Romantic Paris by Thirza Vallois ORDER your copy of Romantic Paris today. Secure Server at: https://www.wfi.fr/pay.pl Table of Contents Acknowledgements Preface Introduction  1) Love History of Paris  2) A Fantasy Trip (& Romantic Walks)  3) Romantic Hotels  4) Lover's Restaurants and Salons de Thé  5) Shopping for the Heart & Senses  6) Cosy Museums  7) Sentimental Trails  8) Romantic Nights Epilogue Index ORDER your copy of Romantic Paris today. Travel/Gift Book 5" x 9" – 288 pages color photos ISBN 1-56656-458-1 paperback 34.90 euros including handling and postage INTRODUCTION It was early spring when Michel and I began to spend less and less time in the university library and more and more time at the corner café on rue Bonaparte and rue Jacob in St-Germain-des-Prés (the very Pré-aux-Clercs where Hemingway dined with Hadley back in 1921, as I was to find out many years later). As the weather warmed up, we shifted our headquarters to the quais of the Seine, plying at random either of her banks, day in day out, and well into the lingering twighlight and the night. There were no freeways then, no crowds of sun addicts, just the odd wino or fisherman.... and the two of us, alone in the world. By early May, oblivious to end-of-year exams, we called the Seine our home. It was my first Paris spring, immaculately cloudless and coated with the wonderfully green sheen of fresh untarnished youth: rows and rows of chestnut trees, drooping under the weight of their new pulpy leaves and graced, for a moment, with tapered clusters of pink and white blossoms. The air was filled with the song of birds and with unfamiliar, inebriating scents, and before I knew it my blood quickened and I was head over heels deep into a romance that untimately changed the course of my life and turned me into a Parisian. Things came to a head on the first Saturday of May, when we raced up the Eiffel Tower for the fun of a bet, followed by the bliss of a midnight kiss at the western tip of the Ile St Louis, across the water from Notre Dame. We whiled away the entire spring by the river, carefree and happy, engrossed in each other, indifferent to the hordes of American tourists who, drifting past us aboard a fleet of bateaux mouches, intruded upon our privacy through their camera lenses. We must have cut an exotic figure back home, when our photos were shared with their friends and relatives. Some may have even reproved (and secretly envied) us, the shameless hedonistic citizens of a modern-day Babylon. Some thirty years later, my late American and French-born friend Guy was visiting Paris. It was a crisp December night and we too walked along the Seine, wandering about from bank to bank. Paris was no news to Guy, yet he marvelled like a young first-timer at the bewitching reflection of the floodlit monuments in the grey wintry water and the curved silhouette of the stark leafless trees that lined the quais. All of a sudden he turned to me and exlaimed, "Paris is the most romantic city in the world! There is just no question about it. What is it about Paris that does it?" After years of observation and exploration I still have no answer for Guy. Yet people are always asking me this question, in every television or radio interview and in every piece I am commissioned to write, always with that embarrassed half-smile of the self-confessed rascal caught red-handed, always with that unmistakable twinkle of excitement and desire. Nobody escapes it. Everyone wants a share of the dream. For nearly one hundred years now, Hollywood has astutely (perhaps maliciously) kept alive. I was the first to be fooled in my silly teenage years, when, carrying some vague recollections of Funny Face, I braved the Latin Quarter in a bulky black jersey as a prelude to falling in love with a Left Bank intellectual. Audrey Hepburn would end up in the fashion houses of the Right Bank, and in the arms of Gary Cooper at the Ritz, in some other life. I, of course, didn't - and wouldn't for the life of me have deigned to: as a worldly Sorbonne student my Paris was clearly marked on the Left Bank, the only one conceivable. And I could think of no better place for a home than a tiny cosy garret huddled up against a Parisian sky. Hollywood avoided mentioning the shivering cold winters and stifling hot summers under those picturesque tin roofs, when delivering their papier-mâché sets for the tap dance of some charismatic American. Nor was I forewarned that those cupboard-size chambres de bonne had no running water. And, of course, I was so uplifted by Rodolfo and Mimi's love duet that I overlooked the fact that it was in one of the leprous garrets of St-Germain-des-Prés that TB-ridden Mimi had given up her ghost. They had barely been upgraded when I was a student. I have known