I had read about Restaurant Chartier on my favourite site of all things Parisienne, "Do it in Paris." It featured in their cheap weekend guide. And it was PERFECT.
I ate leeks dripping in a white viniagrette, followed by steak tartare and fresh "steak frites", followed by a baba au rhum and creme chantilly for dessert. N began with a country terrine, same for main and an ile flottant for dessert. We shared a karaf of the house red.
The building was gorgeous, somewhat like an old railway station (I think it may well be just that) with incredibly high ceilings, ornate mirrors, so many tables and brass luggage racks above the tables to place your coats and bags on (when everyone wears a "doudoune", a doona jacket, coat storage becomes a serious business...). The order is written on your table cloth and the waiters are all in black with full length white aprons. The food is cheap and arrives promptly. (Ordering a raw meal helps, I'm sure. Although the ladies next to us received their cooked meals just as fast.)
And as I ate my steak tartare, lavishly soaked in worsterchire (please, spelling someone?) and drank my second (third?) glass of wine, in the oh-so-french surrounds I felt completely a laise. I was exactly where I needed to be at that very moment. My dessert, meanwhile, was quite an introduction to the French favourite, Baba au Rhum.
It's basically a large brioche, soaked in brown rum and served with a generous swirl of whipped cream. I had confirmed with the waiter that I did indeed like rum, and boy did he take that to heart. Every mouthful postively squelshed with rhum. And I loved it. Loved. It.
This was followed by a noisette (macchiato) on the way to our next stop, C's house for farewell champagne. Then, we accompagnied C and her South American friends to Chez Jeanette for second dinner. N and I shared a house specialty, the duck pie. And boy, was that worth eating a second dinner for. Rich but not overwhelming, crispy but not dry, the salad fresh but not undressed. This time the bistro was noisy and crowded- hence why the five of us squeezed into a booth-side table meant for two. But, being French, the staff were most understanding and fully supported our intimate dinner arrangement. (Melbourne waiters would not be so kind about stacking customers one on top of the other.) The walls were tiled and the walls mirrored. And yet again, as the choruses of 50's and 60's rock and roll music caught my ears, and the duck pie disappeared one forkful at a time, and my wine glass emptied and re-filled itself I thought: I am happy. At this very moment, I am completely happy. I wouldn't be anywhere else, with anyone else.
And I'm glad, that in someway, I was able to recognise and share the moment. Because too often those moments happen without me realising. But not tonight.
Mmmm, squelchy rhum brioche.....
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Warm and fuzzies
Do you ever have those times where you can actively recognise, that at THAT particular moment you are completely happy? I had one of those this evening. And it's no coincidence it happened in a restaurant. Two, actually. In fact, the whole day was relatively peaceful and easy going, but it was only over dinner that I could actually name the sensation running through me: contentment.
My day involved a 15 month old who didn't want to take his morning nap, but after dressing him, feeding him warm milk and biscuits, a little play and giving his room a heating turbo-charge he was good to sleep. While giving Little J second breakfast I too had breakfast- two cups of tea and some speculos (really yummy gingerbread-style flavoured biscuits that the Frence are big fans of.) Then, with him down for a nap, I browsed my newspaper and then hunted for a suitable banana bread/cake recipe. Any mention in the review of it being "dry" and I was outta there. This family take their TIME eating cakes, so those helpful "great when microwaved and spread with butter" comments were no good to me. I needed "moist", "sensational" "disappeared the moment it hit the table." My recipe of choice ended up including brown sugar, and I substituted the buttermilk for creme fraiche. Perfect. (I may also have subsituted an apple for the third banana....)
And then, right on school pick up time, I got told Madame and Monsieur would be meeting up with us at the school and we would all be going home together and after that I was free to go home. I couldn't believe my luck- I was shooed out of my pen at 5.30pm!
I called N and suggested we disappear off to dinner at an actual restaurant. So we did....
My day involved a 15 month old who didn't want to take his morning nap, but after dressing him, feeding him warm milk and biscuits, a little play and giving his room a heating turbo-charge he was good to sleep. While giving Little J second breakfast I too had breakfast- two cups of tea and some speculos (really yummy gingerbread-style flavoured biscuits that the Frence are big fans of.) Then, with him down for a nap, I browsed my newspaper and then hunted for a suitable banana bread/cake recipe. Any mention in the review of it being "dry" and I was outta there. This family take their TIME eating cakes, so those helpful "great when microwaved and spread with butter" comments were no good to me. I needed "moist", "sensational" "disappeared the moment it hit the table." My recipe of choice ended up including brown sugar, and I substituted the buttermilk for creme fraiche. Perfect. (I may also have subsituted an apple for the third banana....)
