Going Back For Red
We had a terrific dinner on Sunday night at the home of a couple of Canadians, C&T, who moved to Paris this past summer. T is a colleague of Janet's, and C is in a similar position to me, that is, productively occupying her days while her partner works. With the
Salon des Vins continuing, she agreed to join me when I went back yesterday for a second round.
I elected (with C's obliging compliance) to focus on the Rhone Valley this time. That is still a large area, so I had planned to focus on the Northern end because I like the sound of
Hermitage and
Crozes-Hermitage, while allowing myself to digress into the even more lyrical
Chateauneuf du Pape. The digression grew to be a dominant route, since the area was disproportionately represented at the expo, whereas there proved to be very few vintners from Hermitage and Crozes Hermitage. There were also more than a few of the
Côtes du Rhône Villages represented, and we spent some time looking at these, not least because one pays for poetry in France, even on a wine label, and the
villages are generally more affordable than the other appellations mentioned.
Once our teeth were completely blue C went home and I dove back in to make a few purchases. Generally speaking I trust my notes made earlier rather than later, and buy the wines that appeal most at the outset of an afternoon. So I'm a little nervous about three bottles of a wine from the
Domaine du Jas that was among the very last that I tasted. It seemed remarkably lively and complex, with little of the heavy tannins that seemed to be building up in my taste buds as we'd trawled the rows of booths. It was organic, and too good a value to pass up. But I suppose it's possible my judgement was not then at it's most discerning.
It's Not All Art, Wine and Romance
When we first looked at our apartment, we were a little concerned about the proximity of the football stadium, the
Parc des Princes. We asked a waitress in the café on the corner, what the crowds were like on game nights. She gave us a don't-be-ridiculous look (only about a 5 on the French scale, but still fairly withering), and advised that this was the 16th, of course the police don't let anything get out of hand. We were reassured that French fans bear little resemblance to the louts of Britain, and truly we've had little cause to conclude otherwise. Often the increase in street noise is so slight we're not even aware when the game is over. And the police presence is generally quite overwhelming.
But throughout Western Europe there are racist movements, stoked by populist politicians, and last week French football suffered the worst of human nature after the local team lost to Tel Aviv's. An undercover policeman came to the rescue of a Jewish fan who was being set upon, and was attacked himself. He fired his gun as they brought him down, killing one man and injuring another (
details of the incident are not hard to find, and even made the Toronto
Star and
Sun.)
The incident took place near Port St. Cloud, about a quarter of a mile away. That's far enough away from us that we didn't even hear the sirens, and were oblivious until Janet spotted the item in the on-line news. It's still quite close to the stadium, but perhaps just distant enough to explain why the police, concentrated around the
Parc itself, weren't there at the first whiff of trouble. When I went by the spot on Sunday, the only evidence of what had happened was the pile of flowers and candles beside the bus depot.
We may have been oblivious to the hatred and death in the streets, but saw other cracks - certainly far, far less serious - in the facade of French civilization over the course of the weekend. On Friday evening a teenager party erupted in the apartment directly below us. I'm not shy about being the grumpy old man, but to do it properly demands a vocabulary and facility with the language that I don't yet have, so things went on for a while before I banged on the door and requested they keep it down (reasonably politely, but seeking to emulate some gallic indignation). The young man (of course the parents had decamped) was something short of conciliatory but he did agree to turn down the music and things became much quieter; but what got me steamed was that it seems the rest of the neighbours had been consulted and agreed to the party. Nobody asked us. Who cares what the foreigners think?
The following night, the same thing happened again, only this time from the apartment that shares a wall with ours in the next building. They played the disco music we disdained in our own teenagerhood but which seems to have become classic in Europe (The Macarena, fercrissake). In fact we'd lived through this a year ago (we might have suspected it was a birthday party if we hadn't actually had the fact made plain by lively choruses of "
Bonne Anniversaire"), and at one in the morning on that ocassion I had managed to slip into the building and bang on their door (no emulation of indignation required). But I don't have stamina as a curmudgeon and this time we opted for melatonin and ear plugs.
