorful, like a Monet impressionist painting) on some women? I have not seen that in the states yet. We saw one woman wearing hose and, before we took our really close look, we swore she had lepracy!
Speaking of that "madamoiselle's" pink hose... did you also notice the funky colored, print hosiery (opaque but colorful, like a Monet impressionist painting) on some women? I have not seen that in the states yet. We saw one woman wearing hose and, before we took our really close look, we swore she had lepracy!
Apr 14th, 2004, 07:27 PM
#25
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 1,327
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
DAY FOUR--FUMER TUE, MAIS CHOCOLAT RANIME
When we were at L'Impasse, my husband became interested in the Byrrh posters that covered the walls and wanted to go to a flea market to see if he could find any. I find St. Ouen disorderly and overwhelming, so after breakfast we set off for the Marche aux Puces de Vanves.
I wasn't quite sure where to find it once we left the Metro, but here's a good tip: If you see a man walking toward you carrying a frilly lampshade, there's a good chance that he knows where the flea market is.
I liked this market. Unlike St. Ouen, it's all outdoors. I also like its linear layout. It doesn't seem to have as much of a high end as St. Ouen does. There were some fun things that I considered--an Art Nouveau picture frame, a carafe, a suitcase full of plastic monkey heads--but I didn?t buy anything. The Byrrh things we saw were in bad shape. My husband bought an old corkscrew for his collection, along with a couple of promotional ashtrays. (Apparently, to a smoker, Paris is some sort of shrine. He was rather distressed when he saw that packs of cigarettes now carry a dire "Fumer tue" warning, in bold black letters. "This is the beginning of the end of French civilization," he said.)
It started to rain around lunchtime (first time all week!), so we ducked into a nearby brasserie, Le Porte Didot. The place itself is unremarkable--a 1970s take on Belle Epoch (think plywood and orange vinyl). But our waiter was very funny--he waved a dish of "cassoulet de maison" under my husband?s nose to tempt him into ordering. It worked (in truth, DH can never say no to cassoulet).
For dessert, we headed back to the Marais, to Josephine Vannier, creator of chocolat artisanal at 4 rue du Pas de la Mule. What a wonderful shop! With Easter being just a week away, Mme. Vannier offered all sorts of chocolate bunnies, bells, and eggs. My favorite were the ganache eggs in real egg shells. They came in chocolate egg cups and you eat them with a spoon, like soft-boiled eggs. We bought a whole bunch of things, some as gifts, some as. . . um, not gifts. Only after we left the store did it sink in that we had just spent 45 euros on chocolate. Oh well. Is that so bad?
Next stop was a wine shop on rue de Turenne, Nectar des Bourbons. It's a small neighborhood shop, with a lot of locals stopping in to pick up things for that evening's meal, and the young guy who was working there was really sweet. He let us taste a few things, then turned us on to a really good, really cheap (6 euros 90) Chenin Blanc/Chardonnay blend from the Vendee. We also bought a Coteaux de Tricastin and a Vin de Pays de Herault.
More shopping on the way back to the hotel. I bought some scarves. There was also this fabulous shop (Alberto Valese-Ebru on rue Saint-Paul) that sold gorgeous paper hand-printed with scenes of the Place de Vosges. I bought a sheet of the paper and a triptych picture frame covered in it. We sat for a while at a cafe in the Place du Marche Sainte Catherine--a really sweet little square--then headed back to get ready for dinner.
We were looking forward to L'Enoteca. But of course, we forgot to reserve. And at nine o?clock on a Saturday night, there was no room at the enoteca for these hungry, weary travelers. Knowing that it would probably be impossible to get in anywhere decent, we headed over to the Bastille (the Colonne de Juillet is even more gorgeous at night) and ended up at Leon's.
When we were at L'Impasse, my husband became interested in the Byrrh posters that covered the walls and wanted to go to a flea market to see if he could find any. I find St. Ouen disorderly and overwhelming, so after breakfast we set off for the Marche aux Puces de Vanves.
I wasn't quite sure where to find it once we left the Metro, but here's a good tip: If you see a man walking toward you carrying a frilly lampshade, there's a good chance that he knows where the flea market is.
