Paris: Springtime and L'Ardoise Restaurant

Paris

April 15, 2006

Did you know that Jon Stewart does a global edition of the Daily show??

“Hola!” he says, as he kicks off a half hour of riffing about international news – riots in France mixed with bits I saw back in the US on Tom DeLay. I don’t care – I’ve missed my shot of Daily Show!

It’s actually been another jam packed day.

We rolled into the Gare d’Austerlitz at about nine this morning after an unimpressive journey on the Trenhotel from Barcelona
It’s not that the trip was unusually poor, it’s just that with all the buildup about the modern new Elipsos trains and how fantastic the dining car was, I was expecting just a bit more than the glorified airplane fare that they served. Certainly the first class cabin was no more elegant than the one that we had on the trip from Granada to Barcelona. In fact it was precisely the same.

To be honest, I enjoyed the trip from Vienna to Paris far more, even though it was supposedly on an older train. Austrian efficiency beats Spanish style there.

Nevertheless, we got into Paris and checked into the hotel with only a minimum of fussWe’re staying in the 6th near the Musee d’Orsay and we couldn’t resist going out immediately and wandering the city.

It’s much colder than I had planned for – in fact, not so different from the rains of San Francisco, say I, as I stuff paper towels in my wet shoes and hang up my soaked through socks.

Still, nothing really dims the pleasure of walking around Paris. It’s Easter weekend and we had planned to find most places closed for the holidays, but a fair number of them are still openMost importantly, the Maille mustard store was open, and I went in to get four jars of the special mustards (au cassis, au marc de Bourgogne, au frais, au cognac) as instructed by Eric

And then we swung by Angelina’s on the rue de Rivoli for a few morsels of chocolate.

But our fave part is going back to L’Ardoise, Pierre Jay’s little restaurant in the 1st (28 rue du Mont-Thabor) with an unbelievable 31 Euro prix fixe menu.



We got there a bit early to catch dinner before going to the Opera Bastille, and Jay came out of the kitchen since there was no one else there and kindly agreed to let us slip in without a reservation.







L’Ardoise’s thing is the slates with the menu handwritten on them. Most of the diners these days are Americans who’ve read about the restaurant in Bon Appetit or Gourmet – the waitstaff can be heard always translating the menu items -- but in the five years that we’ve been going there, the food has never been a disappointment. Still it does put a damper on the atmosphere when I hear from across the room an American voice demand, “Don’t you have anything else besides wine? We’ve been having wine for two weeks and I’m a little sick of it.”

Well, darling, are you in the wrong place.

Are we all that embarrassing? I hope not. I mean we did balk at the cow snouts and bull testicles in the Boqueria, it’s true, but for the most part we’ve tried not to have a closed mind about any of the food and I have to say, I think we’ve eaten pretty well. I might have had to avoid the gaze of the langoustines as I dug into my paella or mentally deferred any questions about “that white stuff” as I popped a pintxos into my mouth, but can it be that all of us Americans are so … so… hopeless?

Well, it’s too late to change my order to pigs feet now, and I did order my pigeon rare, so I’ll just have to stop thinking about it.

This time I went for the tuna tartare, which had diced zucchini and ginger along with some of his beautiful sauces. The colors on the photos can’t possibly do justice to the bright plate he sends out.



And for a main I had a pigeon roti, with most buttery delicious peas you can possibly imagine. Spring peas? French peas? Peas sent from the gods in return for a human sacrifice?

We washed it down with a very pleasant white wine from Saint Veran.

For a finishI had the cheese plate of course!

As we were one of the first to dine, everyone stared at our table as our server set down the assiette de fromage in front of me.

As I helped myself to a nice hunk of Brie de Meaux, I heard the woman at the next table say to her husband, “Well, I know what you’ll be having…”

The meal was MUCH better than the opera as it turned out, which was a bit of an overblown, over-hyped modern commission called "Adriana Mater." I’m still not prepared to enjoy the elevation of the story of the modern common hero or heroine to operatic status.

“Tsargo! Tsargo! Non! Non! Non!” she sings.

“Non! Non! Non!” sings the unseen chorus from behind the sides of the stage. I wonder if this is just the best gig for them – no need to suit up, put on wigs, makeup, stretch, hit marks. They just stand backstage someplace and sing, “Non! Non! Non!” and then probably go back to scanning the latest Paris Match.

