London...breakfast

La Petite Nicola at Holland Park (Saturday AM, day two of four)


Saturday dawned crisp, clear and blue. Friday night had rained like I’d only seen once before, in Vietnam. I now understand the upside to such a downpour; the streets were washed clean, the sky emptied of clouds and the parks painted an extra lush shade of green.


After our house party on Friday night, H and I tugged ourselves gently to Saturday breakfast. We cut through Holland Park, deserted so early in the morning. The oval, covered in dew, sparkled like an emerald in the sunshine. The trees were turning their leaves from green to gold. Even the park gate made me smile, with its long hinges and wooden cross bar.

Phillies was full of English/Italian charm. Black chandeliers and substantial timber communal tables, paired with a real latte and a real breakfast menu made it very worth our while to be up at that hour. (Well, for her it’s only across the park. For me, it’s across the channel.) I was tossing up between some English favourites, perhaps the porridge or the eggs+bacon+baked beans combination. I asked the waitress for advice, and her response was “It’s Saturday.” I ordered the eggs.


The French attitude often seems to be that they possess all the culinary prowess they need; I would humbly suggest they can’t make a proper breakfast to save themselves. Given that the French don’t eat breakfast, however, it’s no surprise they don’t ‘do’ breakfast. The English, meanwhile, deserve credit where credit is due. They love breakfast, they eat breakfast, they ‘do’ breakfast!

Petite Nicola goes to London....

FRIDAY (DAY ONE OF FOUR)

Finally, that long weekend across the channel I’d been dreaming of. The land where people speak English, and eat baked beans. Land of my vicarious, Enid Blyton childhood.

I emerged at Piccadilly Circus Station, delighted I’d made it this far with my mini suitcase, carry bag and handbag trailing behind me. At 4.30pm, I bought a hop-on hop-off tourist bus tour ticket, thinking I could fill in my spare 90 minutes or so with a visual crash course of London.

I hoiked up the station stairs with my luggage. To at last see the flashing lights, black cabs and big red buses of “old London town” was thrilling. With difficulty, I managed to find the correct bus stop in the grey drizzle. Despite being one of only two passengers, the live tour guide ascended to her booth on the top of the bus. From there, she commenced her stream of sarcastic commentary about London’s heritage.

By 5pm, I was cold (the bus was breeeeeezey), lost (I tried to use the cartoon style map to orientate myself, but the lack of lights on the bus made that a challenge), anxious (my French mobile refused to cooperate with the English system. I’ve heard that story before…) and highly skeptical about the supposed magic of London (Big Ben was disappointingly small, and as for Marble Arch! I peered through the window at their piddly excuse for an arch. That’s not an arch! That’s just a really nice mantelpiece. I practically live on the Champs Elysees. Come to Paris, we’ll show you how to build an arch… The most interesting thing about the arch was that Queen Victoria didn’t like it so she had it removed. And brick by brick, it was deconstructed and carted away, only to be rebuilt out of her sight. I’m not sure they should have bothered.)

And my bus guide wasn’t exactly sprinkling fairy dust on the experience. “Over here we have the Ritz Hotel. You can go to high tea at the Ritz. Beware it will cost you 40 pounds. Per head. But, that is all the cucumber sandwiches you can stuff in your gob.”
Or this little gem, “Here we are at Hyde Park Corner. It’s not actually called Hyde Park Corner, but people nicknamed it that because it’s on the corner of Hyde Park.”
To be fair, however, her favourite view of London was also one of mine. Looking back at the Houses of Parliament, with their lights reflecting into the Thames, was a wow moment.

My bags and I alighted at Westminster, hoping that the iconic red phone booth on the street would help me get in touch with H, my hostess for Friday night. I opened the door, only to be assaulted by the stench. Oh the STENCH! of urine. Peeing in a phone booth is NOT more polite than peeing in the street! Tentatively, I opened the one next door. Really, it was just as bad but when a girl’s gotta call, a girl’s gotta call. So with my bags balanced on top of the mystery puddle on the concrete floor, I tried to scrounge up forty p. Not enough. What about my credit card? Not compatible. Notes? Not a chance. I shimmied my way out of the stink-booth and stood in the rain to contemplate my next move. I was now cold, lost, anxious, highly skeptical about the magic of London, AND wet and hungry. I descended into the tube station, rustled up some coins and called H. Success! A voice I hadn’t heard in nearly five years, but it was just as warm and familiar. So I tripped of into my Friday evening (ops, not West-bound Petite Nicola, East-bound!), confident it would end better than it began.