others like me to have risen to the bait - the charming student who flew his unsuspecting girlfriend all the way from San Francisco in order to propose to her at the foot of the Sacre Coeur upon break of day; the nightly coachloads of lecherous old men who file into the lewd dives of Pigalle; the sedate retirees strolling hand-in-hand down memory lane; the millions of ordinary couples looking for some glitter for the celebration of a special occasion, the millions of vaguely hopeful singles, and the many infamous sinners in search of illicit adventures. Lovers and potential lovers the world over come to Paris with their store of anticipation and fantasies. For decades I tried to figure out why Paris is shrouded in such mystique. Granted, walks at night along the Seine are enchanting, but that alone cannot explain why the very mention of Paris had always conjured up tales of romance, well before it was blessed with gas or electricity, well before its exquisitely lit street-corners were replicated the world over in black-and-white print. After all, medieval Paris was a dark den of filth, reeking with nauseous stench, and the two sinister prison fortresses which jutted out of its skyline could hardly be conducive to romance. Not to mention the 32 rotting corpses dangling in the offing when the royal gallows were used to full capacity. Yet the myth has been perpetuated for a good thousand years. Although occasionally there is the odd disappointed visitor, most cling to their image of Paris; if necessary they mishandle the truth for its sake, and understandably so - who cares to be reminded that everyday Paris can be blatantly unromantic, grumpy, tight-lipped and dour, filled with nerve-racking drivers, smeared with graffiti and explosive with social unrest, a far cry from the red-and-white checkered tablecloths and dainty white aprons that welcomed us to the Café de Paris in Medora, North Dakota, where Michel and I, the incarnation of the Parisian couple, were given the royal treatment by the sheriff. Contrary to the myth, French men rank far behind their Anglo-Saxon counterparts as far as sexual activites go, at least so we are told by a recent poll. Even worse, it seems that Parisian men have lost the knack of seduction. A new school has opened in Paris on their behalf, l'Ecole de Séduction, which offers training to improve their skills. The London papers, which never miss an opportunity to bring the French down a peg or two, were quick to report this piece of news. Yet in the face of all those waiting to dethrone it, Paris remains the mystifying city of love. I racked my brains, I dug into the past, I travelled into my own psyche, looking for an answer, but I came back empty-handed. There simply is no answer. There lies the beauty of the enigma. Paris is poetry, Paris is mystery, Paris is beauty - an exasperating decoy which never quite delivers, all the more compelling for her imperfection, the archetypal reservoir of all our passions. We come to Paris as to a stage on which to enact an episode of our love life, but before we know it we are caught under her spell and find out, to our astonishment, that it is Paris herself that has got under our skin, the one love that has no rival and that even time will never erode. It was when I realised that Paris was my one source of inspiration, the object, in turn, of both my celebration and desecration, that I understood that Paris herself is a tale of passion, full of turmoil and fury and dazzling charm, the very essence of romance. I stopped questioning, and awed by the mystery, I succumbed. 1) LOVE HISTORY OF PARIS Paris emerged out of the water of the Seine like some Venus rising out of the waves of the sea. And it was Venus's protégé, Paris, the dashing young son of King Priam of Troy, who founded the city and bequeathed to it his name, a task equal to this exemplary lover who had set ablaze the ancient world, all for the love of Helen the Fair. You may have read elsewhere that Paris was named after the Parisii Celts who settled on its little island in the third century BC, but this is only the historical version of the tale. In truth, Helen's lover came here first. It all started when, presiding over a beauty contest between Juno, Minerva, and Venus, his vote went to the Goddess of Love, to whom he also offered the Golden Apple of Discord as a prize. In return, the enchanted goddess offered him her protection and incited him to seduce Helen, the most beautiful woman of his time - but also a married woman, alas! - the wife of King Menelaus. The Trojan War and the ultimate fall of Troy were the disastrous outcome of Venus's terrible blunder. By some good fortune, however, Paris was unharmed by the fiasco he had provoked and, having made a successful escape, ended