I spend a lot of time wondering how that cool lighting effect is achieved and admiring the cavernous space of the Opera Bastille.

With an hour behind us, and an hour and a half in front of us, my Dad and I decide that we’d rather walk back in the rain than listen to any more Adriana.

I think it’s much nicer.

Barcelona: I Am a Stuffed Spanish Olive

It's a lucky thing that we walk so much on these trips, because I eat so much. I am like a stuffed Spanish olive, like a fat sea scallop, like a roasted pigeon, like a plumped quenelle of miticrema, ...like...like...like...I'm hungry.

You know how Homer Simpson’s belly bulges from under his T-shirt? That’s me this evening after a late-night dinner at La Fonda, a lovely little place on Carrer Escudellers near Placa Reial.

Dinner here in Spain is so much later than I’m used to, but we must adapt or starve (!) so finally, after shedding the last vestiges of jet lag and really getting on track, we had tapas late in the afternoon and then trekked out to La Fonda at almost nine-thirty. Of course this place is no secret. It was recommended to me back in 1997 and it’s still the same, tasty home-cooking in an elegant setting, where two can still have three courses with a bottle of wine for 35 Euros.

Then, you may take my bloated tummy and me out in a wheelbarrow.

We started today out with a relaxed plan which mostly worked quite well. A trip up to Placa Espanya and a stroll to the Museu Nacional dArt de Catalunya (or MNAC) was quite pleasant, especially since yesterday’s clouds moved off, giving us the bright Barcelona sunlight mixed with cool Mediterranean breezes.

The MNAC is up on the top of Montjuic, a reclaimed area that had been set up for the 1929 Exposition that um... didn’t do so well after the stock market crash. But Montjuic was used for the 1992 Olympics and it’s a pretty classy looking hill now, especially the MNAC part, which is like a giant palace.

After climbing the stairs to the top we paused for the spectacular view back over the city, as a Spanish guitarist strummed away on the steps.

In the distance you can see the church of the Sacred Heart perched up on the Tibidabo mountain and in the haze, the ever present looming spires of the Sagrada Familia lurk with attendant construction cranes. Then there’s the curious cigar-shaped building we see lit up at night. It looks a bit like the “Gherkin” in London, but a blue gherkin.

Inside the MNAC is a fantastical array of art – everything from reconstructions of Romanesque church interiors that are a thousand years old, to El Grecos and Titians. It’s a bit of a mishmash, but a really pleasant one.

Of course, by this time we’ve worked up an appetite and so it’s a stop at the restaurant. I’m starting to feel a little self-conscious that every time I start a conversation with an admittedly accented, “Si us plau, voldria una…” they hand us an English menu.

After seeing all the cod in the Boqueria yesterday, I decided that it has to be cod, which I have to say is delicious, but I find a little bit chewy. Maybe it’s the curing process. The kalamata olive stuff drizzled around the edge of the plate though is terrific.

From the MNAC, we walk down to the Miro museum, conscious that we’ve been whiling away the afternoon and now we’re cutting into siesta time. Still, we take a couple of hours to go through the museum, which is full of unruly student groups. I have a feeling Miro would have liked their sort of dedicated unruliness though. The museum is filled with fanciful pieces that span his career, from the giant tapestry to small sketches. One I found amusing was his morphing of his own name “Miro” to the word “Mierda.”

My Dad calls this one "The Bunny."

There was also a fascinating sculpture by Alexander Calder called the Mercury Fountain, part mobile, pushed by the motion of a large pool of liquid mercury. (No health hazard there…) It’s not something you see often and I have to say, the running of the mercury is incredibly mesmerizing.

From the Miro museum we trotted down to the tramway, where we braved the wait and the vertigo to ride down the airtram to the Port Vell. I’ve always wanted to ride on the thing, but I have to say, they always warn you not to look down… Don’t look down.

A brief siesta at the hotel and we were ready to venture out to the Ramblas again for dinner. La Fonda is still as popular as it was back in 1997, and the line still stretched along the side. And it’s still worth it.

There was a plate of those lovely little meaty garlic olives to start and we were off and running. A red pepper spread on toast with savory greens and a gigantic paella that we couldn’t possibly finish was the bulk of our meal. Is it me, or are the langoustines staring at me? I have trouble with food that watches me.