It was a long night, and the next morning there was one more Parisian delight: we were woken up by an organ grinder, merrily strolling down our block. His instrument - or at least the volume - somehow called to my mind the tanks that rolled by on a weekend morning last spring, on their way to a Bastille Day parade. But at that point in the weekend I may have been a little hyper-sensitive.
Salon des Vins
Today we made our annual expedition to the Paris
Salon des Vins, the independent vintners' massive expo. The ticket invites one " à la rencontre de mille vignerons indépendant" and while it's possible the claim of 1000 vendors is a marketing exaggeration, if so it's not by much. I tried to take some pictures of the show floor, all in one huge exhibition hall this year, but it proved impossible to get it all in the frame much less capture a sense of the vastness.
Row R of the hall. It went up to T, with at least 50 booths in eachWith so many booths, one must find a way to focus. As we did last year, we selected a region that we hope to visit and then within that, selected the medal winners. The wine industry is worse than Hollywood when it comes to handing out awards to itself, and even that short list gives a lot of ground to cover. Our pin-in-a-map choice of destination was
Chablis (part of Burgundy). Being Saturday, the crowds grew formidable, but it seemed that everyone had their own plan of attack and the medal-winning vintners we chose didn't seem any more swarmed than the others. Nonetheless, navigation was not easy, and by the time we'd visited tasted 29 wines at almost a dozen booths, Janet had had enough. We'd finished our Chablis list and Janet had gamely taken on a couple of Sancerres, but with her back still giving her trouble, she decided to call it a day. I stayed and educated myself regarding the differences between the similar-sounding but in fact widely separated (geographically as well is in the character of the wine) regions of Pouilly Fumé and Pouilly Fuissé.
We paced it well this year. While I was definitely losing discernment by the end of the afternoon (first the finishes all started to taste the same, then I began to lose the nose), and I wouldn't have driven after the first hour and a half, I remained on my feet and in charge of all the equipment of the day (notebook, knapsack, water bottle, etc.) and I managed to carry home safely eleven bottles (mostly selected early in the afternoon, so there should be no surprises when we open them).
Tiny Bubbles
We signed up for a Champagne tasting at
Lavinia (the downtown wine store where we have taken classes and often go for tastings). This was on a grander scale than other occasions when we've gone by for the weekly event, since it was their special quarterly "
Soirée Dégustation" by invitation only for the affinity club members. I could tell it was going to be special by the quickened pace and eager look on the faces of the other members who arrived while I waited at the door for Janet.
Janet tasting Pommery's wares
A dozen producers were present, including a number of the big houses, the
grands marques, each featuring one or two of their products. They included
Pol Roger,
Veuve Clicquot,
Ruinart and
Moët & Chandon. As or more interesting were some of the second tier vintners. While in search of
Bollinger's
Grand Année 1997 I met an Australian woman (while Janet was chatting with a tall, I'm-so-sexy-I-forgot-to-shave, Frenchman), in Paris studying for her masters in oenology, who was on the same mission. She was dismissive of the inflated prices of the over-hyped big houses, and recommended
Larmandier Bernier. We fought our way to their almost abandoned table, twenty feet away from the melée around Bollinger, where we had to agree that they seemed the equal of the more recognizable names.
Often at these things you get the more mass-market cuvées, near the bottom of the line. They're giving it away free, after all. This time it was at least a small cut above. Most of the bottles featured were for sale in the 25 to 50 euro range, which even for champagne is certainly not the bottom tier; but it's a long way from the premium products. Happily, of those who had two selections, the second was usually a much more expensive bottle. Sometimes you had to come back a few times before they had one open, but perseverance was generally rewarded and they were generous with the pour.
Alas, my palate must still lack refinement, because given a chance to compare I had difficulty appreciating the wine far elevated up the spectrum from its fellow offering. The 1999 "
Amour de Deutz" was indeed lovely: velvety, balanced flavours and just enough sweetness; but Deutz' Brut Classic, while much less delicate, was entirely drinkable and a fifth of the cost. In the case of Pommery, I actually preferred the, albeit rather sweet, "Winter Time" bottle, which was a third the price of the much dryer but too subtle for me "Louise Pommery".
