I recently had cause while chatting with a friend to think about peeping Toms. I had not thought of this subject in many years and I wondered if there are fewer peeping Toms because previous participants are now on the Internet gawking away or if increased home security programs prevent such predilections or if there is activity and I just don’t hear about it in Coconut Grove, FL.
At any rate, I was reminded of one of the most exciting evenings of my young life when a suspected peeping Tom was in our neighborhood. As a very small child, we lived on a most lovely boulevard, lined with beautiful trees and charming cottages and one-story homes.
One summer evening when I was about six, we got a call from our next door neighbor, Mrs. Collins, coincidentally the mother of my dad’s best friend, Paul Collins, and who was usually just called Collins in the neighborhood, but Mother insisted that we call her Mrs. Collins. She reported in hushed tones that the lady across the street two doors down had heard from another lady that there was a peeping Tom loose. She insisted that we come to her house immediately. “Popcorn is on,” she said.
Mother demurred as she did not want to risk being accosted by said perpetrator while we crossed the 25 feet to Mrs. Collins’ house. Mother and I were alone, per usual, because my father worked most evenings until 10:00 at his drugstore. After a little thought, Mother decided that we should not be alone in “this hour of decision” as she referred to any crisis. I was never sure what a decision had to do with the pending crisis at hand, but I sure understood the code. There was going to be much drama! And, Mrs. Collins always fixed Jiffy Pop popcorn in moments of stress.
I am sure that you probably know about Jiffy Pop popcorn, but just to underscore its fabulousness, I will tell you that it was a bunch of popcorn kernels in an aluminum pan with a foil lid and metal handle. You heated it on the stove and the aluminum foil would expand and expand in the most delightfully alarming way. Just when you couldn’t stand it any more, it would burst open and there would be this horribly acrid popcorn, but it was so thrilling that you didn’t mind.
Mrs. Collins had as her houseguest a cousin from “up in the country” who was mild and agreeable, but slightly agitated about the current state of affairs. There was much discussion about lights off or on, candlelight or flashlight. Did we want to see the fellow’s face? Did we want to risk being identified? The houseguest ventured, “I can’t wait to see him”.
While we were waiting, Mrs. Collins got to laughing. She said to her houseguest, “Do you remember when there was a peeping Tom in Cousin Bombay’s neighborhood and she went upstairs to get away from the windows? Well, sir, he pulled a ladder over to her second floor bedroom window and peeked in and she peed in her breeches and had to run to the bathroom while he stood there looking in.” Mrs. Collins reported this with so much pride and glee that it was hard to remember that an actual crime was involved
This accounting of a real peeping Tom titillated and horrified me all at once. Why would anyone want to run to the bathroom after they had already gone to the bathroom? Why would they want to miss one minute of this excitement? What urge drove this man to get a ladder and how did he know exactly which window? Also, you must remember that, at that time, the word “pee” was not bandied about like an after-dinner mint as it is today. That alone was shocking, so shocking that I would never even repeat that part of the story to anyone until recently.
Just after this anecdote was related, the phone rang and the neighbor announced that it had been a false alarm. A teenage boy was taking a shortcut and happened to glance in Mrs. White’s window while she was standing in her bra and girdle. We sat crestfallen in candlelight amid the ruins of the Jiffy Pop. Mrs. Collins insisted that my father come over and walk us home “just in case”.
This theme continued to emanate through the years. For example, when we moved into our more upscale home in a subdivision, I would often stand in front of the sheer drape that covered my bedroom window, lost in thought. If Mother happened to walk by and see me, she would go cuckoo and remind me that “insert neighbor boy here” would like nothing better than to see my unclothed figure at the window. She had a point, so I was more careful about closing the drapes, but I never tired of hearing her tell about the night we almost saw a peeping Tom.
Many years later, I lived in New York and could see across First Avenue into the gigantic UN Plaza apartment building where such stalwarts of NYC as Truman Capote, Bobby Kennedy, and Johnny Carson had owned living quarters. I could clearly see into many apartments and loved to see how they were decorated. One in particular that I took to be a relative of Diana Vreeland’s always fascinated me. The walls were all red and the furniture was all baroque. I could not imagine that someone really lived there, but I could see their shadowy selves moving around every night. What I enjoyed the most was seeing that these inhabitants of this, to me, magical building were doing just what I was doing—watching TV, eating dinner, chatting with each other. This was always very comforting to me and I greatly missed this diversion when I moved back to Boston.
