Bonjour, Paris!
We arrived in Paris by way of bullet train. At speeds of up to 300km per hour, it zipped us beneath the ocean and through the Champagne countryside.
Once aboard the train, the boys paired off with a sister for quality time. One told oral narratives about their sister’s toy dolls going on adventures. The other had downloaded a few Australian children’s episodes and shared his earphones.
Zachary and I reveled in the fruit of their blossoming sibling friendships. When we witness the children’s desire to spend time together on their own accord there’s a swell of satisfaction in my heart. Even with wide age gaps between our bookends they often find common ground. It’s truly a blessing.
The two hour journey was one of those uncanny glimpses into future as a married couple. Like when the house is quiet because everyone is occupied in a book or paired off; deep in play. My husband and I look at each other with intense joviality and melancholy— happy and sad; relieved and grieved. We notice the heaviness of the absence of our young children’s constant attention and usually sit still and contend with those feelings in the moment.
The children were so absorbed in one another I was able to journal and chat with Zachary on end about everything and nothing. Mainly expressing gratitude for his ability to keep us scheduled and on-schedule.
The driver from the train station to the apartment called me “madam” and kindly waited with us until our hosts arrived before bidding adieu. The owners gave us a brief tour of the property. They ensured our safety and comfort before leaving us to the glory of discovering Paris.
The apartment was cozy and totally glamorous. Not at all what I assumed hidden within the old ornate walls of the exterior.
Once inside the big blue doors there was a darling courtyard with potted flowers the girls immediately admired. The stairs were sturdy but clearly made of original wood and looked as old as time. A red carpet runner led up an entire flight to the entryway of a collection of newly renovated apartments.
Eagerly, we dropped our bags and went out to stretch our legs.
Somewhere between half asleep and half in awe, Paris felt like a dream. It did not disappointment and was everything I thought it would be.
The weather in August is delicious. The days are cool and breezy, making wandering the streets aimlessly for hours an enjoyable daily occurrence. Without a plan we marched, hand-in-hand, mouths gapping, into the streets of Paris.
We ate at random cafe’s with velvet couches, lamp light and white table cloths or outdoors at wicker bistro tables.
Our first dinner was a memorable little place near the apartment. I asked the waiter for a traditional beverage to toast our holiday. He brought a tall glass with what looked like a quarter cup of dirty dishwater in the bottom, a single cylindrical ice cube and a long metal spoon. The drink was accompanied with an additional small carafe of purified water.
“We mix the water into the glass and enjoy,” he instructed.
I asked what it was called and he responded, “Pastis.”
Now and forevermore, Paris will taste like Pastis.
Watery upfront but once the liquid passes over the tongue a beautiful anise flavor settles inside the cheeks. The lingering licorice taste lasts long after the liquid has been digested. Almost intensifying before the next sip.
The first few days we did all the sightseeing. The Arch de Triomphe, Louvre, Tuileries Garden and a stroll along the Seine until we reached the quieter side streets of the Eiffel Tower.
The timely discovery of Bar Du Central allowed us a moments rest. Zachary and I caffeinate with espresso. The children split a basket of fries. The brassiere was just what we needed to complete our journey on foot to the base of the Eiffel Tower and let a certain little girl take a power nap on my lap.
Many of the historic areas in Paris were still barricaded from the Olympics. Yet the pace of the city seemed as if it had finally stopped holding its breath and had begun to ease back into the comforting rhythms of life and business before the games. A few restaurants we attempted were even closed for the month to recover.
That evening we dined at Lazare. A Michelin Guide recommendation that proved favorable for our crew. To prepare for our time in France, I had been reading Roy Andries de Groot’s, The Auberge of the Flowering Hearth. In it, the menus are insanely curious.
Inspired by the book, I thought I’d try something new by having three spirits throughout the meal: aperitif, wine, and digestif. With no experience or preference, I closed my eyes and planted an index finger on the Martini Rosso aperitif. When it was delivered to the table an orange wedge swam among the ice cubes in a small pool of amber liquid. It was a delightful start to our feast.
Zachary ordered a plethora of dishes for us to try and share. New flavors like buckwheat risotto, oily cured meats and succulent fatty pork to smear across torn pieces of baguette were all fun and delicious for the children. I sampled the courses with a William Fevre Domaine 2019 Chablis. A contender for white Burgundy, for sure.
I skipped dessert to try Framboise as a digestif. Ina Garten uses it in some of her baking recipes but I have never set my lips to the syrupy yet astringent elixir until now. I wonder if digestifs truly help one digest the feast. It certainly seemed so.