We enjoyed visiting the smaller producers in the Champagne region this summer, and found that, to our palates, we sacrifice nothing by saving money and avoiding the brand names. I can't say we learned anything last night to alter that conviction - but I'm happy to keep tasting them all as they come my way, just to be sure.
November Drizzle
Yesterday was not a great day: dreary weather reflected slow progress inside; my computer hard disk failed catastrophically; and the lecture I attended in the evening proved more than usually opaque.
I have been a regular attendee at presentations by the
local chapter of the
Project Management Institute, and while I have yet to engage in deep conversations about the technicalities of French project work, I have been growing increasingly confident of my ability to follow the lectures. I guess I've had some help in this from the fact that presenters often have their Powerpoint presentations, or components of them, in English. Presumably they were originally intended for a general audience or have been obtained from a multinational parent. Yesterday evening, the speakers were of a higher than average quality: they both spoke easily, engaging with the audience, cracking jokes and talking without notes. The second of the two, the director of
Gaz de France's large clients department, didn't even bother with slides.
The topic was Knowledge Management, something with which I already know a bit, so I was expecting an interesting evening. But because they were so comfortable in front of the crowd, the spoke in a relaxed and easy fashion, with less deliberate and formal language and without as many other visual cues, I wound up regularly out to sea. I could follow most of a sentence, but I always seemed to lose the thread at the keyword.
It's a pretty poor day when the highlight is a shopworn puppet on the metro whose entire act is to sing a recorded "Speedy Gonzalez" ditty.
A Trip to the Louvre
We've stayed inside with books for most of the weekend. Janet is having a little back trouble and I was hit with a very unpleasant but mercifully short-lived bout of food poisoning Thursday night. With that, and as we're hardly unpacked from Istanbul, a quiet weekend was called for.
We did venture out for a few hours this afternoon, since Christmas approaches and un-manic opportunities for shopping are becoming few. There are no handy malls, per se, but a very useful collection of shops is found in the Louvre's underground arcade, not least of which is the Louvre's gift shop itself. Given its brevity, it was a successful shopping trip (but don't get your hopes up folks - all the best stuff is still inside the museum).
Not Constantinople
Entre les murs has been outside the walls for a while, as I was able to tag along with Janet to Istanbul. She was making presentations at a couple of conferences, and my job was to make sure it wasn't all business. We did a little exploring South of our hotel in
Beyoğlu on Saturday afternoon, and on Sunday we went to
Sultanahmet to see the Hağia Sophia, the Blue mosque and so forth. We tried to visit the
Grand Bazaar (probably the world's oldest shopping mall), but discovered that Ataturk's westernization has been even more successful than I'd realized and we found that it is closed on Sundays. But we certainly got the flavour of the city. For all the tourist sites - and we did occasionally trip over small groups of accountants in town for the conference - it's a lot more of a living city than a museum even in the oldest parts.
That's the 1500-year-old Hağia Sophia in the background
Monday was miserable and wet, so we spent it mostly in a modern shopping mall. Tuesday was beautiful, but all business for Janet. I went for a long walk, from our hotel, across the Galata bridge, through the Grand Bazaar, and over to the Valens aqueduct. The latter is quite a site; I was heading for the
Cartoon Museum which I never found, but the old
Roman aqueduct was worth the trip anyway.
This "before" image is from the
Pera Museum
The "after" shot is mine, taken from the Galata Tower; you'll need to click on each to appreciate how much has remained the same over a hundred years
We flew home on Wednesday, but before we did we had time to take in the view from the
Galata Tower, and see the
Istanbul Modern art gallery. The Istanbul Modern had been recommended to us, and I can see why the locals are proud of it. It displays Turkish abstract and impressionist artists as on par with the best of the rest of Europe. I can't see that they are doing anything very original, but that may be my cultural bias.
Being Quasi-Dips
Another reception for Canadians this evening. This time it was the Canadian delegation that hosted a small reception for all of our compatriots at Janet's work (there are many who are part of the secretariat as opposed to the delegation), including spouses, so we went for a shmooze after work. There were nice little canapés and
Canadian beer. It was a long way from the black-tie diplomatic functions I was kind of hoping would be involved with Janet's job (I've still got my fingers crossed), but still a very pleasant occasion. I'm getting better at the networking thing (it helps being unemployed - like being thirsty helps find water), and there were a few people there who I already knew.
