CynWrites: Adventure In France: Eat, Drink and Drive Scary

We all know that France has the reputation for creme de la creme cuisine, and I feel disloyal to my adopted-for-a-month country by admitting I'm not all that crazy about French food...which may be understandable for someone who doesn't like cheese and isn't a chocolate addict, either.

This entire nation has an obsession with both cheese and chocolate, and it shows up at every restaurant, food vendor, bakery and gift shop in Paris.

"Ah, toothpaste. Does madame want the roquefort or swiss flavor?"
"Non, we are out of croissants this morning, except for chocolate croissants."
"Sandwich? Of course, Madam. Ham and cheese, chicken and cheese, tuna and cheese, avocado and cheese, or cheese and cheese? No, I'm sorry, we don't make anything in this entire restaurant without cheese, except the chocolate mousse."
"I'll take that yellow scarf, please. Yes, the one under the 300 pounds of gift chocolates."

The oh-so-fancy chocolate stores aren't really stores, you know. They are controlled-temperature temples to the gods of cacao. Cross my heart, I walked into two stores last week, one in the Sevres-Babylon area and one in Place Madeleine, and walked right back out again. I haven't been that intimidated by a potential retail transaction since buying my first bra. You know that flutter in your stomach during the home-buying process, when you have to pony-up every financial record you've ever acquired? I swear I felt as though I would have to produce my passport, my bank records, my business profit and loss statements, my revocable trust and the pinky finger from my youngest grandchild to qualify to buy a box of chocolates. The sales people, men and women, were dressed to have breakfast at Baccarat's, and I know I saw their thoughts telegraph between one another when they caught a glimpse of my tennis shoes.

Cooking for oneself is a definite advantage of apartment living during an extended vacation. Eating out in Paris is EXPENSIVE, even if all you're after is a ham (and cheese) crepe -- with the exchange rate it comes to about $7.50. I think that's high for a two-minute process that includes a mucus product you don't want. So, by eating 180 eggs and five pounds of ham this month, I've saved enough Euros to skip most public transportation and take taxis wherever I've wanted to go -- and did you notice that none of those meals included cheese?

Oh, there have been a few meals out, of course. In the warren of tiny streets that comprise the oldest part of the Latin Quarter, near Notre Dame, we've had bad duck, good duck, overcooked veggies, tasteless onion soup, a really, really bad omelette, a good Greek salad (served by a cute Greek waiter) and, I'm told, excellent fondue; I didn't do the fondue so I have no opinion.

We also had an excellent farewell-to-Paris dinner at Chez Rene' consisting of boeuf bourguignon and salad, with decadent pastries for dessert. Pastries, I might add, that included 5000 calories EACH of cream, but no cheese. I just read through that link I posted and I see a couple of negative reviews -- I can't imagine why... it was a great meal, reasonably priced, with a charming and helpful waiter and an excellent wine and champagne menu, too.

Speaking of charm -- I've run into several taxi drivers who either like to tease grandmas or I'm just too stupid to know when I'm being ridiculed. My French usage, pronunciation and confidence in speaking have improved since those first rainy days of April, I know they have. Dammit, they HAVE. My address here is difficult to pronounce with three French R's right in a row and a tongue twister at the end. When I asked the driver the other day if he spoke English and he said no, I gave him the address in French -- and his head spun around like a Wes Craven movie -- he laughed -- repeated what I said, then told me (in very broken English) he wasn't moving the car until I said "Charles de Gaulle" for him... and he meant it. We sat there in a taxi line until I said it -- and he laughed again. Loudly.

The next day, I asked a driver to take me to an intersection in a well-known part of town. That didn't work for him - he wanted a number. I didn't think fast enough to make up a number, so I gave him the name of a nearby church. He didn't speak much English either, but we had a pleasant conversation about how I must come from England. No, California. Oh, Los Angeles. No, Northern California. He didn't understand that but did know about Arnold Schwarzenegger. When we arrived at the neighborhood (but not yet the church) he stopped the taxi, said "Oh, church around here somewhere, you'll find it" and effectively concluded the drive. I did find the church, but it was named St. Clotilde, not St. Pierre, as I told him.

To arrive at the touring agency for an evening Seine cruise and nighttime illuminated monuments tour, I tried to get away with saying 2 rue Pyramides just as it's typed here (two roo pyramids). The driver pretended to not understand me until I put all the ruffles and flourishes on that phrase -- ahhh, yes, madame. Of course.

And yesterday's driver provided the single most exciting hour of this whole adventure.

We went to the Montmartre area to see Sacre Coeur church and experience what is left of Paris' bohemian days (not much). It was surprisingly fun, considering the overwhelming number of tourists -- but even they were fun. The area is full of unique architecture, twisting, hilly streets, hidden vineyards not as big as my backyard, restaurants, gift shops, crap shops galore, artists who will paint your portrait or caricature in 10 minutes and others who have the familiar Parisian scenes in watercolor or oil for exorbitant prices.

After a long afternoon in the hot sun and a couple of beers, we flagged down a taxi driven by (I think) a Jamaican who played loud Latin music on the radio, spoke NO English (but understood my French, yes he did), and succeeded in scaring our panties off as we flew down that hill and through Paris. He missed a car by two inches -- that's all -- two inches, and I'm not even sure he missed the Moped dudes... and all the time he was giggling -- at traffic, at those he nearly killed and at us. He got a big fat tip for just delivering us alive.