And then, right on school pick up time, I got told Madame and Monsieur would be meeting up with us at the school and we would all be going home together and after that I was free to go home. I couldn't believe my luck- I was shooed out of my pen at 5.30pm!
I called N and suggested we disappear off to dinner at an actual restaurant. So we did....
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Home, James
Return to Paris
Oxsted, as I discovered the following morning, is a stunning, storybook example of the English countryside. Lush, rolling, verdant green hills dotted with red and goldren trees and inky green hedges. Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, and all those other English tales make sense all of a sudden.
I listened to the tealady on the train platform sharing the local gossip with another customer. It was nice to be able to understand it all, instead of just hazard a guess. I bought an English newspaper to entertain me on my return Eurostar to Paris.
I boarded the Eurostar and found someone sitting in my seat. One seat had been double booked 10 times on my way over, so I was immediately concerned. Happily, the interloper was just keeping his friend company.
My mother always asks me, whenever I take a trip, whether I sat next to anybody nice (she means anybody male-nice). This time, I did; Gino and I chatted for 314 kilometres. And I never did get to read that English newspaper...
Oxsted, as I discovered the following morning, is a stunning, storybook example of the English countryside. Lush, rolling, verdant green hills dotted with red and goldren trees and inky green hedges. Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, and all those other English tales make sense all of a sudden.
I listened to the tealady on the train platform sharing the local gossip with another customer. It was nice to be able to understand it all, instead of just hazard a guess. I bought an English newspaper to entertain me on my return Eurostar to Paris.
I boarded the Eurostar and found someone sitting in my seat. One seat had been double booked 10 times on my way over, so I was immediately concerned. Happily, the interloper was just keeping his friend company.
My mother always asks me, whenever I take a trip, whether I sat next to anybody nice (she means anybody male-nice). This time, I did; Gino and I chatted for 314 kilometres. And I never did get to read that English newspaper...
London...Sunday morning
Toute Seul
Sunday morning I was on my own to tour the V&A Museum. Knowing how enormous it was, the only part I was absolutely determined to see was the Fashion and Textile exhibit. It was suitably impressive, however the dark, preservative lighting made reading all the tiny plaques difficult. (I will blame alcohol for nothing.) The building itself was gorgeous, and the café is definitely the most glamorous museum café I've ever eaten at. (Not that I make a habit of eating at museum cafés, they're normally so sterile...)
I passed the grey afternoon touring the three levels of Anthropologie with my cousin, gossiping and idly flicking through knitwear, coats, quilts, crockery, scented candles, doorknobs....a little bit of all our favourite things.
Sunday night I caught the regional train south of London to stay with Blondie at her aunt's house in the country for the night. I walked in to a large, warm kitchen full of cooking aromas. Stewed beef, bechamel sauce, freshly hulled strawberries....I felt at home.
For the second time that weekend I showered in a carpeted bathroom. Which, to an Australian seems strange (on so many levels) but was oh so practical over there. Climbing dripping wet out of the shower and into the steamy bathroom, cool tiles are the last place I want to put my freshly warmed tootsies.
Like in Paris, my bedroom was in the eaves of the house. This house, however, is seven-bathrooms, two-painos and one enormous Argre stove big. Which meant that I actually had a proper ceiling height and no fear of bumping shoulders with my roof as a rolled over during the night.
Sunday morning I was on my own to tour the V&A Museum. Knowing how enormous it was, the only part I was absolutely determined to see was the Fashion and Textile exhibit. It was suitably impressive, however the dark, preservative lighting made reading all the tiny plaques difficult. (I will blame alcohol for nothing.) The building itself was gorgeous, and the café is definitely the most glamorous museum café I've ever eaten at. (Not that I make a habit of eating at museum cafés, they're normally so sterile...)
I passed the grey afternoon touring the three levels of Anthropologie with my cousin, gossiping and idly flicking through knitwear, coats, quilts, crockery, scented candles, doorknobs....a little bit of all our favourite things.
Sunday night I caught the regional train south of London to stay with Blondie at her aunt's house in the country for the night. I walked in to a large, warm kitchen full of cooking aromas. Stewed beef, bechamel sauce, freshly hulled strawberries....I felt at home.