somehow sailing down the Seine and landing on the future Ile de la Cité, where he founded the new city. Some pedants may object that Paris had died in Troy, as reported in Homer's Iliad; others may argue that in French his name carries a little circumflex, which the city doesn't... But I for the life of me cannot think of a more suitable pedigree for the city of romance. Before long a city of splendour covered the little island, a match to its ravishing godmother Venus, though not necessarily a place of amorous bliss. As you embark on a 1000-year flight over the love map of Paris, dear pilgrim, be forewarned: the map is crumpled in despair and drenched in tears of many a thwarted love. Even in the world's most romantic city, Venus always seems to bungle things! By the fateful year of 1118 a multitude of church steeples pierced the little island's sky - an exquisite site. The cathedral of Notre Dame was in poor repair, soon to be levelled and replaced by a glorious Gothic monument which would take nearly two hundred years to complete. Thirty-seven enlightened canons served this house of God, each allotted a neat dwelling where he lived a serenely, waiting to be called back to God. It was in one of these dwellings, with its lovely grounds extending north down to the river, that the most famous love story of medieval France was enacted. And this time the tale is no fiction. Here Canon Fulbert took in his 17-year-old niece, Héloïse, so that she could benefit from the excellent education provided by the school of Notre Dame. The appointed tutor was 39-year-old Pierre Abélard, the greatest scholar of his generation, whose reputation drew students to the Latin Quarter from all over Europe. He was also an accomplished poet and musician. In other words, Pierre was irresistible. Before long, Héloïse had to be sent back to Britanny to have her child away from the public eye. Her vengeful uncle, not content to keep the lovers apart, had Pierre captured and castrated, thus thwarting definitively their earthly love. Compassionate death, however, united them once more, as it often does for true lovers. For nearly 1,000 years now they have been resting next to each other, more often than not sharing the same tomb. When Héloïse died at age 63, her body was placed in his coffin, where they remained for over 300 years. But in 1497, some prudish nun, upset by such indecency, had them placed in two separate tombs. In 1792, more progressive authorities thought the better of it and united them again in one coffin, but with a leaden partition between them.... In this coffin, the celebrated lovers were translated to the Musée des Monuments Français, where they were honoured with a neo-gothic monument designed especially for them. In the early years of the 19th century, when the new Père Lachaise cemetery was trying to lure upper-crust tenants from western Paris to its huge grounds lying on the unappetising, eastern edge of the city, someone came up with the brilliant idea of transferring the prestigious couple and their monument to Père Lachaise as a publicity stunt, and sure enough it did the trick. Everyone began buying plots at the new cemetery, which explains why the medieval pair now rests among the smug bourgeoisie of 19th-century Paris. 3) ROMANTIC HOTELS L'Hôtel 13, rue des Beaux Arts, 75006 Tel (0)1 44 41 99 00 Fax (0)1 43 25 64 81 Price: Euro 236 to 260 (low season), 595 to 686 (high season) On the night of November 29 1900, Oscar Wilde died almost anonymously in this hotel aged 46. It was a tragic ending, after the two-year ordeal in jail that destroyed his health. His wit, however, remained unimpaired to the end, as reflected by his last comment: "I am dying beyond my means". This note, along with an unpaid bill for Fr 2643.40, now hangs on the wall in his room no 23. Only Robin Ross, his devoted old friend, and "Bosie" Douglas, his demon, attended his funeral and followed his hearse to the Père Lachaise, alongside a handful of the hotel staff who left the note "To our tenant" on the wax bead wreath. In 1984, another famous guest at the Hôtel, the Argentinian Jorges Luis Borges, left the following written homage: "This hotel ... where one can't find two identical rooms. It seems to have been sculpted by a cabinet-maker." Jean-Paul Besnard, the present owner of l'Hôtel, took the "sculpture" one step further. For many years, he had dreamt of owning a hotel in his beloved Saint-Germain-des-Prés neighbourhood. Thanks to serendipitous timing, this one was put on sale by Monsieur Dubucheron when Besnard was ready to buy it and lavish on it his boundless passion and imagination. As far as romance goes, it has few rivals. It starts at the reception with the Venus/Cupid emblem. Or rather it starts way back four centuries ago