A weekend of moveable feasts…

Next to me was Kim Carnes’ goddaughter. She wasn’t called Bette and her eyes, though perfectly nice, seemed normal enough. We didn’t exchange our names, just almost every other biographical detail, as she and her husband were from California and avoiding conversation with Californians while sitting so close is impossible. We were in Paris, where intimacy in restaurants is de rigueur. And cramming diners in like sardines is just tres economique, mon cher.

This was Atelier Rouliere, slightly off the St Germain mainstream for Americans. To be fair, it was mostly French folk dealing with the meat-heavy menu; the scent of invisible Gauloise was in the air. Atelier was recommended by my gastronomic sister, resident in Strasbourg for decades, and I’d booked a table months previously for the first night of my 70th birthday trip to the City of Lights. Then had to cancel earlier that evening due to a fellow Eurostar passenger’s heart attack, treated by my personal medical accompanist, two firemen, three Eurostar staff, my GTN spray, soluble aspirin and eventually two paramedics. Such is life, travelling with Doc Suzy.

Anyway, much later I threw myself on the head waiter’s mercy and he squeezed us in next to Kimsgöttdottir, who was charming and informative: we had to try the bone marrow. Two enormous pieces of calcified shin arrived, the unguent hot goo contained therein like jellied Bovril. We were so hungry we slurped it down with predictably great bread and a lovely Crozes Hermitages

Kimsgöttdottir and husband were doing Europe. London next, then Rome, then Milan. Did I like the Grateful Dead? I did not. Never mind, what about Coldplay? First album only, I began to explain, Parachutes, and it was all down from there, but they were leaving, to eat more Paris. We continued consuming cow – entrecôte for the Doc, Boeuf Bourguignon for me, both superb. I worried about my cholesterol. “It’s pure fat! It’s good for cholesterol” shouted Kimsgöttdottir from the door. I love a bit of Californian reassurance in the wake of someone else’s cardiac alarm. What happened to him? Eurostar gave Doc Suzy a bottle of champagne. Imagine what an American would have charged…

If you go on TikTok or Instagram, you’ll find dozens of Americans-in-Paris influencers telling you how to eat well and avoid the tourist traps. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Woody Allen and whoever Emily is have a lot to answer for. But the whole of Paris is a tourist trap. It’s even more of a theme park than Edinburgh, and as a tourist, you might as well embrace and enjoy. Face it, for a start all the boulangeries and patisseries are great. They’re state regulated. And listen, Les Deux Magots, Café Louise and Brasserie Lipp may be obvious St Germain joints, but they deliver history, great drinks, brilliantly method-acted service and good food with reliable gustation, if expensively. Once was enough, however for me, as far as the famous Lipp choucroute was concerned. At least I came out ahead of the tete de veau. We missed Brasserie Bofinger for the Alan Furst/Night Soldiers experience, though apparently the staff hate being asked for the bullet-ridden table 14. Also check your addition for unexpected additions: in Paris the sum also rises.

Americans, mostly of the charming variety,  were everywhere. Courteously offering extra space at Café Louise, occupying most of our exquisitely camp hotel, L’Academie St Germain, grateful for advice on coffee etiquette, giving it steak frites for six at Lipp, queuing uncomplaining at newly-golden Notre Dame and awe struck like everyone else at Musée d’Orsay. The dread name of The Golf Cheat of Tong never came up though it was clear these were (nearly) all very nice Americans. MAGA don’t go for no escargots. One woman shook her head as we skirted the subject over pain au chocolat. “This will pass” she said. “Life goes on. Then you can come visit.” But not yet.

Meanwhile, everyone in Paris, from taxi drivers to hassled waiters, was kind to us – in contrast to previous visits when that legendary in-Seine rudeness seemed omnipresent. The advantage of white-bearded age, perhaps or just the realisation that residents have to match up to the Disneyterre version of this city. Just as there is clearly a dress code for St Germain. Even the dogs are chic.

Only once did old school Gallic surliness erupt, and not to us but my brother-in-law, who is a debonair, fluent Francophile and indeed French citizen by way of Kilmarnock. We met Stan and my sister for breakfast at Hemingway hangout Le Pré aux Clercs on Rue Bonaparte, where an innocent and fully French enquiry about ordering at the bar was met with the dismissive riposte “Monsieur, ce n’est pas McDonalds.” Sacre Bleu! He shrugged so much he nearly slipped his galluses ! The real Paris at last. My old French teacher, Mr Hodgkinson, who would beat tenses into you with the edge of a ruler while shouting “filth! Filth!” came to mind. Gradually, the café began to fill up with Americans.

We arrived in the glorious dark, left in the morning light, Paris growing progressively scruffier as we approached the somewhat mockit Gare du Nord. There we bought macarons in a tin box for the price of a small motorcycle. Soon we were in London. It was full of Americans too. I couldn’t see Kim Carnes’ god-daughter anywhere.

Did we have a magnificent time? Bien sûr!