Could I be considered a peeping Tom? I think not, only extremely curious. Let me know what you find out about any sightings in your neighborhood and remember to keep your curtains drawn.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Family of One Has an Unpleasant Encounter in Paris
As previously related, I had the most splendid time in Paris with nary an uncomfortable exchange or stressful moment--except for one which took place in the cozy, charming lobby of the Hotel Sainte-Beuve--and involved, bien sur, an American.
Picture a tiny boutique hotel just off Boulevard Raspail. Enter the front door and, to the right, is a lovely little sitting room with two couches, a few tables with interesting tchotchkes, and a demeure fire. Just behind this sitting room is a more modern area with several sectional sofas and a couple of small dining tables with chairs. This is the area where breakfast is served. It is also charming.
After a lovely dinner at Sensing, considered the "anti-bistro" for its modern stylings and fare, I returned home, looking forward to a quick chat with ma mere--also known as Mother-- and then relaxing in front of the well-needed fire with my iPod.
I had sent Mother print-outs of where I would be staying; unfortunately, the one for the Sainte-Beuve had described it as being on an alley, so Mother thought that this had robbery AND kidnapping written all over it. I was happy to give her a quick call when I returned from dinner.
As I entered the hotel, I glanced to my right to see that a lady of around 60 was comfortably ensconced on one of the sofas. Wanting to be considerate, I went to the part of the lobby with the dining tables which is separated from the living room with several posts, a couple of replicas of the Washington Monument, and some large plants. As you know, I am a stickler for cell phone etiquette, so reminded myself to keep voice low and conversation brief. Then, I could lounge on the other sofa.
The call was predictably brief--remember that I always give miscreants at the Biltmore gym five minutes for any call--but then Mother decided to discuss issues about the care for Aunt Louise. I pondered going to my room, but the elevator would disconnect the call and she was saying, interestingly, some very wise things.
Suddenly, this lady climbs over the partition, between the Washington Monuments, and says, "Could you please take your conversation elsewhere?"
I nodded and said, "of course".
Mother immediately reacts--"is that a kidnapper? Don't talk to anyone. Don't give out any information."
I attempt to get us back on track, albeit briefly.
I say to the woman, "I have a very ill relative back in the States and we are discussing her care. I will finish this up quickly, please indulge me".
About another three minutes go by. I wind up the call, but not before the woman again climbs over the partition and tells me to either take the call downstairs to the toilet or go outside. She also says, "I can tell you are from the South and you people pride yourself on your good manners. I know you would not want to be considered rude."
I hang up. The woman climbs back through the partition for the third time, now to be begin the lecture in earnest. She went from societal influences, the death of good manners, the advent of the cell phone, the importance of self-protection.
I thought it best to let her have her say, but finally said, "I am so sorry that I disrupted your evening. It is hard to get a good signal in my room and, by coming to this part of the lobby, I thought I was signalling to you that I was respecting your privacy. I, too, am in need of some quiet time as I have been dealing with this ongoing drama for several months, so I know how you feel".
Her response--"I, too, have a very ill relative back in the States and I came to Paris to forget about it for awhile, but you have succeeded in doing nothing but reminding me". Editorial note--I somehow didn't buy this--just a little too convenient--and I was starting to think she might be slightly psycho.
I murmured my sympathy, turned on my iPod, and proceeded to lounge on the sectional sofa as if I were back in the triplex.
Once again, she climbs through the partition--this is getting a little silly. She starts again on "you people from the South" and "why did you think that you invented good manners?" and "where were you when that lesson was taught?"
I am now more amused than anything. I have briefly reflected on my own shushings and realize that I have never emitted more than a sharp SHHHHHH or, on occasion, had a brief, but pointed, dialogue, focusing on the situation at hand, not a history of manners in the United States. Note to self--do not adopt this strategy.
I stand up and look her straight in the eye as she dangles between the two Washington Monuments. "This is quiet time now", I say. I put my fingers to my lips. "Let's see how quiet we can be. Let’s be very, very quiet”. She keeps nattering. I smile wistfully. “I am going to come over and sit in front of the fire with my music”. She keeps blabbing.
When I don’t engage with her, she becomes quiet. Suddenly, in a moment that she has obviously been practicing mentally, she stands up and makes a grand exit to the elevator like Katharine Cornell in a Broadway play from the 1930s. “Just like all people from the South, you may think that you have the premium on good manners, but from my experience with you tonight, it is clear that you don’t”. Exit to waiting elevator.
I sigh. I shake my head. I continue to listen to show tunes. The fire is just wonderful. Not another soul comes into the lobby.
Picture a tiny boutique hotel just off Boulevard Raspail. Enter the front door and, to the right, is a lovely little sitting room with two couches, a few tables with interesting tchotchkes, and a demeure fire. Just behind this sitting room is a more modern area with several sectional sofas and a couple of small dining tables with chairs. This is the area where breakfast is served. It is also charming.
