On Monday night I ended up having dinner at a rustic little restaurant called Les Bougresses. It’s basically across the street from the hotel that I stayed at in the 4th arrondissement the last 2 trips, yet I never recall it being there. The place was small, but warm, with one waiter who greeted everyone as they walked through the door. He hung up my coat and scarf, as well as putting my umbrella in a safe place. He spoke to me mainly in French; must be because he knew I could understand basic French, as long as it’s spoken slowly! I looked at the prix fixe menu for 24E. My only question was what the entree du moment was. He explained that it was snails, which I decided to pass on. My choices were soupe a l’oignan, ravioles du royan and creme brulee, with a small bottle of San Pellegrino and a couple glasses of their house red wine (some Costieres de Nimes). The food was good, but the service was excellent. The waiter was one of those guys with a shaved head and tattoos, but he was animated and friendly with everyone. When I arrived for dinner, there were 4 other tables being attended to. By the time I left, there were an additional 4 tables, with only him taking care of everyone. Upon leaving, I grabbed my scarf and attempted to get my coat. Unfortunately, it was hung up a bit too high for me; that’s the problem with being short! The waiter noticed right away and kept telling me “No! No! I will get it for you!” He wrapped me up in my coat and scarf, then sent me on my way.
In the midst of dinner, it had begun to snow. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that cold, though. Rather than take the Metro, I relished my walk back to the 3rd arrondissement. The streets were nearly deserted, so it was almost like having the entire city to myself.
On Tuesday when I awoke, I checked out my window immediately. Yes, there was snow on the ground and it was still snowing. In fact, it ended up snowing all day and all night. I really didn’t mind, though. I barricaded myself against the cold with my wool coat, scarf, leather gloves and Sam Edelman “mukluks,” which were perfect for the snow. My Parisian umbrella (bought in New Orleans) kept the snow flurries from my eyes. The only thing I lacked was a hat. And to think, I have about 30 hats in San Francisco, but neglected to bring a single one!
My original plans for yesterday were to go to Versailles. Once the snow commenced, plans changed. I contacted my ex-roommate, Franck, to see if he was available that afternoon, which he was. In the morning, I contented myself by doing a little window shopping (or “faire du leche vitrine,” as the French call it). As I was peering through the window of a shirt shop, the proprietor opened the door (she was just opening for the day) and invited me in, saying something to the effect that it was much nicer inside than outside. I walked inside and was amazed at the beautiful shirts they had for men, women and children. Years ago in Italy, I remember buying a beautiful blue shirt for Laurent that had contrasting fabric with a pattern on both the outside of the cuffs and the neck. Most of the shirts in this store were the opposite. They had hundreds of choices of bright (and more subtle) fabrics with contrasting fabric on the INSIDE of the cuffs and INSIDE of the neck/collar. Even though the woman spoke less English than I spoke French, she was incredibly kind, letting me look and look and look, change my mind over and over, and try on at least 4 shirts. Luckily, several were on sale because they were the “fin de serie.” They still weren’t exactly cheap, but they’re truly beautiful shirts. Obvously, I gave her a great first sale of the day!
After dropping off my purchases back at the apartment, I headed off to Buttes Chaumont to see Franck. It was a comedy of errors of sorts. Once I exited the Metro, I was immediately on the right street. In my old age, my memory seems to fail me. I couldn’t remember if he’d said the address was 40 or 50. I tried to look up the message he’d sent me via Facebook on my cell phone, but it wouldn’t come up. I decided to go with 40. It seems that many French apartment buildings do NOT have names and apartment numbers at the front door, nor do they have a general intercom. I saw merely a keypad. While my nose was pressed up against the glass trying to get a better view of the lobby, a woman was getting ready to leave the building. She let me in the building, saying that it was too cold for me to be outside. Inside the lobby, I went to the names, but didn’t see his name listed. Around that time, my cell phone began to ring. Of course, I couldn’t answer it in time. I recognized the number as Franck’s, though, and tried to call it back. Someone had already explained to me that there were 3 possible ways to dial inside France from an outside phone – with the 011, with 00 but NO 0 before the 6, or with 06. My call to him finally went through by dialing the 06. Luckily, he answered and asked where I was. I explained that I was in the lobby of 40, but he said that he lived at 50! As I ran down the block to his building, he gave me the code to get into the lobby. I entered his building and took the elevator to the 8th floor.
Franck lives in a beautiful condo with a spectacular view of Buttes Chaumont from his living room window. He asked me if I’d ever been to that park before. I hadn’t, but had always been told what a beautiful park it is. The view in the winter was quite nice, so I can only imagine how gorgeous it is in spring and summer. We spent a couple of hours catching up on our lives, then agreed to meet later that night. I was going to see the comedy “How To Become Parisian In An Hour” by Olivier Giraud at the Theatres de Nouvetes on Boulevard Poissonier at 7:00 p.m. Franck said he would meet me outside the theater at 8:15 p.m., then we’d have dinner somewhere.
The theater was easy to find. The place was full for the 7:00 p.m. show, although they started at least 10 minutes late. Olivier Giraud is a Frenchman who lived in Miami for several years. His comedic experience is about the cultural differences between Parisians and the rest of the world! It was quite amusing and had a bit of audience participation, but I didn’t find it laugh-out-loud funny. Even so, I really liked his personality. Obviously, the show ran longer than 8:00 p.m., beings it started late. Then they ushered everyone out the back door rather than the front of the theater. That took awhile as well because several people were having their picture taken with Monsieur Giraud. I looked for Franck at the back of the theater, then went around to the front. I called him a few times, but the calls went to his voice mail. After waiting about 20 minutes, during which time it continued to snow, I decided go ahead and find something to eat. My cell phone was on the entire time, but it never rang once or indicated that there were any messages. Damn Verizon and their international calling!
Dinner was around the corner at a place called Chartier, which had been recommended by someone else. The restaurant had beautiful old school-type decor, was cheap and was very, very busy. They seat you wherever there’s room. I was seated at a table for 4 with 2 Frenchmen. While the 3 of us were eating, another Frenchman was seated with us. The other man ate quickly and left. I simply ate vegetable soup and spaghetti Bolognese. The waiter asked if I wanted dessert. They were out of the two things I was considering, so he suggested the coupe de marron. I didn’t care for it, though. The waiter noticed right away and suggested that I try something else at no charge. I asked the other 2 Frenchmen what they were having. They were having vanilla ice cream on a choux pastry drizzled with chocolate. I ordered the same; it was so much better than the coupe de marron! Since I was drinking a small bottle of Cotes du Rhone, I offered some to both of them. One accepted, but the other didn’t drink. They offered to buy some tea for me, but I’d already had far too many liquids, so politely declined. My concensus of the food at Chartier is that everything was ok; nothing stood out. The service was quick and friendly, though.
