Paris at Ease With Itself
On quiet codes and the small theatre of being seen
The door is at least four metres high, the colour of burgundy wine aged to perfection in a brick-vaulted cellar near Beaune. Its gloss clings to the massive oak like pinot noir tears, as if it preferred crystal to the crimson-painted lips of the woman with the boyish haircut. She has just raised her glass.
A toast to Paris.
Mr. Watson jumps over the brass threshold plate and onto the minuscule pavement of Rue de Miromesnil, walks thirty centimetres, and lifts his leg for a few sovereign drops. Enough for the neighbourhood dachshunds and bulldogs to know who runs this small stretch of the 8th Arrondissement. Another alpha male holds court just down the road.
Le Tricolore, on the corner of Avenue de Marigny, hangs as limp as some of France’s latest prime ministers. Reporters and camera crews have assembled to go live with updates on France’s position on the war in Iran. The empire is long gone, but not its attitude. Most of the crews are French, their microphones carrying the logos of the larger channels. Mobile journalists scramble for a place among them. From the Élysée garden, President Macron’s dog barks in protest. The chestnut trees burst into life in the spring sun, scattering a pattern of Kusama-like dots across the pavement.
Nemo keeps barking from inside the Élysée garden as we walk on, Mr. Watson’s lead pulled taut towards Square Marigny. A grey-haired woman, camped above a warm métro vent, slowly strokes the huge ginger cat nestled beside her in her sleeping bag, its eyes fixed on the pigeons circling and hopping through the air rising from below. Nearby, men in suits walk towards meetings, while women in heels and long spring coats cross the pavement, heads high, self-possessed, as if the city had arranged itself around them. The trees are in blossom.
Paris is perfectly at ease with itself. So are the Parisians.
The hostess at Le Grand Café reigns with enlightened authority from behind her computer, her court of black-and-white-clad waitresses close at hand. One springs into action and leads us to a table in the darkest corner, though the restaurant is awash with spring light and the low buzz of horse owners and special guests of the Saut Hermès. There is a way to refuse a table in a French restaurant. A certain elegant sovereignty, delivered with eloquence and a touch of humour, is enough to make the waitress reconsider. Three weeks of observing Parisians does the rest: we are led to a table in daylight.
Two men were shown to the table we just turned down and ended up next to us, the older of the two negotiating with the waitress. She gave in immediately. “I’ll be the woman,” says the other. He sinks into the banquette beside me as it sags under his weight. We look at each other and realise at once how ridiculous we both look, our torsos barely visible above the table while our companions tower over us from the other side.
They are property developers. I overhear them talking about new regulations and the inability of civil servants to understand their business. Politics comes up within the first ten minutes, as it does at every table you share with the French. I hear my neighbour rave about his new lawyer. The first thing he mentions is how well the man dresses and the effect he has on a room the moment he walks in. Attitude beats billing rates hands down.
R’s Steak à Cheval arrives as a perfect stack, the poached egg perched on top of the seared steak tartare. My Côtes d’Agneau arrives as an architectural composition Frank Gehry might have approved of. Eating Agneau des Pyrénées in spring is among the most perversely delicate experiences in French cuisine. But my sense of guilt disappears at the first bite.
At least the cows were spared for the indecent amounts of butter in the potato purée, I tell myself.
Mr. Watson scratches my leg, trying to close the gap to the lamb bones on my plate. He knows we’ll take them home, but patience has never been a Jack Russell’s virtue.
“Vous êtes très stylés,” our older neighbour says, addressing us without introduction. It happens to us regularly in Paris, and every time our shy “merci” falls short of how flattered we really feel.
Maybe we need more time in Paris. Time to learn how to accept compliments gracefully.
And be perfectly at ease with ourselves. Just like Parisians.
https://www.aestheticnomads.com/
THE ÆSTHETIC NOMADS BLUE BOOK: PARIS 8ÈME
SAUT HERMÈS
Horses on the Champs-Élysées? The world’s best show jumpers take over the Grand Palais for three days of competition. Charles de Gaulle watches unperturbed from his pedestal at the centre of the schooling ring. Book early if you want a seat.
Every year in March at the Grand Palais
Sauthermes.com
PRESTIGE CELLAR
Just steps from the Élysée Palace, this wine shop takes French wine as seriously as the republic takes itself. You can splurge on a flight of Château Pétrus or a magnum of Romanée-Conti, but the wiser move is to ask the team about lesser-known bottles from rising winemakers. You may leave with something exceptional and far less predictable. Also available online.
3, Rue de Miromesnil
prestige-cellar.fr
LE BRISTOL PARIS
More than a century old and still looking fresh. Le Bristol is about sophistication and elegance, not bling. You will be surrounded by businesspeople, diplomats, and the fashion crowd. Room rates too steep for your budget? There is a €75 lunch menu at 114 Faubourg, well judged for a one-star restaurant. Or indulge in the pastries, viennoiseries, and chocolates at L’Épicerie, all homemade.
112, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré
oetkerhotels.com/hotels/le-bristol-paris
LAURENT
The delicately pink mansion, partly hidden by the trees of Square Marigny, began life as a hunting pavilion under Louis XIV. It later became a tavern frequented by revolutionaries and, by the end of the 20th century, a discreet refuge where Élysée power brokers closed deals in private salons. Pick a sunny day and ask for lunch on the terrace.
41, Avenue Gabriel
laurent.paris
LARDANCHET
We had passed this art bookshop on the corner for years before finally giving it the attention it deserved. Owned and run by the Meaudre brothers, Thierry looks after the art books while Bertrand oversees the rare books and editions on the first floor. A catalogue raisonné of Matisse sits beside Miroir de la Tauromachie, a limited edition of four Francis Bacon lithographs.
100, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré
Lardanchet.fr
LE GRAND CAFÉ
Restaurants should not only be good. They should also be beautiful. Le Grand Café is majestic. Huge yet intimate, it occupies the first floor of the Grand Palais. The terrace is overwhelming in scale and still manages to feel private. It was too cold to sit outside when we were there, but on a sunny day this is where you want lunch.
1, Place Clemenceau