After a lovely dinner at Sensing, considered the "anti-bistro" for its modern stylings and fare, I returned home, looking forward to a quick chat with ma mere--also known as Mother-- and then relaxing in front of the well-needed fire with my iPod.
I had sent Mother print-outs of where I would be staying; unfortunately, the one for the Sainte-Beuve had described it as being on an alley, so Mother thought that this had robbery AND kidnapping written all over it. I was happy to give her a quick call when I returned from dinner.
As I entered the hotel, I glanced to my right to see that a lady of around 60 was comfortably ensconced on one of the sofas. Wanting to be considerate, I went to the part of the lobby with the dining tables which is separated from the living room with several posts, a couple of replicas of the Washington Monument, and some large plants. As you know, I am a stickler for cell phone etiquette, so reminded myself to keep voice low and conversation brief. Then, I could lounge on the other sofa.
The call was predictably brief--remember that I always give miscreants at the Biltmore gym five minutes for any call--but then Mother decided to discuss issues about the care for Aunt Louise. I pondered going to my room, but the elevator would disconnect the call and she was saying, interestingly, some very wise things.
Suddenly, this lady climbs over the partition, between the Washington Monuments, and says, "Could you please take your conversation elsewhere?"
I nodded and said, "of course".
Mother immediately reacts--"is that a kidnapper? Don't talk to anyone. Don't give out any information."
I attempt to get us back on track, albeit briefly.
I say to the woman, "I have a very ill relative back in the States and we are discussing her care. I will finish this up quickly, please indulge me".
About another three minutes go by. I wind up the call, but not before the woman again climbs over the partition and tells me to either take the call downstairs to the toilet or go outside. She also says, "I can tell you are from the South and you people pride yourself on your good manners. I know you would not want to be considered rude."
I hang up. The woman climbs back through the partition for the third time, now to be begin the lecture in earnest. She went from societal influences, the death of good manners, the advent of the cell phone, the importance of self-protection.
I thought it best to let her have her say, but finally said, "I am so sorry that I disrupted your evening. It is hard to get a good signal in my room and, by coming to this part of the lobby, I thought I was signalling to you that I was respecting your privacy. I, too, am in need of some quiet time as I have been dealing with this ongoing drama for several months, so I know how you feel".
Her response--"I, too, have a very ill relative back in the States and I came to Paris to forget about it for awhile, but you have succeeded in doing nothing but reminding me". Editorial note--I somehow didn't buy this--just a little too convenient--and I was starting to think she might be slightly psycho.
I murmured my sympathy, turned on my iPod, and proceeded to lounge on the sectional sofa as if I were back in the triplex.
Once again, she climbs through the partition--this is getting a little silly. She starts again on "you people from the South" and "why did you think that you invented good manners?" and "where were you when that lesson was taught?"
I am now more amused than anything. I have briefly reflected on my own shushings and realize that I have never emitted more than a sharp SHHHHHH or, on occasion, had a brief, but pointed, dialogue, focusing on the situation at hand, not a history of manners in the United States. Note to self--do not adopt this strategy.
I stand up and look her straight in the eye as she dangles between the two Washington Monuments. "This is quiet time now", I say. I put my fingers to my lips. "Let's see how quiet we can be. Let’s be very, very quiet”. She keeps nattering. I smile wistfully. “I am going to come over and sit in front of the fire with my music”. She keeps blabbing.
When I don’t engage with her, she becomes quiet. Suddenly, in a moment that she has obviously been practicing mentally, she stands up and makes a grand exit to the elevator like Katharine Cornell in a Broadway play from the 1930s. “Just like all people from the South, you may think that you have the premium on good manners, but from my experience with you tonight, it is clear that you don’t”. Exit to waiting elevator.
I sigh. I shake my head. I continue to listen to show tunes. The fire is just wonderful. Not another soul comes into the lobby.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Family of One Celebrates Valentine's Day
Valentine's Day is a pretty rough holiday for someone living alone. To tell the truth, it has never been a particularly fun day for me even when I was with someone. While I was strolling back from church today, I tried to think of one warm Valentine's Day memory from my days with G and could not come up with one. But, in the first years that I was on my own, the day was fraught with anxiety. People--well-meaning, albeit--would say one of the following: "Don't worry, next year you will be with someone"; "don't worry, you won't always be alone"; "don't worry, next week you will be with someone". I always bought into their sagacity. After all, wasn't Valentines meant to symbolize the importance of being in a a couple and never to stop striving for that happiness?