I liked this market. Unlike St. Ouen, it's all outdoors. I also like its linear layout. It doesn't seem to have as much of a high end as St. Ouen does. There were some fun things that I considered--an Art Nouveau picture frame, a carafe, a suitcase full of plastic monkey heads--but I didn?t buy anything. The Byrrh things we saw were in bad shape. My husband bought an old corkscrew for his collection, along with a couple of promotional ashtrays. (Apparently, to a smoker, Paris is some sort of shrine. He was rather distressed when he saw that packs of cigarettes now carry a dire "Fumer tue" warning, in bold black letters. "This is the beginning of the end of French civilization," he said.)
It started to rain around lunchtime (first time all week!), so we ducked into a nearby brasserie, Le Porte Didot. The place itself is unremarkable--a 1970s take on Belle Epoch (think plywood and orange vinyl). But our waiter was very funny--he waved a dish of "cassoulet de maison" under my husband?s nose to tempt him into ordering. It worked (in truth, DH can never say no to cassoulet).
For dessert, we headed back to the Marais, to Josephine Vannier, creator of chocolat artisanal at 4 rue du Pas de la Mule. What a wonderful shop! With Easter being just a week away, Mme. Vannier offered all sorts of chocolate bunnies, bells, and eggs. My favorite were the ganache eggs in real egg shells. They came in chocolate egg cups and you eat them with a spoon, like soft-boiled eggs. We bought a whole bunch of things, some as gifts, some as. . . um, not gifts. Only after we left the store did it sink in that we had just spent 45 euros on chocolate. Oh well. Is that so bad?
Next stop was a wine shop on rue de Turenne, Nectar des Bourbons. It's a small neighborhood shop, with a lot of locals stopping in to pick up things for that evening's meal, and the young guy who was working there was really sweet. He let us taste a few things, then turned us on to a really good, really cheap (6 euros 90) Chenin Blanc/Chardonnay blend from the Vendee. We also bought a Coteaux de Tricastin and a Vin de Pays de Herault.
More shopping on the way back to the hotel. I bought some scarves. There was also this fabulous shop (Alberto Valese-Ebru on rue Saint-Paul) that sold gorgeous paper hand-printed with scenes of the Place de Vosges. I bought a sheet of the paper and a triptych picture frame covered in it. We sat for a while at a cafe in the Place du Marche Sainte Catherine--a really sweet little square--then headed back to get ready for dinner.
We were looking forward to L'Enoteca. But of course, we forgot to reserve. And at nine o?clock on a Saturday night, there was no room at the enoteca for these hungry, weary travelers. Knowing that it would probably be impossible to get in anywhere decent, we headed over to the Bastille (the Colonne de Juillet is even more gorgeous at night) and ended up at Leon's.
Apr 15th, 2004, 05:00 AM
#27
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 539
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Elle,
Funny, Bouquet Saint Paul is our favorite cafe for petit de jeuner every morning when we are in Paris. We even have a photo of my husband with our favorite waiter outside the cafe. I am really enjoying your report.
Funny, Bouquet Saint Paul is our favorite cafe for petit de jeuner every morning when we are in Paris. We even have a photo of my husband with our favorite waiter outside the cafe. I am really enjoying your report.
More please!
Apr 22nd, 2004, 06:55 PM
#31
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 1,327
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
DAY FIVE--IN WHICH OUR HERO TAKES TWO BLOWS TO THE HEAD
A lovely Sunday morning. On our way to breakfast, we caught a bit of the Paris Marathon (maybe even MelissaHI!) as the runners headed down rue St. Antoine to the Bastille. It was a really fun race to watch--we saw runners dressed like clowns, convicts, SuperMario, Minnie Mouse, even a guy as a horse pulling a chariot! Felt a little guilty sitting there eating my croissant as all these fit people ran by.
Afterwards, we went back to the Hotel du Septieme Art to check out, for I had won a night at Hotel le Saint-Beuve in a silent auction. I've posted all about this lovely hotel on another thread, so I'll just link to it rather than repeat:
http://www.fodors.com/forums/threadselect.jsp?fid=2
As we were packing up to leave, my husband banged his head--hard--against a shelf in the closet. It started to swell and, of course, we had no ice. When we arrived at the Sainte-Beuve, he bent down to take something out of his suitcase and --ouch--hit it again on something that was jutting out of the wall. (I swear, we really are not this klutzy at home). Still no ice, but this room did have a mini-bar. He found a small bottle of Bourgougne Aligote, nicely chilled, and held it to his head until the swelling went down a bit. Then we went out for a walk.
