The pre-teen years. Evening in Paris.
Remember that? A gaggle of entranced little girls in grade five
overdosing with the same scent.
Eartha Kitt purring "Sous les ponts de Paris ..." was the rapt epitome of an enthralling city
that attracted eons of artistic and literary figures.
B. Then ...
Back
when life was still young and travels in France were plotted with
Gourmet Magazine
firmly in hand we
liked to stay at Hotel Montalembert on the Rive Gauche, mainly in the
company of gourmands focusing on restaurants with multiple stars
and
fine wines
(who's complaining?). What
a rush, aspiring to perfectly-accented, luscious French. Except one
time the mental dictionary failed me. After the order for two was
enunciated, kidneys appeared instead of beef medallions, a lapse for
which I was never forgiven.
At Le Grand Véfour,
a Michelin two star, I nearly choked on my Gateau St Honoré
when I sneaked a look at the wine prices (menus for female companions, bien
sûr, protect them from the sordid side of life).
Another memorable
meal was at Vagenende 1900, a brasserie of acclaimed art nouveau
decor on Boul' St Germain. Eight of us breathed in reverence as each
new course appeared. And led to a lifelong obsession hunting for
rhum baba and crême
brulée.
C. After ...
The world of budget living. A drop in
my bucket:
Père
Lachaise Cemetery. The Palma Hotel is near a side entrance to the
cemetery; it's a quiet, mostly residential neighbourhood in the 20th arrondissement.
A
couple of days to admire tombstone architecture and commune with the
long-dead artistes.
Molière,
Chopin, Hugo, Bizet, Wilde, Delacroix, Colette, Daumier, Modigliani,
Signoret, Montand, Proust. Abélard!
Jane Avril!
What
about Eartha, that icon of international flavour, whose song was to
me the embodiment of a seductive, starry Paris? "There won't be
a burial," she said to her daughter at the end. Santa Baby: she
died on Christmas Day 2008. She was cremated and the location of her
ashes is unknown.
©
2015 Brenda Dougall Merriman
No comments:
Post a Comment