when, legend has it, Queen Margot had a love nest on this site. Today each of the twenty rooms feels like a love nest, whatever its style, whatever its size. They are so eclectic that you'll have to come back many times and try them all out. Nothing could be further apart than the voluptuous opulence of a 19th-century boudoir that is Room no 54, and the fresh Art Deco Room no 36. The sunny, soft orange hue of the walls and the mirror-covered furniture that once belonged to the celebrated singer Mistinguett make this room a stunning period-piece. If you want a spectacular view and a fantastic terrace all for yourselves, book Room 62, la Cardinale. The old roofs of Paris and the belltower of Saint Germain will be your backdrop. The public areas are just as eclectic and include a lobby filled with Jean Cocteau paintings, a cosy library and a wonderful restaurant, Le Bélier. Downstairs, under a romantic vault, you may relax in the smoking room or luxuriate in the jacuzzi or sauna in the fitness club. The well, it is rumoured, was used as a fridge by Queen Margot and her companions when they repaired to this hideaway. With so much going for the Hôtel, you will not be surprised to find out that it was favoured by the grand and the mighty. Ava Gardner, Marcello Mastroianni, Roman Polanski, Roberto de Niro, and Claudia Cardinale are among those who stayed here. La Louisiane 60, rue de Seine, 75006 Tel (01) 44 32 17 17 Fax (01) 44 32 17 18 E-mail hotel@lalouisiane.net Price: Euro 100 to 124 (no 10); 67 (no 80) This historic landmark drips with romantic associations from the heyday of post-war St Germain when the likes of Simone de Beauvoir, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Juliette Gréco could be seen filing in and out of here. Furthermore, resisting the swell of the tide, it still holds on to the very reasonable prices of yore. Add to it a great location in the midst of the bustling market stalls of rue de Seine, and the shops along rue de Buci, and you are in for a real treat. You will get a smashing view of this colourful street scene from several of the rooms, among them oval-shaped Room 10, once occupied by Miles Davis. And if you are a lover of Paris here on your own, try the tiny Room 80, barely an arm's stretch from the city's old roof tops. Who says singles should not be entitled to a romantic stay in Paris? Hôtel Duc de Saint Simon 14, rue de Saint-Simon, 75007 Tel (0)1 44 39 20 20 Fax (0)1 45 48 68 25 Price: Euro 194 to 313 If I had to pick out one hotel at gunpoint, this would probably be the one. Welcome to the once-upon-a-time world of the Faubourg Saint Germain. As you cross the porch and step into the cobble, wisteria-filled courtyard (in heavenly bloom in late April into May), you can almost hear the sound of hoofs, as imaginary guests alight for dinner, straight out of the pages of a Proust or a Henry James. Inside feels much the same, as the layout of a private home has been preserved, with its cosy corners and lovely antiques. The rooms, which come in different shapes and sizes, and the bathrooms, with their attractive Salerno tiles, are all beautiful. Truly a smashing place. Perfection of impeccable refinement and old-world charm. 4) RESTAURANTS Etchegorry 41, rue Croulebarbe 75013 Paris tel 01 44 08 83 51 Open daily except Sunday, Monday Price (à la carte) - Euro 46; (set menus) - Euros 29; Euros 36 (inclusive of half a bottle of wine) This delightful inn, which feels as if it's hidden blissfully somewhere beyond the confines of Paris, is in fact but a mere few minutes' ride from the Latin Quarter, just behind the Gobelin workshops. The picturesque name of the street ("crumbling beard"), commemorates the Croulebarbe family, who owned extensive lands and a windmill here, at least as far back as 1214, In the 19th century, when this was Madame Grégoire's cabaret, the likes of Victor Hugo and Chateaubriand made it their Sunday destination. It was a place of merry making and songs washed down by wine, as confirmed by the famous chansonnier, Béranger. The rustic two-story house still looks exactly as it did then, though it no longer looks out on the river Bièvre, but on a lovely garden, the Square René-le-Gall, worthy of a stroll in its own right. Today the place gets filled with a genuine French word-of-mouth clientele who know a good place for food and atmosphere. Monsieur Laborde's jovial southwestern lilt is another reassuring ingredient, not to mention the wonderful display of desserts, which will whet your appetite as soon as you step in. The downstairs is more bustling and atmospheric for a cosy winter dinner. In summer I would go for a table by one of the flowery windows upstairs, looking out on the garden. Make sure to reserve your table well in advance. The establishment