We walked up Boulevard Raspail, where the marche biologique was still taking place. We stopped for some chocolat chaud a l'ancienne and Moroccan mint tea. Little girls who were members of the French equivalent of the Brownies were there in their uniforms, collecting donations for something or other.
We headed in the general direction of St. Germain-de-Pres, thinking we'd stop at Deux Magots or somewhere for lunch. We wandered on a bit toward Odeon and made reservations at Le Procope for dinner (this warrants a separate post, see below). As we double-backed toward St. Germain, we found yet another street market, this time on the rue de Seine. There were several small wine producers here, and DH ended up buying more wine (!) before we headed to La Dernier Goutte, where we bought some interesting wines--a Cabardes, a Marsannay rose, a bottle of Champagne, a Cabernet d'Anjou, and some others--packed in a box with a handle so that we could carry it on the plane.
The terrasses of Deux Magots, Cafe Flore, Lipp, were totally packed, so we ended up at le Bonaparte, which is perpendicular to Deux Magots. Same show, different part of the theatre. As we were having lunch, one of those goofy street performers showed up and started mugging with the crowd. He was corny, but fun. By the time we left, afternoon had already changed into evening.
A lovely Sunday morning. On our way to breakfast, we caught a bit of the Paris Marathon (maybe even MelissaHI!) as the runners headed down rue St. Antoine to the Bastille. It was a really fun race to watch--we saw runners dressed like clowns, convicts, SuperMario, Minnie Mouse, even a guy as a horse pulling a chariot! Felt a little guilty sitting there eating my croissant as all these fit people ran by.
Afterwards, we went back to the Hotel du Septieme Art to check out, for I had won a night at Hotel le Saint-Beuve in a silent auction. I've posted all about this lovely hotel on another thread, so I'll just link to it rather than repeat:
http://www.fodors.com/forums/threadselect.jsp?fid=2
As we were packing up to leave, my husband banged his head--hard--against a shelf in the closet. It started to swell and, of course, we had no ice. When we arrived at the Sainte-Beuve, he bent down to take something out of his suitcase and --ouch--hit it again on something that was jutting out of the wall. (I swear, we really are not this klutzy at home). Still no ice, but this room did have a mini-bar. He found a small bottle of Bourgougne Aligote, nicely chilled, and held it to his head until the swelling went down a bit. Then we went out for a walk.
We walked up Boulevard Raspail, where the marche biologique was still taking place. We stopped for some chocolat chaud a l'ancienne and Moroccan mint tea. Little girls who were members of the French equivalent of the Brownies were there in their uniforms, collecting donations for something or other.
We headed in the general direction of St. Germain-de-Pres, thinking we'd stop at Deux Magots or somewhere for lunch. We wandered on a bit toward Odeon and made reservations at Le Procope for dinner (this warrants a separate post, see below). As we double-backed toward St. Germain, we found yet another street market, this time on the rue de Seine. There were several small wine producers here, and DH ended up buying more wine (!) before we headed to La Dernier Goutte, where we bought some interesting wines--a Cabardes, a Marsannay rose, a bottle of Champagne, a Cabernet d'Anjou, and some others--packed in a box with a handle so that we could carry it on the plane.
The terrasses of Deux Magots, Cafe Flore, Lipp, were totally packed, so we ended up at le Bonaparte, which is perpendicular to Deux Magots. Same show, different part of the theatre. As we were having lunch, one of those goofy street performers showed up and started mugging with the crowd. He was corny, but fun. By the time we left, afternoon had already changed into evening.
Apr 22nd, 2004, 07:00 PM
#32
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 1,327
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
DAY FIVE DINNER--L?ANCIENNE COMEDIE
Dinner at Le Procope was my husband?s idea. We had been warned that it was super-touristy with mediocre food and service, but he wanted to dine at the cafe credited with introducing coffee to Paris. There?s more history to the place than this claim to fame, however. Racine, Moliere, Voltaire, Danton were once regulars, and Ben Franklin supposedly wrote part of the U.S. Constitution here.
We were seated upstairs, in a room with a lot of other tourists of all nationalities. There was a table of Italians, a Spanish family, a table of Germans. When we arrived, there were three American women at the table next to us, but they left soon afterwards and were replaced by a Japanese family. Our waiter--a thin, older gent--seemed to speak one or two words of each of these languages.
We had a hunch that Le Procope is to Paris as Bookbinder?s was to Philadelphia--historic but otherwise mediocre. ?Look,? said my husband, ?They even have Ben Franklin?s favorite lobster dish on the menu.? With that, the windows behind us flew open. Le fantome de Franklin perhaps?
