Falling in Love with Paris All Over Again Part Three

(Part Three)

    As promised, TB (The Boy: what I call Scott) was up and out at 08.00 to buy some fresh-out-of-the-oven bread at the boulangerie around the corner on Rue Du Dragon. Two baguettes, less than €3.00.

    We spent the morning quietly reading, doing crosswords, from the English Sunday papers we can buy next door to Les Deux Magots.

    After a baguette lunch at home, we Ubered over to Place Vendôme, where Scott has recently invested in some very nice shirts. Made to order.  Eye-wateringly expensive, but also made to last a lifetime. Charvet.  Apparently, they make King Charles' shirts too.

    The very attractive hostess who greeted us made Scott weak in the knees (!) but he hid it well until we were back in the car.  She took us upstairs by lift to the large room where they keep thousands of bolts of fabric. It made me think of the vast repository of stuff at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, it was so big. We spoke briefly to talk to the guy who measures you.

    TB was there to order some winter weather shirts, but alas if we ordered them today, (they already have his measurements on file) they would not be ready until the end of January. He’ll wait until later next year to consider buying more.

    There’s a food hall closer to home, just off Place St. Sulpice, near the café where we sat after lunch yesterday coming back from the Chartreuse shop.  We returned to that café for our usual ‘coupe’ and vin rouge. The waitress there remembered us (we sat in the same place) and we enjoyed our flâneurie before ambling over to the market.

    I remembered that market from years ago when I used to stay on Place St. Sulpice at the Hôtel Récamier.  It's a proper food hall, much much nicer than the Monoprix. 

    We bought onion, tomato, lettuce, French radishes.  A good start for salads at home. Because it was later in the day, many of the stalls were dark, so we vowed to return earlier next time. TB has his eyes on a yellow chicken to roast for sandwiches at home.

    Right next door to the market is an upscale version of Monoprix, called Epic, short for épicerie, the French term for market. It’s not pronounced with a hard C: ā-piece, with an accent on the second syllable.  Wonderful French cream, cornichons, oh yeah.

    Tonight we dined around the corner again, just past the Chinese/Thai place we ate a few days ago. Blueberry is a cozy, upmarket Japanese restaurant serving excellent sushi, excellent tempura, and an excellent portion of edamame.

    After dinner we head back around the corner to our Café Dragon for one last ‘coupe’ and vin rouge.  Because it’s too cold to sit outside now, we’re just inside the door.  Across from us on the wall is a giant flat screen tv showing sweeping aerial vistas of the Austrian Alps in winter. I thought I recognised the Patscherkofel and the Inn River, ‘though maybe it was Salzburg.  Still dazzling snow and mountains.

    Wednesday morning, Scott was off early to get his hair cut and hands manicured at his new fave place to do that kind of stuff. Yes, he’s turning into a real sartorial specimen.

    While he was away, I found the bouillon we visited last time and plotted a walking course to get there for lunch. Bouillon Racine has another really pretty Art Nouveau interior they have managed to keep well preserved. And we remembered the food was very good. And not breaking the bank.

    I looked at Google Maps and decided confidently that I knew “right where to go.” Some might say I was smug about it.  I left my phone at home, I was so confident.

[buzzer sounding for wrong answer]

    I got it wrong and never heard the end of it.  All the times I’ve harped at TB for his inability to get us to where we want to go, well now I can no longer complain. From now on, whenever I bitch, all he has to do is say one word:  Racine.

    The good news:  lunch was so much better than Lipp!

    Scott had snails to start.  ‘The best ever,’ he announced.

    I had foie gras on a bed of duck carpaccio.  ‘Superb.’

    We both had the daily special of chicken with pommes de terre and sauce forestiere, meaning mushrooms and herbs from the forest.

    It was all divine. Firstly there was no breast, only a moist thigh and drumstick. But it was the sauce, along with perfectly cooked dark meat that made it so tasty.

    We shared a cheese plate: 24-month old Comte, a runny bubbly thing and goats cheese.

    Because our lunch was such a feast, we ‘foraged’ for supper at home. And slept really well.