specialises in southwestern cuisine, among the best on the gastronomic map of France. It is traditional, rich and served in lavish quantities, so don't order too much. Celebrate first with a Pousse Rapière, a divine combination of Armagnac liqueur and Blanc de Blanc, to be followed by an exquisite, mellow white Jurançon to go with your starters. The Etchegorry salad, with its subtle foie gras and succulent melon, is a light way to start, as this is going to be a big meal. A piperade is a typical Basque speciality of tomatoes, peppers and eggs beaten into an omlette, but I would go for their escalope de foie gras aux raisins, served warm, which is simply divine. In winter, the cassoulet aux haricots blancs tarbais is a great heartwarming dish, prepared the way they do it in the Pyrénées town of Tarbes. The desserts are mouthwatering - great chocolate concoctions such as l'assiette du chocolatier, or the palets en chocolat à la nougatine glacée which come with fabulous Italian meringue, les truffes glacées au chocolat et le fondant au chocolat (ice chocolate truffles with chocolate sauce). A traditional pruneaux et poires braisés au Madiran, prunes and pears braised in a heady Madiran wine from the area of Pau, goes down very well in winter. If you wish for something lighter, I recommend the day's assortment of sorbets, tuiles dentelles au sorbet du jour, a gentler conclusion to a copious meal. Le Paprika 28 avenue de Trudaine, 75009 tel 01 44 63 02 91 Open Tuesday to Saturday; Monday lunch only. Closed in August Price: (à la carte) Euros 38 - 46, inclusive of wine; (set menus without wine) - Euros 20, 23, 27, 38 The address in itself attracted my attention, for this is one of my favourite neighbourhoods. Somehow it has managed to travel through the modern age unspoilt, carrying with it more artistic memories and cultural heritage than any other. This is the 19th-century Paris par excellence, blessedly overlooked by tourists, and, more surprisingly, even by most Parisians. If you are looking for authenticity you can walk here blindfolded. It was pouring when we arrived, and we wondered if we should have stayed home. But as soon as the restaurant door opened, and we heard the passionate glissandos of the violin, we knew we were in for a cosy treat. Here timeless Budapest meets timeless Paris. Madame Rollet is in the kitchen, concocting savoury Hungarian dishes - stuffed cabbage, Hortobágyi Palacsinta, crêpes stuffed with chopped paprika veal and cream sauce and, obviously, a delicious goulash, or a heavenly píritott Libamáj, a foie gras steak served with noodles. Monsieur Rollet is in the dining area, taking care of all the details, which, naturally, include the wine. Ours was an excellent Hungarian Tokaji, amazingly reasonably priced, as was the food. And all the while, the superb violinist held his audience captive. Ask to be seated in the back room, where you get a full view of him and his two fellow musicians, at the cybalum and at the bass. This was one of the happiest nights I have enjoyed in a Parisian restaurant. Forget about being uptight here. Just loosen up and allow your Central European soul to overflow as you finish the evening with a copious helping of apple strudel and a glass of barack pálinka, abricot brandy. Au Vieux Paris 24, rue Chanoinesse, 75004 01 40 46 06 81/05 65 72 78 87=aveyron Open daily, except Sundays in August Price: an average meal - Euros 50 Lunch menu - Euros 30 (inclusive of house wine) Dinner menu - Euros 50 (inclusive of house wine) Special menu ("saveurs d'Odette") - 50 (exclusive of wine). Average price of wine - Euros 20 Excellent regional house wine - Euros 10 Tonight you are headed for Ile de la Cité, the heart of Paris where it all began. The ghosts of Héloïse and Abélard linger round the corner and the ringing bells of Notre Dame conjure up visions of a pining Quasimodo and a wild Esmeralda. This is Paris at its most romantic, the one Victor Hugo flamboyantly embroidered. Be thankful that historical events put an end to Baron Haussmann's career before he had time to wipe out the last remaining old streets north of Notre Dame, a deserted haven where silence prevails. Au Vieux Paris is located in one of the island's two oldest houses, dated the early 16th century. The millions of tourists who cram into the cathedral square or gardens every year rarely venture here; those who do, have heard of it by word of mouth. The enchantment starts outside, at the pretty sight of the venerable, rustic house, framed by flowers and drowning in greenery. If you visit in spring, the purple blossoms of the blooming wisteria drape down the wall. But you may find it even more special in winter, when after dark, the old, silent stones shimmer in soft light. Inside it feels deliciously