The waiter came to take our order. First, my husband ordered the saucisson pistache. No, sorry, the waiter said. We have no saucisson for it is Sunday and the market was closed. Okay, said DH. How about the pate de foie gras en croute. Desolee, monsieur. We have no pate en croute, for it is Sunday and the market is closed. May I suggest the Parma ham?
As DH awaited his Parma ham, we had some amuse bouches--a cheese straw-type thing (quite good) and a savory madeleine. We also had the house aperitif--Prosecco with Muscat de Beaumes de Venise. It was excellent. The bread arrived. It was like a rock, practically inedible. ?Well, you know, ? my husband said, ?It?s Sunday and the market was closed.? ?But the boulangeries were not!? I said.
The ham arrived, along with the bottle of Saint Emilion that we had ordered. The waiter opened the bottle, then proceeded to splash it all over the white tablecloth. ?Desolee, monsieur.? He came back with another white tablecloth, and draped it over my husband?s side of the table. He put the bottle down again and once again, he sloshed red wine over the white linen. He giggled. ?Voulez-vous voir mon gris-gris?? he asked as he reached into his pants and pulled out a furry grey mouse on a chain. Apparently this was his voodoo charm. He held it out, expectantly. ?Very nice,? we said. ?That?s a good gris-gris.?
During the 40 minutes that passed between the end of the first course and the arrival of the second, we sat there drinking what was left of our wine, trying not to break a tooth on the bread, observing our fellow diners. I was seated directly behind one of the Spanish girls, who was wearing jeans so low-cut, that not only could I see London and France, but I also had quite a view of the Continental Divide.
Much to my husband?s chagrin, the waiter brought a serving of pate en croute to the Japanese family?s table. ?But I thought they were out of it because it was market day!? he said. ?Maybe you need your own gris-gris,? I said.
Finally, our main courses arrived--salmon and caviar for DH, boeuf en brochette for me. The main courses were actually pretty good. As we were eating, the waiter delivered the Japanese family?s main courses. There was a bit of a to-do. Apparently, the mother had ordered the beef brochette, but had received a steak instead. The waiter apologized and informed her that, because it was Sunday, the market was closed. ?Mais Madame,? he said. ?C?est la meme viande.? (It?s the same meat. Which is true. But the steak was also 12e more expensive than the brochette.) After much discussion in French, Japanese, and English, he took their plates back to the kitchen. When he returned, he still had the steak. He placed it in front of the Japanese woman, who pointed to my brochette. ?Mais, c?est la meme viande,? he said again. ?Perhaps some sauce Bernaise?? The woman shook her head no and so the waiter picked up the plates and disappeared again. When he returned again, the plate he put down in front of Madame still contained a steak, not the brochettes. By this point, the woman looked exhausted and resigned. She ate the steak with no further objection.
A woman at the table of Italians--Ursula--was celebrating her birthday, and our waiter came out with a small cake and candle, singing ?Happy Beau-Frere Dear Ursula,? then he disappeared and we didn?t see him again for the rest of the night.
A younger waiter came and asked us if we wanted dessert. He gave us menus, then disappeared for another 20 minutes. When he came back to take our order, I told him that I had a question about one of the desserts. ?NO!? my husband said. ?Don?t ask about anything! Just order! We?ve been here for three hours already.? But it was too late, I had already asked the waiter what flavors of ice cream came on the artist?s palette. He looked stunned, as if no one had ever asked this question before. He told me that he would have to ask and took off. Ten minutes later, he returned and told me that the flavors were chocolate, vanilla, caramel, and coffee. My husband had really started to lose patience at this point, so he did something he never does in France: he asked the waiter to bring coffee WITH dessert. The waiter was unfazed by this request and said that he would.
Another twenty minutes passed. When the artist?s palette arrived, there was no ice cream, just five scoops of mango sorbet. ?What happened to chocolate, vanilla, caramel, and coffee?? asked my husband. ?I guess he got confused. What he meant to say was, ?Mango, mango, mango, mango, and mango.?
Half an hour later, my husband got his coffee.
Dinner at Le Procope was my husband?s idea. We had been warned that it was super-touristy with mediocre food and service, but he wanted to dine at the cafe credited with introducing coffee to Paris. There?s more history to the place than this claim to fame, however. Racine, Moliere, Voltaire, Danton were once regulars, and Ben Franklin supposedly wrote part of the U.S. Constitution here.