Shut In
My house-husband chores suffered a setback today, when Janet left in the morning with my keys. I couldn't leave the apartment all day because I wouldn't have been able to get back in. Janet also chose today to be out of her office at a meeting, with her phone turned off. Of course there's a spare set of keys - but they happen to be with the cat-sitter. I'm already beginning to climb the walls here. It doesn't help if I have to stare at them all day too.
The Tricouleur is Red, Gold and Blue
It seemed like a good idea to get involved with my alumni association while I was here, so I got my name on the list. So far it's just meant pub nights, but on Sunday the Principal of Queen's, Dr. Karen Hitchcock, was visiting Paris and our local chapter organized a reception. I dragged Janet along, ignoring the rolled eyes of someone who has experienced Queen's spirit without sharing it.
In the event, it was kind of fun. The food was good, we met a bunch of expat Canadians, and even practiced our French a little. Dr. Hitchcock was charming and the speeches (and pitch for donations) were short. We walked away with a door prize and a thank-you-for-helping gift (we handed out name tags). There were only a couple of dozen alumnae and their families in all, so you have to wonder if it's worth the time and money for the university to set these things up, but it was certainly worthwhile from our standpoint.
Don't ask me how you go about finding a piper in Paris, but it did make it feel like a proper Queen's event.
Oysters
Another snack we've adopted since we moved to Paris is oysters. Many restaurants, including one of our favorite locals, have an oyster bar open to the street so that one doesn't even need to go inside to fortify oneself. Last night we continued our research on the topic with a friend who was in town on a business trip. He was staying in the chi-chi half of the 16th, near
Place Victor Hugo, so we walked up to his hotel, and went from there down the block to
Le Stella, a bistro we went to a year ago with friends A&M.
We ordered half a dozen each of the
Spéciales-Boudeuses, the
Belon, and the
Fine de Claire. While we've always liked the latter before, the other two were new to us, and knocked the
Fine de Claire off their pedestal. I think the
Spéciales were the unanimous favorites.
Visit to the Vet
Into every cat's life a little rain must fall - and of course for a cat that implies more hardship than it does for we humans. But there's no avoiding the fact that an occasional trip to the vet is one of life's tough realities, replacing taxes on the short list of inevitabilities for domestic animals.
Finding a vet was the first challenge. I stepped into a local dog-grooming salon and asked for a recommendation. There the young lady obligingly gave me clear directions to a vet a block away and then confusingly handed me a business card for a vet in a nearby suburb. After some headscratching over the miscommunication (a friend told me that she envies, living here as Janet and I do, our inevitable bilingualism. If only.), I made an appointment at the nearby vet. Emma and I strolled over to the clinic yesterday (the less said about the kitty carrier oh-no-I-won't-oh-yes-you-will struggle preparatory to that stroll, the better). I'm sure Emma doesn't appreciate her good fortune, but the doctor turned out to be an older German lady. Perhaps it's a bit of a cliché, but if you're going to look for a health care practitioner in Europe, you could find a whole lot worse than a seasoned professional with German training and outlook.
And in truth the woman gave me not a moment's doubt as to her capabilities and competence. The one unusual aspect was that they whisked Emma away to draw blood for her blood test. I don't have a lot of experience with current veterinary practice, but I expected them to want the owner there, if only to help calm the animal into whom they are trying to stick the needle; but I was clearly not to be a part of that drama, and after ten minutes I was reunited with Emma in the vet's office. Emma seemed calm and neither the vet nor her assistant were visibly the worse for wear. Indeed, perhaps there's something European vets really ought to be imparting to their colleagues back home because the doctor told me that Emma had been very well-behaved, indeed called her "
sage" (sensible). I glanced quickly at the kitty carrier, but they had the right cat.
In the last day or so since we got home, Emma has been exploring our home, climbing up on things and opening cupboards, as though she has found a new appreciation for the things she used to take for granted. Such a drama queen.