snug, with all those glowing lights and the gleaming dark wood of the bare tables. The upstairs, all draped in crimson, feels like the private dining hall of a manor house. Book Table 106 to have the belltowers of Notre Dame perfectly centred in your window. And now, passons aux choses sérieuses - let us proceed to serious matters, as the French will say when referring to the business of food. Your hosts are a charming couple from the Aveyron, a glorious, unspoilt area in the southwest of the Massif Central, an area still dotted with medieval castles and bathing in sunshine and hospitality. The lord of the manor, Georges de la Rochebrochart is in the dining area, where he and the other staff make you feel at home right away, inviting you to climb down to the "family" cellar and pick your own wine, the way it's done at home. Don't feel intimidated, as they will be there to help if you are at a loss. Odette is in the kitchen, which means - alas! - you will be deprived of her smile and delightful accent. Her lovingly prepared homeland savouries will make up for it, though. She uses the best produce, picked directly from friends' farms back home. If you are adventurous and want to discover new regional specialities, go for her saveurs d'Odette, which will enable you to sample a bit of everything in smaller quantities. We first had a kir of champagne and wild berries, which came with a wonderful pancake, made of seven different green vegetables and as light as a feather. Only severe self-discipline made me hold back, in view of what was yet to come. Next I had a lamb-lettuce salad, layered with carpaccio de foie gras, and prettily decorated with red grains of pepper. My partner started with a tomato soup with basil and claimed enthusiastically it was the best imaginable. A coufidou followed, an Aveyronnaise version of boeuf bourguinon, which gets macerated in Marcillarc red wine for eight days before being cooked on a low flame for an entire day. The cow comes directly from a farm in Aubrac and the meat melted in our mouths. If you prefer fish, their scallops (not available in summer) are stuffed in all simplicity with parsley and garlic and are deliciously fresh. They also serve two different fish daily, in white Chablis. The sweets were on a par with the rest - Odette's crème brûlée delights as soon as your spoon slides into it for your first mouthful, not to mention the repeated delight each time its aftertaste lingers on your palate. The warm chocolate cake is just as tantalisingly good: It is doused in a Brillet Poire William, a blend of pear and cognac which goes back to the 17th century. But if you can't make up your mind, which is always my agonising dilemma, go for the farandole, an assortment of four different desserts. Mine consisted of fresh fruit salad, cream cheese with berry jam, an apple tart and a warm chocolate dessert, nothing fancy but all homemade by the expert Odette. She couldn't have made me happier. As soon as I got home I phoned several of my friends to tell them to rush to Au Vieux Paris and within a week I was back with a new set of visitors. 5) SHOPPING FOR THE HEART AND FOR THE SENSES The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. (Oscar Wilde) I can think of few places where temptation flaunts itself as shamelessly as in Paris. I am the last person to push consumerism and in fact believe you can skip shopping altogether and enjoy strolling hand-in-hand elsewhere instead. If, though, you can appreciate beauty without acquiring it (what you do in museums, after all), or if you can afford to spend at least a little, then this chapter is definitely for you. If you are among the privileged few who can actually splurge, then this chapter is a must. I have been ruthlessly selective in drawing up my list of shops, reducing it to those alone, among my very favourites, that reflect Paris's spirit of romance. Some are veritable treasure troves or unusual places, born from a love affair between owner and shop. Don't shy away from the expensive ones: those are where I often unearth affordable gems, tucked discreetly among more costly goods. All it requires is a stroke of luck and patience. Take your time to look around and strike a conversation with the shop owner or assistant. Unless they are busy, they will be delighted to talk and will become increasingly helpful as friendship develops. Remember, this is not a hurried shopping expedition, but a pleasure. For your convenience, the shops appear within the alphabetically-listed categories, and in alphabetical order within each category in the book. Also I provide an outline of the main shopping streets in central Paris, if you just wish to wander. First published in November 2002

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