We were seated upstairs, in a room with a lot of other tourists of all nationalities. There was a table of Italians, a Spanish family, a table of Germans. When we arrived, there were three American women at the table next to us, but they left soon afterwards and were replaced by a Japanese family. Our waiter--a thin, older gent--seemed to speak one or two words of each of these languages.
We had a hunch that Le Procope is to Paris as Bookbinder?s was to Philadelphia--historic but otherwise mediocre. ?Look,? said my husband, ?They even have Ben Franklin?s favorite lobster dish on the menu.? With that, the windows behind us flew open. Le fantome de Franklin perhaps?
The waiter came to take our order. First, my husband ordered the saucisson pistache. No, sorry, the waiter said. We have no saucisson for it is Sunday and the market was closed. Okay, said DH. How about the pate de foie gras en croute. Desolee, monsieur. We have no pate en croute, for it is Sunday and the market is closed. May I suggest the Parma ham?
As DH awaited his Parma ham, we had some amuse bouches--a cheese straw-type thing (quite good) and a savory madeleine. We also had the house aperitif--Prosecco with Muscat de Beaumes de Venise. It was excellent. The bread arrived. It was like a rock, practically inedible. ?Well, you know, ? my husband said, ?It?s Sunday and the market was closed.? ?But the boulangeries were not!? I said.
The ham arrived, along with the bottle of Saint Emilion that we had ordered. The waiter opened the bottle, then proceeded to splash it all over the white tablecloth. ?Desolee, monsieur.? He came back with another white tablecloth, and draped it over my husband?s side of the table. He put the bottle down again and once again, he sloshed red wine over the white linen. He giggled. ?Voulez-vous voir mon gris-gris?? he asked as he reached into his pants and pulled out a furry grey mouse on a chain. Apparently this was his voodoo charm. He held it out, expectantly. ?Very nice,? we said. ?That?s a good gris-gris.?
During the 40 minutes that passed between the end of the first course and the arrival of the second, we sat there drinking what was left of our wine, trying not to break a tooth on the bread, observing our fellow diners. I was seated directly behind one of the Spanish girls, who was wearing jeans so low-cut, that not only could I see London and France, but I also had quite a view of the Continental Divide.
Much to my husband?s chagrin, the waiter brought a serving of pate en croute to the Japanese family?s table. ?But I thought they were out of it because it was market day!? he said. ?Maybe you need your own gris-gris,? I said.
Finally, our main courses arrived--salmon and caviar for DH, boeuf en brochette for me. The main courses were actually pretty good. As we were eating, the waiter delivered the Japanese family?s main courses. There was a bit of a to-do. Apparently, the mother had ordered the beef brochette, but had received a steak instead. The waiter apologized and informed her that, because it was Sunday, the market was closed. ?Mais Madame,? he said. ?C?est la meme viande.? (It?s the same meat. Which is true. But the steak was also 12e more expensive than the brochette.) After much discussion in French, Japanese, and English, he took their plates back to the kitchen. When he returned, he still had the steak. He placed it in front of the Japanese woman, who pointed to my brochette. ?Mais, c?est la meme viande,? he said again. ?Perhaps some sauce Bernaise?? The woman shook her head no and so the waiter picked up the plates and disappeared again. When he returned again, the plate he put down in front of Madame still contained a steak, not the brochettes. By this point, the woman looked exhausted and resigned. She ate the steak with no further objection.
A woman at the table of Italians--Ursula--was celebrating her birthday, and our waiter came out with a small cake and candle, singing ?Happy Beau-Frere Dear Ursula,? then he disappeared and we didn?t see him again for the rest of the night.
A younger waiter came and asked us if we wanted dessert. He gave us menus, then disappeared for another 20 minutes. When he came back to take our order, I told him that I had a question about one of the desserts. ?NO!? my husband said. ?Don?t ask about anything! Just order! We?ve been here for three hours already.? But it was too late, I had already asked the waiter what flavors of ice cream came on the artist?s palette. He looked stunned, as if no one had ever asked this question before. He told me that he would have to ask and took off. Ten minutes later, he returned and told me that the flavors were chocolate, vanilla, caramel, and coffee. My husband had really started to lose patience at this point, so he did something he never does in France: he asked the waiter to bring coffee WITH dessert. The waiter was unfazed by this request and said that he would.