The rest was delicious though, and put me in mind of the Boqueria again. Tomorrow, I think we have to begin to gather our food supplies.

With dinner we had a Castilian wine which I chose because it was made from Tempranillo and very hearty/tasty. And to finish it all off, we shared a crema catalana, the local version of crème brulee. We ate it before I could even get the camera out.

Waddle me home, please.

Barcelona: Scenes from la Boqueria

April 10, 2006

Scenes from La Boqueria





Was I worried that I wouldn’t be able to get good ham?








OR Cheese?







Come on into the Boqueria…

the ubiquitous salt cod.








and anchovies – oh yeah…








plus ham…








… and stuff. This would be stomach lining, tongue, calf’s heads, lamb brains and bull testicles.






OR you could have some vegetables







or an Ostrich egg.

Granada: Jamon and Surrealism

Granada
April 9, 2006

I’ll bet that Salvador Dali knew that Surrealism has nothing on real life.

As we wandered away our last few hours in Granada, we decided that we should take advantage of seeing some of the Semana Santa or Holy Week processions that dot the city on Palm Sunday. Turns out, you really can’t get away from them.

I had thought that Holy Week was a big deal in Sevilla, but not a major production anyplace else. Um…no. Holy Week is an all out, ten day, grand theatrical affair that puts Las Vegas to shame. 50 processions, each bearing different lovingly crafted highly ornate barques of scenes from the Passion or macarenic Madonnas. Casts of hundreds, costumes, incense, popcorn, peanuts, get yer red hot peanuts!


We walked down to the Church of Perpetual Soccorro, where the first procession was to start in the afternoon – they call it Burraquillos and of course, it depicts Christ entering Jerusalem, since it’s Palm Sunday. The crowd slowly gathered, but by the time 4:30 rolled around, there was a circus-like atmosphere. A guy passed us with an enormous basket of popcorn and peanuts and the kids perched along the parade route on the curb.

It’s a little freaky to me that the penitents are all dressed in what look to be KKK hoods – pointy with eyeholes cut out – but since they predate the KKK, I guess I just have to get over the fact that there are literally hundreds of penitent homies roaming the streets.

Each parish has its own theme apparently, complete with special costume colors and particular music for the band to play. This particular one, of the five parades that were staggered throughout the afternoon, was in royal blue and white and commanded hundreds of hoodies, plus mini-Hebrews and widows in black mantillas, plus three marching bands and of course the fifty or so guys who have to carry the barques. If you're interested in finding out more about the little screaming cornets that the bands play, check out this link.









As the door to the church opened and Jesus on a donkey, plus set (literally the size of a barn door), navigated out, a cheer went up and the shuffle had begun. The band played something of a dirge-speed tune, and undoubtedly I can see why this parade, which treks through the city for about eight hours, takes so long. Poor Jesus was going to have to hold that blessing hand up for a while, and the fifty guys are going to have to hold up the 2 ton float the whole way.


The bigger cheer though, goes up for the Madonna, which just goes to show you that the cult of the Virgin is certainly not going away in Spain. Clothed in blue velvet embroidered with gold and surrounded by a mass of burning candles, she’s an impressive sight.


Just as the Madonna gets to us, the procession stops and they put down the barque. High above us, a man who’s obviously a flamenco cantaor, watching from a balcony above, starts to sing a piropos dedicated to her. The crowd goes hushed and there’s only incense and a flapping of her robe in the wind as he finishes his song and everyone breaks into wild “Oles!” The bearers pick her up again (with the canopy swaying dangerously), and they continue down the street.

“But isn’t this blog about food?” you ask. Okay, I’m getting to that.

So, we watch the whole operation take place and then make our way around the cathedral, through the crowds, stop to shop for souvenirs, over to Plaza Nueva and are just in time to see the whole procession coming down the street. We ducked into a tapas bar, ordered (what else?) jamon y manchego, and kicked back with a Murphy’s Irish Red cerveza for a really terrific view of the parade. How sacrilegious.




But we’re not the only one’s interested in the secular. A few kids peered in to see if they could get the football score on the TV behind us…

We waited long enough to watch another parade pass us by – this one with red velvet hoods and a barque depicting the sentencing of Christ.




“So can I get OFF of this thing already?”