Who wouldn’t love an excuse to visit Paris in summertime! This time, for us, it was to have dinner with our Californian friends the Campbells, who were spending a few nights in the city.

As I’ve said before, one of the great things about our 15½ years in Singapore is the friends from all over the world that we made there. Among them are Ellie, Steve and their twins Peyton and Prescott (17), long since returned to live Orange County, southern California. It’s been seven years since we visited them there in 2011.

In just under four hours, the high-speed TGV train whisked us from Montauban station (half an hour from our home port, Moissac, in the south of France) to Gare Montparnasse. From there, we hailed a cab to our three-star hotel Chambellan Morgane at 6 Rue Kepler, close to the Champs Élysées. Ten out of ten to them: they upgraded us to their best room, complete with Nespresso machine, bathtub and separate loo. So civilised!

We were checked in by 2pm, leaving plenty of time for a whizz-around at Zara on the Champs Élysées – less than a ten-minute walk from our hotel. It’s not the best Zara, nowhere near as big and glossy as the one on Boulevard Haussman (here in Paris) and the one in Toulouse – but, true to form, I did find something.

Out on the town with the Campbells

For pre-dinner drinks, Fraser Suites Le Claridge Champs-Élysées, where our friends were staying, suggested the nearby  Au Bureau, a brasserie just across the road at 66 Rue Pierre Charron.

Two Ubers conveyed the six of us to Bistrot de Paris, depuis 1965 (33 Rue de Lille), and I managed to leave my Lumix camera behind in one of them. After a bit of drama – our Uber driver did not speak French, apparently – and considerable huffing, puffing and head-shaking on the part of Roy, we got it back. (A bit of a pity, to be honest, as I would rather have liked a new one.)

Review: Bistro de Paris, depuis 1965

Apart from the food, which was jolly good, our maitre d’ Sebastien was the highlight of the evening. Born in France, he grew up in Detroit, Michigan, before returning to Paris a decade ago – to help support his ageing parents, he says. But he plans to return soon to the US to open a French-style bistro in Atlanta, Georgia, and the Campbells have promised to pay him a visit.

For starters, we had: pâté de foie gras maison on toast; and potato salad with herrings, which you help yourself to from two large bowls. (Go on, said Sebastien – everyone must have some!)

For mains, three of us had the delicious skate wing roasted in butter with capers and croutons; Ellie had the beef filet (which arrived predictably raw – this is France, after all – and had to be sent back), Steve the veal chop, and Peyton the rack of lamb. Chablis all round was perfect, and no one had room for pudding.

Day 2

As if Roy and I don’t spend enough time on rivers and canals, I suggested a cruise on the Seine. The Paris Metro is a quick and easy way to get around , so we bought a couple of two-day, three-zone passes (total €39) and headed for the Vedettes de Paris base, near the Eiffel Tower.  Its one-hour cruises leave every half-hour.

Our noon jaunt on the Trocadero was well worth €15 a head (plus €6 for a coupe of Monopole champagne). She’s only medium-sized, has a totally open upper deck, and was not even half-full – so, perfect for taking all these pictures.

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There’s a useful commentary, too. It lets you know when you’re about to pass under the Lovers’ Bridge, where it’s de rigeur to kiss your loved one. So there we were, kissing shamelessly like the poor people of Paris*.

Just got back from Paris, France, All they do is sing and dance,

All they’ve got there is romance, What a tragedy,

Every boulevard has lovers, Every lover’s in a trance,

The poor people of Paree.

 

I feel sorry for the French, every guy has got a wench,

Every couple’s got a bench, kissing shamelessly,

Night and day they’re making music, while they’re making love in French,

The poor people of Paree.

(Just the first two verses of “The Poor People of Paris”: lyrics adapted by US songwriter Jack Lawrence in 1954 from Edith Piaf’s French hit and taken to Number 1 by Les Baxter & His Orchestra in 1956.)

Lunch was at Le Bistro de la Tour, and predictably average: for Roy, a dry omelette mixte; for me, the salade fromagére, with, to its credit, plenty of chévre, emmental and camembert.

