Pour yourself a cup of tea. We’re going back to Paris.
(Did you miss Partie Un? Click here to read.)
Vendredi
I meet the group at Sandra’s Parisian apartment, not far from my hotel. We head to Versailles to meet Molly Wilks, a pastry chef, for our baking class.
As we drive down the main boulevard, I fall in love with Versailles. Not the ornate palace, but the calm, residential town filled with trees and greenery. It’s a welcome break from the constant buzz of Paris.
Our class is held at the beautiful La Boutique Royale de Versailles. The shop is filled with beautiful soaps, French toile, and lavish gifts. It’s the sort of place where I want to look at absolutely everything.
Molly and her bright personality are a welcome treat. She teaches us how to make madeleines and macarons, sharing invaluable baking tips along the way. Afterwards, we get to taste her creations.
I have to say, a French macaron is miles ahead of any macaron I’ve ever tasted.
After our baking demonstration and a little shopping, we walk over to Vous to get the full experience of déjeuner in France.
I’m still dreaming about the pavlova aux fruits rouges. The tart berry coulis, the vanilla cream mousse, the sweet meringue.
Wow.
If I could, I would have licked the bowl.
Our next stop is the gardens of Versailles.
I have to be honest. Once you’ve seen one clipped box hedge, you’ve seen them all.
Not that I wasn’t impressed, because I was, but I prefer gardens that are lush and overflowing, a little different from the tightly trimmed French jardins.
The afternoon sun is beating down on us, and the summer heat clearly hasn’t received the message that it’s almost October.
I am dripping.
I’m so happy to spot a little stand in the garden selling freshly squeezed orange juice.
“Un jus d’orange, s’il vous plaît, monsieur.”
“Oui, madame.”
He takes half an orange and squeezes it.
Half an orange, squeeze.
Half an orange, squeeze.
Half an orange, squeeze...
Five times.
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”
It is the best glass of orange juice I have ever had.
We arrive back in Paris with just enough time to change for dinner. The Pope is in town, traffic is backed up everywhere, and streets are closed.
Our dinner destination is a surprise. All we know is that tonight is the night to put on our most Parisian attire.
I put on my black dress, red heart earrings, red Drew glasses, and red lipstick. I am as Parisian as I can get.
With a little spritz of my perfume, I’m out the door.
The car ride across the Seine takes over an hour. But while we wait in traffic, we get to see the Pope’s motorcade pass by.
I’d like to think the Pope and I are practically best friends now.
We arrive at Le Train Bleu, the incredibly ornate restaurant inside the Gare de Lyon. It feels as though I’ve stepped back in time to La Belle Époque.
Le Train Bleu was built in 1900 by the architect Marius Toudoire. The ceilings are painted with scenes of Paris, Lyon, and Marseille.
The waiters are part of the show, entertaining us with tableside service. The flames of the crêpes Suzette draw a crowd of “oohs” and “aahs.”
My favorite part of the meal is the pistachio soufflé with sour cherries.
Sensing a theme?
We arrive back in the 6th around 11:30 PM.
I glance at the countdown on my phone and realize I have just 25 minutes to complete my Duolingo lesson or lose my 380-day streak.
If only it knew I’d been practicing French all day.
I make a quick call back home and head to bed.
Samedi
My alarm is set for 6:30 AM, so I won’t be rushing through the streets to meet the group like yesterday. It is so not très chic to rush.
I wake up at 7:23 AM to my alarm buzzing.
All good plans and all that, right?
It’s okay. I go down to breakfast.
“Bonjour, madame.”
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
The server remembers my juice order.
I have eggs, small French sausages, crepes with hazelnut spread, and the most delicious peach yogurt. It’s so good that I pull the label off so I can remember it for later.
The server brings out a chocolate gâteau and places it on the buffet.
“This is a homemade chocolate cake. You must try some.”
When in Rome... I mean, Paris.
I finish my slice of chocolate gâteau and get ready to leave.
The server clears away the plates, along with my yogurt label.
Ahh...
Well, there is always tomorrow to try to get another one.
I pocket two macarons as a snack for later.
Today we are going to Foire de Chatou, a twice-yearly Parisian brocante. We receive instructions on how to label any antiques we buy and how to fill out our purchase books if we need to use the shipping container.
I’m only half listening because I’m only looking for small treasures that can fit in my suitcase.
There is everything from copper watering cans, French flatware, ornate armoires, vintage Chanel and Burberry, and everything in between.
I wander past every vendor, gazing at their wares.
It’s customary to say “Bonjour” to each vendor you meet and “Au revoir” when you leave.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Combien?”
“Dix euros, madame.”
“Oui, merci.”
I end up with beautiful French clay pots, a bronze bird, an antique wine corkscrew, a very tiny wooden stool, a double-handled clay vase for my husband, and a wooden walking stick.
Among the antiques, there are also little places to stop for something to eat or drink. I decide to take a break and enjoy a glass of champagne before lunch.