Another twenty minutes passed. When the artist?s palette arrived, there was no ice cream, just five scoops of mango sorbet. ?What happened to chocolate, vanilla, caramel, and coffee?? asked my husband. ?I guess he got confused. What he meant to say was, ?Mango, mango, mango, mango, and mango.?
Half an hour later, my husband got his coffee.
Apr 22nd, 2004, 07:12 PM
#34
Original Poster
Join Date: Jan 2003
Posts: 1,327
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
DAY SIX--AU REVOIR, PARIS
After a very filling breakfast at Hotel le Sainte Beuve, we waited for Golden Air Shuttle to take us to CDG. They were supposed to pick us up at 10:30; they arrived at 11:10. Our flight was at 1:20, so we really needed to be at the airport by 12:20.
The Queen was in Paris that day and traffic was even more horrendous than usual. From the Left Bank, we crept across the city. The driver picked up three more passengers on the Grands Boulevards, then drove through the 10eme and 18eme to the Periphique. We arrived at the airport with no more than 10 minutes to spare (which meant no Duty Free for me, boo hoo).
My husband was carrying on the six bottles of wine from La Derniere Goutte; I had six other bottles in my carry-on. Unfortunately, this put my carry-on at 14 kilos, which is two kilos over the limit. So we had to do some hasty re-arranging of bottles until my bag made weight (four bottles).
We rushed to our gate, where we ran into one of the friends we had dinner with at Chez Janou. I asked her if they had been to any other good restaurants. "Oh yes," she said, and handed me a card. "We had a fabulous meal last night at this place."
The card read "Le Procope."
After a very filling breakfast at Hotel le Sainte Beuve, we waited for Golden Air Shuttle to take us to CDG. They were supposed to pick us up at 10:30; they arrived at 11:10. Our flight was at 1:20, so we really needed to be at the airport by 12:20.
The Queen was in Paris that day and traffic was even more horrendous than usual. From the Left Bank, we crept across the city. The driver picked up three more passengers on the Grands Boulevards, then drove through the 10eme and 18eme to the Periphique. We arrived at the airport with no more than 10 minutes to spare (which meant no Duty Free for me, boo hoo).
My husband was carrying on the six bottles of wine from La Derniere Goutte; I had six other bottles in my carry-on. Unfortunately, this put my carry-on at 14 kilos, which is two kilos over the limit. So we had to do some hasty re-arranging of bottles until my bag made weight (four bottles).
We rushed to our gate, where we ran into one of the friends we had dinner with at Chez Janou. I asked her if they had been to any other good restaurants. "Oh yes," she said, and handed me a card. "We had a fabulous meal last night at this place."
The card read "Le Procope."
Apr 23rd, 2004, 06:04 AM
#37
Join Date: Apr 2003
Posts: 422
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Merci beaucoup for the laughs, Elle! Very funny trip report.
Talk about the trials and tribulations of tourists, y'all had the patience of saints dining at Procope! So much for the much maligned stereotype of "Ugly Americans".
Thanks a lot for sharing, I've thoroughly enjoyed every installment of your saga.
Talk about the trials and tribulations of tourists, y'all had the patience of saints dining at Procope! So much for the much maligned stereotype of "Ugly Americans".
Thanks a lot for sharing, I've thoroughly enjoyed every installment of your saga.
Apr 23rd, 2004, 07:00 AM
#38
Guest
Posts: n/a
Thanks so much, elle. This was such a fun report to read -- & I love the last post on Le Procope. It reminds me of a similar meal I had with my mother years ago at Tavern on the Green. We knew it was touristy, but it just looked so pretty in June we couldn't resist. Ugh!
We brought home 6 bottles from La Derniere Goutte, including one fabulous bottle of Domaine Boingnères armagnac. They were so helpful there. My husband enjoys going to their restaurant, Fish, occasionally when he is in town. The owner, Juan Sanchez, seems to be very well regarded by the french winemakers despite the fact that he is American, or Cuban, or Cuban-American -- whatever he considers himself. Whatever the case, we have enjoyed the wine from his shop.
We brought home 6 bottles from La Derniere Goutte, including one fabulous bottle of Domaine Boingnères armagnac. They were so helpful there. My husband enjoys going to their restaurant, Fish, occasionally when he is in town. The owner, Juan Sanchez, seems to be very well regarded by the french winemakers despite the fact that he is American, or Cuban, or Cuban-American -- whatever he considers himself. Whatever the case, we have enjoyed the wine from his shop.