Chantal Thomass

Bras, knickers, le string, slips, slippers, stockings...
I just had the most fabulous lingerie shopping experience. I am a big fan of bra shopping, and I have made wearing a correctly fitted bra one of my personal causes. I tell all the women in my life how important it is, and also that lingerie is about you, it's not about 'him'.

To that end, I have been looking forward to Paris lingerie shopping immensely. I have browsed through many of the renown boutiques, such as Chantal Thomass, Aubade, La Perla, Eres, Chantelle, Lejaby and some of the smaller ones too such as Princess Tam-Tam, Simone Perele and Etam. It wasn't until this week, however, that the stars suddenly aligned and I found myself with both the time and inclination, during shopping hours.

My standard shopping haunt...
I started at Printemps (with its late-night Thursday shopping, and its proximity to my house, Printemps is one of my favourite shopping locales). With a spare 20 minutes, I plucked some bras in my size from La Perla (is a 200euro bra really worth it?), Stella McCartney (the colours were so gorgeous I broke my rule of not even bothering with non-lingerie brands. For anyone above a B cup they are normally hopeless), Aubade (their ad campaign, 100 lessons in love, has got to be the world's sexiest). Being within a department store, instead of within the oftentimes impressive but overwhelming individual boutiques, makes me feel at ease and comfortable enough to hoist a quick selection off to the change room. (Which, in the case of Printemps lingerie dept., is a couple of unattended cubicles in the middle of the floor.) I didn't have much time and not wanting to hurry through my first French lingerie purchase, I left a tangled pile of bras and hangers behind me and continued on with my evening.


Le Bonne Marche
The next night I found myself at Le Bonne Marche, another of Paris's exclusive department stores. Unlike Printemps and Galleries Lafayette, however, Le Bonne Marche is not centered around catching the tourist dollar, but the French franc. This makes it a much more satisfying experience. To be in Art Deco surrounds, only French signage, a more compact layout and each area feels like a boutique unto itself, instead of just another section of a department store.

The lingerie change rooms at Le Bonne Marche ("Les Salons") are placed in a circle all facing into a large communal space with settees and warm lighting. Each "cabin" has a telephone, so that you can call for help and get it, no matter what your state of undress. This is on top of the helpful assistant who is manning the reception desk at the entrance to Les Salons.

Success!
I found the mature lady at the Chantal Thomass counter to be unexpectedly helpful. She virtually ignored me when I "made the rounds" and gathered up all the bras that caught my eye (only bras with nice bottoms- I love having sets!) This didn't bother me, however, because I felt free to poke around without being pressured. And yet perfect when I "appelled" her on the telephone for assistance, and she even disappeared into a back storeroom for me!

And thus, a gorgeous (yet substantial- no flimsy lace for my girls) leopard print number is now mine. If you go to her website you may just be able to identify the newest addition to my collection....

La Patisserie des Reves

La Patisserie des Reves is the most recent patisserie that I hunted down. The little pink swirly toothpick is their logo. It is actually a cartoon representation of a religiouse, a particularly renown French speciality made from three balls of choux pastry, with lots of cream and icing also involved. Most patisseries do a fairly basic version, but this comes from La Patisserie des Reves, where only one of each pastry is on display (and I do mean, "on display". As if they are exhibits in an art gallery that displays the sculptures under glass domes.) You tell the madames your choices, and she tells the bakery out the back who arranges them delicately on a foam sheet, inside a watermelon-pink box. These toothpicks are used to help keep each pastry in place. When there the assitant who was folding our box shut noticed that the cream from a religiouse (which, ironically enough, had been deconstructed in the artistic sense of the word and reimagined as a rectangle...) was at risk of being touched by the lid as it tucked in down the side. So instead of just shimming the pastry over a few millimetres, the box was sent back to the baker for rearrangement. I shared a religiouse, a Paris-Brest, and an enormous madeleine with my lunch partner. The religious was marvellous, with the top balls of choux pastry filled with a coffee-cream and topped with crunchy, shiney toffee. Like creme-brulee balls. But the Paris-Brest was definitely my hero. I'll write about her in another post, and I promise to include pictures....