Above: Touristy lunch at Le Bistrot de la Tour

No problem – we were saving ourselves for dinner at Michelin-starred Le Violon d’Ingres, the flagship restaurant of the Maison Constant group. Last year, we’d stumbled upon Christian Constant’s Bistrot Constant while moored for the night at Montech on the Canal de Garonne, not far from Moissac, and had a wonderful meal there. (Click here for my review of Bistro Constant.)  So, we were thrilled when Le Violon came up as a recommendation – again from a friend of our friend Lynn Sadler.

But there was still time for a quick shopping foray to Galeries Lafayette on Boulevard Haussman – Roy’s idea, by the way. But I found nothing. My cupboards on the boat are small, and they’re full, but still I have nothing to wear. That is my burden.

Review: Le Violon d’Ingres, 135 rue St Dominique

It would be hard to say the food wasn’t good, but a few things marred the overall experience. Some minor, like the too-soft butter served with the bread; some less forgiveable, like our bottle of Pouilly Fumé (€57) that the maître d’ served lukewarm and had only chilled down properly by halfway through the main course.

I loved my starter of  fine gelée d’araignée de mer, a chilled concoction of spider crab served in its shell, topped with caviar, and supported by what looked possibly edible but turned out to be rock salt with black specks – oops! I also thought Roy’s ravioles de langoustines (€30) was delicious, until he grumbled that the edges were a bit dry and chewy. He’s right: there’s no excuse.

Roy’s main course of côte de veau was cooked perfectly – properly á point (pink), and I didn’t get more than the veriest nibble of it. With my noix de riz de veau (veal sweetbreads; €52) served on a bed of fried chanterelles and spinach, however, I bit off a bit more than I could chew. It was a generous helping, and its unctuous yellow-wine jus was super-rich.

And if you’ve ever tried the unusual texture of a calf’s thymus gland, you might have noticed that its initially delicate creaminess cools to a less-palatable sort of stickiness – like brains. (When I last had this dish at Lapref restaurant, in Toulouse, with our friends Allie and Digby, it seemed to go down more easily; click here to read that post.)

Most diners go for three courses, but we were stuffed. If I’d had room, I would have gone for the hot Grand Marnier soufflé. It looked just like the fabulous one we had at Bistrot Constant in Montech last year – enormous but feather-light. Anyway, I managed to force down a couple of the petit fours that came with Roy’s coffee and my tisane. Like the amuse bouche (tiny choux puffs and salmon gravadlax on potato), they’re part of the deal.

Here’s another quibble: on this summer evening, the restaurant was simply too hot. Our table, what’s more, was in the warmest section, in the middle, with recessed ceiling spotlights beaming down on us and the air-conditioning failing to do its job. On the bright side, the service from our waitress was lovely; she even managed to slow down her French so we could understand her.

For the record, the bill was around €250.

Next time we’re in Paris, I want to try one or both of Christian Constant’s other eateries – Café Constant and Les Cocottes. They also get rave reviews, they’re in the same street as Le Violon, they’re considerably less expensive, and I’m hoping to recapture something of that Bistrot Constant magic. That said, what’s to stop us taking a drive to Montech one day soon? Hey Roy?

Day 3

With a long day ahead of us, we dawdled in our hotel room until the noon chuck-out time, settled the bill and handed over our two small bags for safekeeping. Roy had rightly marvelled at my managing to visit Paris with just one small roll-on – a first! (And quite possibly a last, too. I had absolutely nothing to wear.)

Breakfast and also lunch was coffee and a baguette from Pauls on the Champs-Élysées, before taking the Metro to Canal Saint Martin.

Then Montmartre beckoned, but when we emerged from the Metro and saw the crowds jostling for space in the afternoon heat, we decided to Just Not Do It. Instead, we had a beer at a café, then another one closer to home at a place that was screening the World Cup match between France and Argentina (won by France 4-3).

The atmosphere was great – and these pictures of us sharing a croque madame (like a croque monsieur, but topped with an egg) were taken by a friendly woman who was the image of Cameron Diaz.

Another Uber took us to Gare Montparnasse for the 6.47pm train to Montauban, which got us there just after 11pm. Happily, the Twingo was still waiting for us in the parking lot.

Paris never disappoints, and I’m already looking forward to another few days there at the end of September.