For the second time that weekend I showered in a carpeted bathroom. Which, to an Australian seems strange (on so many levels) but was oh so practical over there. Climbing dripping wet out of the shower and into the steamy bathroom, cool tiles are the last place I want to put my freshly warmed tootsies.
Like in Paris, my bedroom was in the eaves of the house. This house, however, is seven-bathrooms, two-painos and one enormous Argre stove big. Which meant that I actually had a proper ceiling height and no fear of bumping shoulders with my roof as a rolled over during the night.
London....Chicago
Pop! Six! Squish! Uh-uh! Cicero! Lipshits!
My introduction to Chicago was at a school vocal concert. Heaven only knows how a group of 16 year old girls convinced our conservative staff to let them sing some of Broadway's raunchiest songs, but they did and I was hooked. Ever since, I've been a sucker for the musical (I may have been known to perform a hairbrush rendition on occasion...) But this was much, much better than me and my hairbrush. The cast were all incredibly strong, and the theatre small enough that our R-row seats were ideal. Using the little opera glasses almost made the stage shrink. Blame the alcohol, blame the caffeine, blame my addiction to broadway musicals, I'm pretty sure I bopped in my seat the entire show. I would have hated sitting next to me. Except, I was me, so I had a BALL!
Blondie and I exited to London drizzle, so we tuk-tukked our way back to the bar to finish the evening with more dancing and, shock horror, cocktails, with my cousin. Leaving a show, especially a musical, can often leave you feeling flat, or a little lost as to what to do with all the energy you've just been zinged with. I now have the solution- go dancing! Roll those stockings down, rouge those knees, drink that aspirin and Shimmy shimmy shake until your garters break...
London...Saturday evening
Let. Me. Off. The. Bus. N-O-W!
I'm not typically prone to hysteria, but inching down Oxford Street on the bus just about turned me into the crazy Australian lady who bangs her head through bus windows. No matter that I was stuck inside a London icon, the red double decker; I was looking at my watch so often I'm sure it looked like a nervous tic. I was trying to make it to Reagent Street to fly around an amazing shop that was only in New York and London (Anthropologie), then march onto Piccadilly Circus to buy discounted tickets, in time to see a matinée on West End, so that I'd bounce into happy hour in Soho with my cousin.....not having a phone so that I could change my arrangements on the fly was making me demented!
Despite my nervous watch tic, Blondie was calm, collected and very patient. I know people say that patience is a virtue, but I still think it's an underrated quality. We jiggled my arrangements around and managed to a) survive the muppets trying to sell us cut price tickets b) find another ticket box run by a non-muppet c) choose a show we both liked d) Get a late late lunch e) Make it to Jrinks in Soho the instant happy hour started. We even beat my cousin to the bar.
Once again, the universal elements collided and a favourite cocktail of mine, Espresso Martini, was indeed on special (4£!) for the three hours I would be at Jrinks. Ding ding ding! So just how many Espresso Martinis can a girl drink in 3 hours? Five, my dear friend, five. And I loved every minty, frothy, caffeinated sip. But alas, it was once again time for me and my escort (Blondie) to move on. The Cambridge Theatre, most conveniently located a few blocks away from Jrinks, was about to raise its curtain. Chicago here we come!
I'm not typically prone to hysteria, but inching down Oxford Street on the bus just about turned me into the crazy Australian lady who bangs her head through bus windows. No matter that I was stuck inside a London icon, the red double decker; I was looking at my watch so often I'm sure it looked like a nervous tic. I was trying to make it to Reagent Street to fly around an amazing shop that was only in New York and London (Anthropologie), then march onto Piccadilly Circus to buy discounted tickets, in time to see a matinée on West End, so that I'd bounce into happy hour in Soho with my cousin.....not having a phone so that I could change my arrangements on the fly was making me demented!
Despite my nervous watch tic, Blondie was calm, collected and very patient. I know people say that patience is a virtue, but I still think it's an underrated quality. We jiggled my arrangements around and managed to a) survive the muppets trying to sell us cut price tickets b) find another ticket box run by a non-muppet c) choose a show we both liked d) Get a late late lunch e) Make it to Jrinks in Soho the instant happy hour started. We even beat my cousin to the bar.
