Paris with Lois, Part 2

. . . We taxi’d back to Merci, where the goat coat had patiently waited for me.  Yes, I bought it.  And I may regret it when my Amex bill comes, but I don’t now.  Then we dropped our packages back at the hotel and set off for dinner at Itineraires, a neo-bistro I saw written up in the New York Times and discussed on Chowhound.com.

Another lovely, comfortable room.  And the meal was phenomenal. As at Gazzetta, the menu at Itineraires is prix fixe, with about three options for appetizers, entrees, and dessert, as well as daily specials, and supplement charges for some of the dishes.  Lois and I each ordered the scallop carpaccio to start and then the John Dory.  The scallops arrived in an overlapping arrangement of wafer-thin disks and sprinkled with the tiniest fresh herbs, as well as olive oil and lemon.  The taste? Absolute freshness.  And the John Dory—which was called something else in French—was perfect.  Sweet, white, flaky fish surrounded by tiny potatoes that tasted as though they had been braised in butter for hours.  I had cheese for dessert, and Lois had a gorgeous almond and mandarin parfait, packaged in a crunchy white orb.

We walked home in the mist, over three bridges from one bank of the river to the other, past Notre Dame.  Bathed in an eerie green light, the cathedral looked almost like a most fancy haunted house.  Once again, we fell into bed exhausted (hence, no blog posts from the road).

A quick tangential note:  I first ate John Dory at the John Dory restaurant in the meatpacking district.  April Bloomfield opened it as a second act following The Spotted Pig.  I loved the restaurant—sublime fish, hip/nautical décor, friendly and fun vibe.  And then, inexplicably, it closed.  I hear it’s been resurrected as the John Dory Oyster Bar in the Ace Hotel and, although I have not been there, I urge you to go if you are in New York City.  Bloomfield knows what she’s doing, and the John Dory was terrific.

I am a firm believer in not returning from a vacation—even a small one—in need of a vacation.  So although our Paris clock was ticking, we got our 8 hours sleep. Which, ultimately, meant that we did not return to Au Levain du Marais for croissants.  Honestly, I regret that decision.  I should have gotten up a half hour earlier and ran there and back for a stash of buttery, flaky deliciousness.  But I didn’t.

Our Sunday plan was to visit the Marche de la Creation—a juried art market I had read about.  When our taxi dropped us off, it seemed that we were at a flea market, not an art market.  This is not such a problem for me.  My dad had a small antiques shop for several years when I was growing up.  I don’t think my parents paid retail for a single piece of furniture in our house.  Everything was old and came from one of my Dad’s weekend treasure hunts.  My mom told people she had decorated it in “early curb.”  So I am completely at home rooting around in other people’s stuff.  We got absorbed in the junk pretty quickly, and I almost forgot why we had come.  I asked one of the women about the art market, and she pointed down the way.  We walked through the flea market, toward it, hunting as we walked.  I found a table crowded with old, worn café au lait bowls, and bought a cream colored one with a blue band to put my loose change in.

We were underwhelmed by the art market, but each of us bought a rain hat from a spunky woman full of all kinds of hats she had made herself.  She absolutely lit up as she handed us each hats to try on and saw her creations come to life.  She was absolutely certain about which one each of us should leave with.  We took her advice. 

We headed back to Mariage Freres, the famous tea emporium, for brunch near our hotel.  Lois LOVES tea and all its accoutrements, so it was a perfect choice for her.  We both had blue tea—have you ever heard of blue tea?  Apparently it’s sort of between green tea and black tea in terms of its flavor and caffeine content.  We’re both careful about how much caffeine we take in.  The flavor was very subtle and clean.  I’ve had red tea, green tea, black tea, white tea, and now blue tea.  I suppose purple and yellow will be next.  Lois splurged on a teapot—the kind they use at the restaurant—a jolly round vessel topped with a felt-lined metal cover to keep it super-hot.

And then it was time to go.  Our taxi was waiting for us when we arrived back at the hotel.  We piled in with our stuff—I decided to carry on the goat coat rather than risk unfortunate spillage in the checked bag—and headed to the airport.

What fun we had!  The Parisians, contrary to their reputations, were super nice.   They weren’t snooty about my terrible French, nor did I feel as though it was a crime to be an American.

Meanwhile, my heroic husband had taken both children for a ski weekend a four hour drive away.  I am not that courageous.  They all had a wonderful time and came home sun-kissed, exhausted, and bragging of their exploits on the mountain.

Lois flew back to the US the next morning.  Her visit flew by, and we re-entered the world of work and school.