Several years ago, it occurred to me that I might not be with anyone any time soon and that was OK. And, even when I do meet someone lovely, I don't think the trigger will be Valentine's Day. But, that doesn't mean that I turned into one of those curmudgeons who says--"oh, that is just a day that the greeting card company made up to make money". I actually think it has a very sweet purpose.
Now I take the opportunity to send a few cards to my beloved treasures of friends and a few gifts here and there--old friends, new friends-- and I try to think of something whimsical for Mother. This year I sent her the Mardi Gras beads that my friend C brought me when she stayed with me for the Super Bowl and a selection of perfume samples that I had been collecting. She was thrilled and wore the beads to Costa's Fish House as soon as she received them.
Later today, I will fix a selection of treats including some foie gras that I brought back from Paris and I'll listen to some delightful jazz. I'll browse through the cards that I received and cherish the handmade Valentine from my 90 year old father. I'll think with warmth about those of you who are celebrating wonderful relationships and toast you with my Bordeaux.
And, I will start giggling, as I always do, when I think about the most wonderful Valentine message that I ever received from an--shall we say--admirer--and I am cleaning this up to a PG rated version for public consumption--I wish for you much copulation and foreplay in the year ahead.
Several years ago, it occurred to me that I might not be with anyone any time soon and that was OK. And, even when I do meet someone lovely, I don't think the trigger will be Valentine's Day. But, that doesn't mean that I turned into one of those curmudgeons who says--"oh, that is just a day that the greeting card company made up to make money". I actually think it has a very sweet purpose.
Now I take the opportunity to send a few cards to my beloved treasures of friends and a few gifts here and there--old friends, new friends-- and I try to think of something whimsical for Mother. This year I sent her the Mardi Gras beads that my friend C brought me when she stayed with me for the Super Bowl and a selection of perfume samples that I had been collecting. She was thrilled and wore the beads to Costa's Fish House as soon as she received them.
Later today, I will fix a selection of treats including some foie gras that I brought back from Paris and I'll listen to some delightful jazz. I'll browse through the cards that I received and cherish the handmade Valentine from my 90 year old father. I'll think with warmth about those of you who are celebrating wonderful relationships and toast you with my Bordeaux.
And, I will start giggling, as I always do, when I think about the most wonderful Valentine message that I ever received from an--shall we say--admirer--and I am cleaning this up to a PG rated version for public consumption--I wish for you much copulation and foreplay in the year ahead.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Family of One Prepares a Salad for Eight
I love my new church and was very happy to hear that there would be Dinners for Eight, organized by a couple in the church wherein we could sign up and be assigned a dish and a host.
Faithful readers will remember that I am not usually a fan of such events, but, I thought it might be worth a try to have this experience.
At my old church, I actually had headed up an effort to begin such an endeavor, but the politics were just too overwhelming--what about a vegan host? what about children? what about children where alcohol was served? My nerves were frayed after one meeting.
So, when my hostess called this week, I was delighted to hear from her. She told me that I had been assigned the salad. Immediate flashback to my old church and how the older, slightly sad single ladies were always assigned the salad for church functions and they brought a huge aluminum pan of iceberg lettuce and weary sliced tomatoes from Publix.
Was this what I was supposed to do? Maybe this is what folks wanted for "salad"? Herein, our conversation--
MJS--What do you mean by salad?
Nice lady (NL)--Well, you know, some lettuce and maybe a tomato. . voice drifts off. .
MJS--(picturing the description above)--I don't think that I have ever prepared a salad for more than two people. I'm not exactly sure what you are expecting.
NL--(starting to wish she had called someone else first and thinking to herself that this call should have taken about two minutes from her day)--Well, I don't think this should be that difficult. Would you like to bring the appetizer?
MJS--(feeling like such an underachiever because she can't bring the salad)--No, I am determined to bring the salad. But, you see, I consider myself a bit of a gourmet cook. If you are expecting iceberg lettuce and a sliced tomatoes, this is probably not the best dish for me to bring.
NL--(now wishing that she had a nerve pill) I am sure you will bring something that we will all enjoy (and silently hoping that I am also medicating myself the dinner)
MJS--How about green leaf lettuce, arugula, and mache with sliced heirloom tomatoes, sliced mushrooms, and a homemade vinaigrette-I make all of my salad dressings.
NL--silence
MJS--Would that be OK?
NL--Are you making that up?
MJS--I hope that it is the kind of salad that folks would like, but if it is too fancy, I understand.
NL-You are like a dream come true. I can't believe you would bring something so lovely. That sounds absolutely marvelous.
MJS--I am happy to do that, I just don't want to look out of place if a more traditional salad is preferred (how diplomatic was that?)