Once again, the universal elements collided and a favourite cocktail of mine, Espresso Martini, was indeed on special (4£!) for the three hours I would be at Jrinks. Ding ding ding! So just how many Espresso Martinis can a girl drink in 3 hours? Five, my dear friend, five. And I loved every minty, frothy, caffeinated sip. But alas, it was once again time for me and my escort (Blondie) to move on. The Cambridge Theatre, most conveniently located a few blocks away from Jrinks, was about to raise its curtain. Chicago here we come!
London...silver, silver everywhere
My mad search for "the" teacup
Having spent countless hours shopping in Paris, I was determined not so spend my precious London time combing the high streets. Not for Harrods, not for Fortnum Mason, not for Harvey Nichols, and not even for that British fashion mecca, Top Shop. The Portobello Markets, however, were another matter. The antique markets were one of the few things to be carved into my London itinerary from the start.
Portobello road, leading to the said markets, is jammed with people well before you reach the stalls. Ducking and weaving, with my friend Blondie, and her friend Blondie 2 trailing behind, I marched down the hill. Dodging the crowds by trotting along the road may have been a little extreme, but I was a woman with a schedule, dammit! (Also, the crowds were beyond ridiculous. Having spent my past year working INSIDE retail, I forget what peak Saturday morning shopping crowds look like. And that's just in Melbourne. The London crowds were infinitely denser.)
The terrace houses that give way to the markets all shared the same bright, colourful palette, lending to the upbeat atmosphere. And then, it started. I didn't realise that yes, the word market might mean roadstall, but it can (and here, does) also mean narrow shop fronts, six or ten little stores deep. Silverware seemed to be the most prolific item, and every second stall bristled with teapots, ladles, magnifying glasses, hairbrushes, gravy boats, bundles of cutlery and buckets of silver(ish) miscellany. Fascinating, but I just hadn't prepared myself for silverware shopping! My mission for the day was a pretty teacup for my collection and perhaps a not-so-pretty-but-cheaper-and-practical teapot.
The perfect antique teacup had eluded me ever since I arrived in Europe. Preferably in greens and/or pinks and with the classical curved sides, not a straight-sided coffee cup. (The French, annoyingly, seem particularly fond of the angular shape.) At last, I found her. In the dark and tangled depths of chickenwire that separated out this particular set of stalls, she called to me. The perfect shape, with a feature pink rose on the saucer and inside the teacup. Gold-gilded, with just a simple double stripe around the outside of the teacup. Blue is the featured colour, but she's so pretty I forgave her for not wearing my chosen team colours.
I should probably admit she's not the only thing I found. I also bought an old red OXO tin (a traditional English brand of beef stock cubes) and some letters that were once used in the old method of type-set printing, when individual letters were placed in racks to print newspapers.
Next stop, Oxford Street insanity.....
Having spent countless hours shopping in Paris, I was determined not so spend my precious London time combing the high streets. Not for Harrods, not for Fortnum Mason, not for Harvey Nichols, and not even for that British fashion mecca, Top Shop. The Portobello Markets, however, were another matter. The antique markets were one of the few things to be carved into my London itinerary from the start.
Portobello road, leading to the said markets, is jammed with people well before you reach the stalls. Ducking and weaving, with my friend Blondie, and her friend Blondie 2 trailing behind, I marched down the hill. Dodging the crowds by trotting along the road may have been a little extreme, but I was a woman with a schedule, dammit! (Also, the crowds were beyond ridiculous. Having spent my past year working INSIDE retail, I forget what peak Saturday morning shopping crowds look like. And that's just in Melbourne. The London crowds were infinitely denser.)
The terrace houses that give way to the markets all shared the same bright, colourful palette, lending to the upbeat atmosphere. And then, it started. I didn't realise that yes, the word market might mean roadstall, but it can (and here, does) also mean narrow shop fronts, six or ten little stores deep. Silverware seemed to be the most prolific item, and every second stall bristled with teapots, ladles, magnifying glasses, hairbrushes, gravy boats, bundles of cutlery and buckets of silver(ish) miscellany. Fascinating, but I just hadn't prepared myself for silverware shopping! My mission for the day was a pretty teacup for my collection and perhaps a not-so-pretty-but-cheaper-and-practical teapot.
The perfect antique teacup had eluded me ever since I arrived in Europe. Preferably in greens and/or pinks and with the classical curved sides, not a straight-sided coffee cup. (The French, annoyingly, seem particularly fond of the angular shape.) At last, I found her. In the dark and tangled depths of chickenwire that separated out this particular set of stalls, she called to me. The perfect shape, with a feature pink rose on the saucer and inside the teacup. Gold-gilded, with just a simple double stripe around the outside of the teacup. Blue is the featured colour, but she's so pretty I forgave her for not wearing my chosen team colours.
