First night in Paris -

Here I am, in my adorable little apartment, celebrating my first night of this little sojourn with a glass of absolutely fine Cahors (a bottle was 3 € at the FranPrix!) in a crystal wine glass (tested using my mother's tried and true method of making the rim sing when you rub it with your wet finger tip). I actually have a view of the Eiffel Tower (albeit a distant one) and I just enjoyed watching it erupt in sparkling lights. Nice welcome! Let's see if I can manage to upload a short video I took - the Tour Eiffel in the distance, with a look at the street view from my apartment.

I'm sitting on the couch, with a French documentary on the TV in the living room. I can't quite understand the interviews, but the vintage footage of civil rights marches caught my eye. I figured it would be a good way to help train my ear for French.

So, today....

After hugging my precious boy goodbye in Moss, Norway (in the VERY good hands of his Farmor and Farfar), my father in law took me to Rygge airport. A very efficient, smaller airport, where I happen to know the head honcho - he is my husband's cousin. I was lined up for the RyanAir flight, when KJ came and told me that there were only 144 tickets sold, and the plane holds almost 200....he invited me to have a coffee instead of staying in line for 1/2 an hour. MUCH more pleasant to visit with him!

The journey was uneventful - plane to Beauvais, bus to Porte Maillot, cab to the apartment. The cab driver took me on a ride, but I called him out and he stopped the shenanigans. He asked me where I was from and when I said the US he yelled "Obama! I LOVE Obama!" He tried to tell me that there is no history in les Etats Unis, so I got to try my fledgling French out while correcting him....hard to do since he was almost as loud as my son...and that's LOUD.

My apartment is on a quiet street in a neighborhood described (I can now say accurately) by a chowhound as "gritty." I'm on the 6th floor, and during the day there is a sea of the zinc rooftops of Paris that Emile Zola so loved. The tiniest elevator in the history of the universe (wouldn't be me without hyperbole!) takes me to the 5th - up a few more steps to the top floor and my door. Adorable place.

The lobby - the sign says there is a dentist on the next floor. The world's smallest lift is directly ahead.

(Just read the identifying tag under the guy being interviewed on TV...something like "autorité sur l'histoire de l'homosexualité...cut to some drag queens...I think I know what this documentary is about!)

The view from the bottom of the stairs...thank goodness for that tiny lift.

I had dinner quite literally next door - at a lovely little place called Cafe Panique. It was my misfortune to be seated next to a couple of young arrogant hipsters (he with a man-purse, she with an a-MA-zing eye roll), but soon it didn't matter, because the whole experience was great. The front of house team consisted of one man and one young woman. The whole kitchen team consisted of one woman chef and two young men assisting. I know this because the tiny kitchen was open, and a delight to watch...especially the chef, whose gunmetal grey hair was in a remarkable French twist, with the top in a twisty pompadour. She was gorgeous, and talented.

Here is the picture that elicited the eye-roll from the hipster chick:

This was my entree - a lovely dish. As far as I can ascertain from the menu and my mouth, it was thinly sliced celeriac, lightly pickled/marinated, wrapped around a goat cheese mousse studded with tiny cubes of poached celery stalk. Balsamic reduction. Watercress and celery shoot salad. Just lovely.

But not as lovely as my plat (here, entree=appetizer, plat=main course), which was a succulent breast of duck, with celeriac/potato puree so smooth, savory and delicious that I moaned a little, eliciting a snort from the bee-yatch at the next table. She had already intimidated me into not taking any more pictures...but I'm not going to let that happen again, because the plate was beautifully composed, with the duck in triangular slices, stacked in the middle and surrounded by quenelles of the puree, little wedges of turnip and beet, and dots of a terrific, concentrated sauce with orange zest. Not your grandmere's duck a l'orange, I can tell you that! Especially magical was the fresh tarragon garnish - surprising and terrific with everything, but with the beet, in particular.

For dessert, fromage. Many moons ago, I had a life-altering experience at a restaurant in SF called Bacco (it remains one of my favorite places) where I had a reckoning with mushrooms. I understood, through the grace of spinach pappardelle with a mushroom sauce, what it meant to be a mushroom. Tonight, I think I gained significant insight into the raison d'etre of le Camembert. It far surpassed any I have had previously, and as I sit here, it defies description. Maybe if I sleep on it... but first, I must mention the Saint Nectaire (funky, stinky, yummy) and what I think was a youngish comté - like rough silk.

Such a nice first meal on my first night in Paris...tomorrow I'm going to explore the neighborhood - 10éme.