Travelers' Tales Paris (18 page)

My
foie gras
was followed by an enormous portion of
steak tartare
, the most ethereal version I've encountered, if indeed you can apply the term ethereal to a mound of chopped raw beef and in my lexicon you can. An accompanying side dish of
pommes à l'huile and
tiny leaves of
mâche
in a delicate vinaigrette added both virtue and contrast, while a glass of 1990 Pierredon—a very pleasant Bordeaux—fit like the proverbial glove.

Nearly all French eateries, even the lowliest cafés and bars, offer a cheese course and here there was an interesting selection rarely if ever seen in America. A thick slice of Cantal, a tangy hard cheese from Auvergne garnished with white raisins soaked in Sauternes and a final glass of Bordeaux (St. Estephe Beau Site) alongside, brought the extravaganza to a delightful close.

I ate and read with languorous pleasure, recalling musical moments that resonated with Marcus's. Seconds after I came across a reference to “Bette Davis Eyes” by Kim Carnes, the song began to play on the wine bar's radio. The rain stopped, a bit of sun broke through the grey day and I wished the moment could last forever, so complete did life seem there in that tiny dark café.

Following whatever you want to call what I had just done—my indulgence, my feast, my folly—I walked for several hours, not with any particular purpose but simply to absorb through my pores as much of Paris as I could. A well-known destination—the Louvre, say, or the glittering activity of the Champs-Elysées—seemed pointless with such limited time, particularly since my meal had lasted until late in the afternoon. I also knew that I had a hidden agenda—secretly, I was hoping that if I walked enough I might be hungry again before day's end.

After relaxing briefly in my hotel room, I set out again, this time crossing the Seine and thinking I might walk to Notre Dame. But adventures unfolded quickly and among other things, I found myself assisting an old woman across the street. She had been leaning against the traffic signal in the center of the road, unable to go on. An hour later, I had gotten her to the train station and comfortably situated in a wheelchair, with a porter to escort her onto the train to Lourdes and its healing waters, where she would seek relief
from the various afflictions of age. She was from Florida and had made many trips to Europe by herself. As I walked back to the street, I wondered how she made it on her own, if someone like me came to her rescue in other places.

It was now close to 11:00 p.m., and everything was drawing to a close, my day in Paris, my extended European adventures, my energy, and my appetite. I walked purposefully towards my hotel, the sensible thing to do. But across from the Gare de Lyon, seafood restaurants still bustled with the night's lingering customers. Oysters of every sort and size beckoned from mounds of ice. What the hell, I said, and walked in.

Ten minutes later, I was seated at a window table before a towering platter of ice and oysters, a half bottle of a crisp, flinty Sancerre chilling next to me. I ate the oysters ever so slowly and after the first two, closed my book and looked out onto the Parisian streets. The contrast to my earlier meal was significant. Then everything had been so dark and rich, so nearly sexual in its voluptuousness, that each bite filled me with guilty pleasure. Now, it was all lean and bright and spare and I felt myself growing lighter as I lingered over each oyster. I am sure I glowed with contentment.

The streets were crowded and as I watched the couples in love, the old men, the women walking small dogs, a woman caught my eye. She and a friend stopped and surveyed the scene: me in front of my icy tray of oyster shells, with rosy cheeks and a glass of wine in hand. They gave me an enthusiastic nod, a smile, a thumbs-up salute, and as they walked away I felt as if my whole day had just been blessed.

Paris can be many things for lovers, but for me, it will always be the place where my kid sister fell head-over-heels—for chocolate.

Emily was sweet 17 and I, her guide, was a worldly 24 when we arrived that summer in Paris. The first morning in our little hotel near the Luxembourg Gardens, we woke to a rap-rap-rapping and a voice singsonging “
Bonjour
.” Emily opened the door and brought in the breakfast tray that I had ordered the night before: a baguette with fruity jam, strong milky café au lait for me, and for Emily, the drink that would change her life. When she lifted the white china bowl to her lips and took her first sip of that steamy, creamy
chocolat chaud
, she knew that she had found true love.

Emily had tasted hot chocolate before, of course. Even at her tender age, she was well on her way to becoming a confirmed chocoholic. But somehow, in Paris, the chocolate was richer, unexpectedly different, like the gangly boy next door you've known all your life, who suddenly catches your eye and he's become a strikingly handsome man.

Every night, my sister curled up in her bed and talked about her new
amour
, its smells, its look, its feel in her mouth, shivering with anticipation about her next encounter. She bounded out of bed when she heard the morning tap on our door, scooping her bowl off the tray with both hands. She held it up to her nose to let the warm, moist sweetness circle her face. “Ah,” she sighed. “Chocolate....”

I've been back to Paris several times now. I've walked with my husband along the Seine. We've sipped red wine by night and savored buttery croissants as the morning sun peeked across our bed. Emily is grownup now, too, a sophisticated New Yorker with a husband of her own. But I know she still remembers that tender early love. And as the matchmaker who paired her with that special first
amour
, I will always remember Paris as the City of Chocolate.

—Carolyn B. Heller, “The City of Chocolate”

TIM O
'
REILLY

A
FTER VISITING
N
OTRE
D
AME
, I
HEADED ACROSS THE STREET
, nose in a map, driven by a faint memory of a passing mention of a small church “with the best stained glass outside of Chartres.”

Sainte-Chapelle. That must be it, I thought. But where was it? On the map it looked like it was actually in the courtyard of the police headquarters building, the Palais de Justice. And indeed it was. As we approached, it seemed we had to go through metal detectors to get anywhere near.

With my wife and daughters in tow, I walked to the back of a courtyard, rounded the bend and entered a small, low-ceilinged Romanesque chapel. It was quite pretty, but it hardly justified the high praise I'd heard.

Then I noticed that people armed with guidebooks were passing by with hardly a glance at the frescoes and stained glass I was trying to admire. Instead, they were streaming right to a doorway in the back wall of the chapel. There must be more through there, I said to myself.

We squeezed through the narrow doorway and up a circular stone staircase...into Glory.

With the perfect proportions of a Gothic cathedral, but only the size of a vest pocket, Sainte-Chapelle seems somehow to bring into vibrant coexistence the magnificence of those cathedrals and the intimacy of a space meant for more ordinary living.

And the stained glass! Narrow ribs of soaring stone separate band after band of illumination—what seems like more glass than all of Notre Dame in a space one-tenth the size. Colors so exquisite that they seem more real than those we ordinarily know. Shafts of brilliance from every side, as if we'd found our way to the heart of a jewel, to the heart of a dragon's hoard of jewels.

I lay on the floor for a few precious moments, soaking it all in without having to divert even the attention it requires to stand, until the embarrassment of my daughters and the disapproval of the guard reeled me back, a fish torn from what ought to be my natural element, afloat in those seas of light.

Sainte-Chapelle: magical, a labour of love. As I wait for you in the chapel I marvel at how time has left this magical space untouched. The late light streams bright colors through warm air—casting wine reds and luminous yellows on mosaics of royal blue and gold, musical patterns placed with loving, whimsical hands. As we join hands in the nave I'm amazed by the depth of light in your eyes, your face lyrical and surrounded by stained glass of incredible height and detail. Paris: Could we stay here forever? I love you.

—Gina Granados, “Dear Patrick”

HERBERT GOLD