I should probably admit she's not the only thing I found. I also bought an old red OXO tin (a traditional English brand of beef stock cubes) and some letters that were once used in the old method of type-set printing, when individual letters were placed in racks to print newspapers.
Next stop, Oxford Street insanity.....
London...to market, to market
This little piggy went oui oui oui oui oui, all the way home. And THEN off to the Portobello Market.
After breakfast it was time to bid H goodbye- she was off to her aunt's country cottage for a long weekend. A quiet one with family and some fashion coffee table books (you know, like that Chanel biography I haven't finished yet or a tome of Manolo Blahnik sketches). Sounded great to me, but the London sunshine was calling. (That is not a typo. It was positively beaming.)
So my entourage of bags and I rolled off to take in Kensington High Street on our way to the Meineger Hostel at Baden Powell House. (Practically opposite the V&A Museum, and directly opposite the Natural History Museum, pictured above.) All was going well, until I double checked the address on my confirmation text, and discovered the last word was missing. This was an issue given the prolific number of "Queen's Gate _______" in a very small area. Fortunately I came across a helpful postie who knew exactly where to send me. (I later found out the postal service was intermittently striking, so I was definitely wearing the lucky pants that day.)
Once there, I used that antiquated piece of technology, the pay phone, to touch base with my awol friend, Blondie. From her I discovered that the Circle and District lines were closed for the weekend, which meant she was on a bus still trying to get to me. So, we arranged meeting point number two, and I headed off to catch my own bus to meet her. This sort of to-ing and fro-ing continued my entire weekend. It was at times incredibly frustrating, because it often made feel in a rush to get to the next meeting point. That, or I was dragging my heels because the other person wasn’t going to arrive for sometime yet. It’s amazing how used we are to continuously tweaking our arrangements. I noticed this especially because I was in an unfamiliar city, with routes and distances that meant little to me in terms of travel time, and I was bouncing between two friends and a cousin trying to fit one of them in with each activity. But, it could have been much worse. I could have had a stroller and Little J in tow!
I got caught out by the double name-game again, this time when I jumped off my bus a few stops too early in my hunt for “Notting Hill Gate”. It seemed London was also going to be a city of brisk walks from place to place! Not that I minded. The weather was gorgeous and the road very English. It is, after all, on this surprise walk that I discovered this fantastical tavern, with its blooming façade.
After breakfast it was time to bid H goodbye- she was off to her aunt's country cottage for a long weekend. A quiet one with family and some fashion coffee table books (you know, like that Chanel biography I haven't finished yet or a tome of Manolo Blahnik sketches). Sounded great to me, but the London sunshine was calling. (That is not a typo. It was positively beaming.)
So my entourage of bags and I rolled off to take in Kensington High Street on our way to the Meineger Hostel at Baden Powell House. (Practically opposite the V&A Museum, and directly opposite the Natural History Museum, pictured above.) All was going well, until I double checked the address on my confirmation text, and discovered the last word was missing. This was an issue given the prolific number of "Queen's Gate _______" in a very small area. Fortunately I came across a helpful postie who knew exactly where to send me. (I later found out the postal service was intermittently striking, so I was definitely wearing the lucky pants that day.)
Once there, I used that antiquated piece of technology, the pay phone, to touch base with my awol friend, Blondie. From her I discovered that the Circle and District lines were closed for the weekend, which meant she was on a bus still trying to get to me. So, we arranged meeting point number two, and I headed off to catch my own bus to meet her. This sort of to-ing and fro-ing continued my entire weekend. It was at times incredibly frustrating, because it often made feel in a rush to get to the next meeting point. That, or I was dragging my heels because the other person wasn’t going to arrive for sometime yet. It’s amazing how used we are to continuously tweaking our arrangements. I noticed this especially because I was in an unfamiliar city, with routes and distances that meant little to me in terms of travel time, and I was bouncing between two friends and a cousin trying to fit one of them in with each activity. But, it could have been much worse. I could have had a stroller and Little J in tow!
I got caught out by the double name-game again, this time when I jumped off my bus a few stops too early in my hunt for “Notting Hill Gate”. It seemed London was also going to be a city of brisk walks from place to place! Not that I minded. The weather was gorgeous and the road very English. It is, after all, on this surprise walk that I discovered this fantastical tavern, with its blooming façade.
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