After lunch, I’m exhausted and head back to the hotel. I don’t stay for long, though, as there are many more shops I want to visit.
Le Bon Marché... La Grande Épicerie de Paris.
I’m a lady on a mission.
I fill my basket with confectionery, chocolate and biscuits, cola-flavored marshmallows, and sweet hard candies for James, hoping the sugar high will make up for my time away.
I wander around the Épicerie and am offered a sample of caviar. I’ve never had caviar before, so I decide to try it.
The first kind is a bit too overtly fishy (imagine that), but the second, the more expensive one, is moreish and delicate.
The longer I walk around, the more I feel pressured to buy slabs and slabs of french butter.
Would I like to buy the famous Maison Bordier butter? Yes.
But the crowd of people around the display, all non-French, has taken the shine off it. I start to feel like I’m caught up in a TikTok trend and leave sans beurre.
Later that evening, I treat myself to dinner at Ralph’s.
I put on my vibrant blood-orange midi dress and head downstairs. The concierge tells me I look très magnifique.
It makes me feel like a million bucks.
Google Maps leads me astray yet again, and I end up going in the wrong direction.
Now is not the time to get lost.
With only minutes before my reservation, I pick up the pace.
Once again, not very très chic.
I arrive at Ralph’s and walk through the stone arch into the beautiful courtyard, where trees are covered in twinkly lights and oversized umbrellas shelter the tables. The tables are laid gorgeously with mismatched white and blue china.
I order a coupe de champagne and the warm lobster salad. For dessert, strawberry cheesecake, because there is always room for dessert in Paris.
C’était délicieux.
The sun starts to set, and by the time I’m finished, the glow of the candles is the only light around me.
Dimanche
I wake up with the windows open. The cafés are waking up, too, and I can hear the clink of glasses and the scraping of chairs being brought onto the sidewalks.
In the background, the garbage truck empties the bins up and down the street.
The sky is filled with pink and purple clouds, and the air is cool. I hear a shopkeeper sweeping the wet sidewalk. Bikes pedal down the Rue de Buci on this beautiful Sunday morning.
Good morning, Paris.
Today is another day of treasure hunting, but this time it’s at Le Marché aux Puces de Paris Saint-Ouen, a place of great historical significance for antiques.
I am pulled once again to the tiny wooden stools. For only 20 euros, I buy another one.
I have to stop myself from buying any more. Two is okay, but three? That’s just turning into an obsession.
After antiquing, we head to L’Arrosoir, the oldest floral shop in Paris. You walk in, and the scent of flowers fills the air. You can just feel that this is a place saturated with history. How many memories have been made here?
The lovely Lucille gives us a demonstration on how to make the perfect hand-tied French bouquet in the campagnard style. It’s meant to look like you’ve just picked flowers from a wild meadow.
We each get a bucket of flowers to create our own bouquet. It’s not so easy to do, twisting and turning, ensuring you create something wild yet beautiful.
I don’t fuss too much and let the flowers go where they want to.
When I arrive back at the hotel, I am stopped by Sanjay, the hotel concierge.
“Oh, madame, les fleurs sont magnifiques!”
I think he was the same person who called my dress magnifique. But I don’t mind. I’ll take the compliment.
Sanjay takes a few photos and tells me that he loves photography in his free time. He has a Nikon and a Canon at home.
After our photoshoot, I go up to my room, swing open the windows, and put my bouquet on the windowsill.
I promise myself that I will give myself extra time to get ready for dinner.
At 7:30 PM, I turn off Masterpiece’s Moonflower Murders and put on my new navy blue dress that I got at Monoprix. I add my red heart earrings and pearls, and I’m ready.
This time, I arrive at Georgette for dinner sans sweat.
Ahhh. Oui.
The Caesar salad is très délicieux. It has farmhouse chicken, the tiniest pieces of crispy bacon, sliced Parmesan, and buttery croutons.
Is it the best Caesar salad I’ve ever had, or is it just because I’m eating it in Paris, I wonder.
I’m not sure.
Does it really matter?
As I’m writing this (which is usually while I am at dinner), I have a feeling the couple next to me thinks I’m a food critic or some sort of travel writer. Maybe it’s because I’m dining alone with a notebook out, pen in hand.
They discreetly look my way and then at each other.
It’s either they think I have an ulterior motive for being there, or I have something stuck in my teeth.
Maybe both?
Shortly after, they finish their meal and wait for a taxi. The waiter discovers that the woman has forgotten her shoe.
We look at each other and laugh and call her Cinderella.
I wonder if she’ll come back.
To finish the evening, I order the seasonal berry vacherin.
A cloud on a plate, with meringue and French vanilla ice cream.
I end the night how I started, with a puff of clouds painted in beautiful colors.
My Paris adventure wasn’t over yet.
Not quite.
Until our next cup of tea,
Abby