Eat Cake More Often

Here is a random assortment of things in my life that I would like to share with you:

Gloves.

Bought by my mother in Berlin, brought to Australia in her suitcase, given to me upon the eve of my departure, travelled back to Europe in my suitcase, and much admired around Paris.

Felt flower.


Bought at La Droguerie on Rue de Jour. La droguerie is actually a fairly generic term, used to describe anything from a fabric store, to a corner store. In this case, however, it is one of the most amazing spaces I've been in. All woodpanelled and just COVERED in spindles and spindles of ribbons, racks of buttons, drawers of charms, jars of flowers, shelves of material, skeins of wool....This particular flower is an auberginey purple, to be pinned upon my grey winter coat de temps a temps.

Mini-satchel.


I spent my latest Sunday afternoon wandering Montmartre and came across, of all things, a Mexican store. I'm not surprised it drew my eye, I can be somewhat of a butterfly at times and it was COLOURFUL. I have been searching for a toiletry bag, but often the options are naf, not made in a my-shampoo-leaked proof fabric, and have holes at the zip ends. This baby is none of those things, and I'm happy to have her on display and use her all the time (the dust in my apartment is astounding, so bagging things instead of leaving them shelf-side should help protect them.)

Paperbag.


While in Montmartre I also tripped past a favourite bakery and grabbed my first piece of Parisien quiche. I normally eat only the pastryless quiche that I cooked with E, so I had forgotten what a deliciously naughty indulgence it is to have a perfect pastry crust surrounding the rich cream, egg, cheese, bacon filling. This is the bag it came in (I ate it outside in the sunshine to save money) and it says "Eat cake more often." Here, here.

Zebra


Love the colours, the composition, everything about it. It's stuck up in a possie that I see all the time.

In a cloud of chemicals

What else but a hormone induced fug would convince me that it's a good idea to put my face DIRECTLY next to Little J's feverish, snotty, dirty little one? My brain knows that when another person is sick you're supposed to keep your breathing space separate to theirs, not inhale their exhales. My brain says snot smeared cheeks are gross. My brain begs me to put him in bed over there, and me in a room over here. And yet ... from somewhere else, some place that doesn't even have a voice, comes the urge to pick up the distressed little soul who's crying in his cot. To bring him into the darkened lounge room, to lay back on the couch and lay his stomach on mine, and cuddle him close. To snuggle his snuffles at my chin, to kiss his hot clammy forehead, to cradle his head and rub his back. To go cold and tingly laying in the same position, just so that Little J can get some much needed shut-eye.

I have heard that giving birth to children increases the amount of oxytocin floating around in the mother. But I am not his mother, he is not mine. Enter my new theory that cute little defenseless people (otherwise known as "babies" and "children") actually exude chemicals from their very pores. These chemicals convince other, bigger, more capable people (otherwise known as "adults", "nannies" or "suckers") to overcome all their normal self-preservation instincts and take care of the little defenseless ones.

I'm also working on another theory, that says men have managed to bottle this into "L'eau de defenseless", and wear it at random. Some of the above symptoms seem all too familiar....

Coeur de Pirate

Coeur de Pirate, par Comme des Enfants

(Still from the video clip> Click on the link below to watch)

So one of life's advantages when living in Paris is French television, and plenty of it. Much of it is rubbish, but I am a big fan of all the music channels. Living alone it can be nice not only to have the sound babbling away in the background, but also the image. This little ditty has me completely obsessed, and also OUTRAGED that it is not available for purchase in the Australian's itunes store.

What is the point, I ask, of having an international, digital store such as itunes if I, an inhabitant of Paris who happens to have an "Australian" itunes account can't purchase French music comme je voulais?? Are they planning a special release party for the Australian market??? Is it embargoed until Comme des Enfants tour?? Or maybe the next SO Frenchy, SO Chic CD has bought the exclusive Australian rights to it?? It is, in my little Franco-Australian opinion, RIDICULOUS!