NL--I look forward to meeting you and I hope that you will always be assigned to my house.
After this conversation, I call Mother to tell her about this and distract her from the ongoing sad saga that is Aunt Louise.
Mother--Lord help, that lady is sorry she ever got your name. Don't you know she was wishing she had just asked you to bring the beverages? But, you would make a production out of that. Can't you just act like you have good sense? Why would you need to go into all of that? Just put some lettuce in an aluminum pan and slice up some tomatoes.
So, for the record--here is the salad--
Mache/arugula/ green leaf lettuce
Grape tomatoes (from Homestead, so nice and fresh)
Cucumber
Squash
Baby bella mushrooms
Shredded carrot (more for color than taste)
Avocado
Pumpkin seeds
Vinaigrette made from champagne vinegar and basil oil.
BTW, no applewood smoked bacon--although it was tempting since you know how much I love cooking with it.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Faithful readers will remember that I am not usually a fan of such events, but, I thought it might be worth a try to have this experience.
At my old church, I actually had headed up an effort to begin such an endeavor, but the politics were just too overwhelming--what about a vegan host? what about children? what about children where alcohol was served? My nerves were frayed after one meeting.
So, when my hostess called this week, I was delighted to hear from her. She told me that I had been assigned the salad. Immediate flashback to my old church and how the older, slightly sad single ladies were always assigned the salad for church functions and they brought a huge aluminum pan of iceberg lettuce and weary sliced tomatoes from Publix.
Was this what I was supposed to do? Maybe this is what folks wanted for "salad"? Herein, our conversation--
MJS--What do you mean by salad?
Nice lady (NL)--Well, you know, some lettuce and maybe a tomato. . voice drifts off. .
MJS--(picturing the description above)--I don't think that I have ever prepared a salad for more than two people. I'm not exactly sure what you are expecting.
NL--(starting to wish she had called someone else first and thinking to herself that this call should have taken about two minutes from her day)--Well, I don't think this should be that difficult. Would you like to bring the appetizer?
MJS--(feeling like such an underachiever because she can't bring the salad)--No, I am determined to bring the salad. But, you see, I consider myself a bit of a gourmet cook. If you are expecting iceberg lettuce and a sliced tomatoes, this is probably not the best dish for me to bring.
NL--(now wishing that she had a nerve pill) I am sure you will bring something that we will all enjoy (and silently hoping that I am also medicating myself the dinner)
MJS--How about green leaf lettuce, arugula, and mache with sliced heirloom tomatoes, sliced mushrooms, and a homemade vinaigrette-I make all of my salad dressings.
NL--silence
MJS--Would that be OK?
NL--Are you making that up?
MJS--I hope that it is the kind of salad that folks would like, but if it is too fancy, I understand.
NL-You are like a dream come true. I can't believe you would bring something so lovely. That sounds absolutely marvelous.
MJS--I am happy to do that, I just don't want to look out of place if a more traditional salad is preferred (how diplomatic was that?)
NL--I look forward to meeting you and I hope that you will always be assigned to my house.
After this conversation, I call Mother to tell her about this and distract her from the ongoing sad saga that is Aunt Louise.
Mother--Lord help, that lady is sorry she ever got your name. Don't you know she was wishing she had just asked you to bring the beverages? But, you would make a production out of that. Can't you just act like you have good sense? Why would you need to go into all of that? Just put some lettuce in an aluminum pan and slice up some tomatoes.
So, for the record--here is the salad--
Mache/arugula/ green leaf lettuce
Grape tomatoes (from Homestead, so nice and fresh)
Cucumber
Squash
Baby bella mushrooms
Shredded carrot (more for color than taste)
Avocado
Pumpkin seeds
Vinaigrette made from champagne vinegar and basil oil.
BTW, no applewood smoked bacon--although it was tempting since you know how much I love cooking with it.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Family of One Has a Lovely Vacation
As you may know,I recently went to Paris. Having had a particularly stressful few weeks what with the holidays and end of year custom text shipments and dealing with a health crisis with Aunt Louise, I really needed to get away. Do you understand that feeling when you need to get away, but you are afraid to acknowledge it in case it doesn't happen? That is how I felt.
The day before I was to leave, major decisions had to be made about Aunt Louise. These decisions are, of course, always monitored with the help of Mother. Need I say more about my stress level?
Thankfully, every single thing came together at about 11:15 AM and I was leaving for the airport at !2:00 PM. Although Mother did point out that my timing was rather bad. It turns out that my timing was good because Aunt Louise settled into her longterm care facility just fine. There weren't even any kidnappers lurking around.
I knew that this trip was going to have a different feel when I got to Philadelphia and the lady in the Envoy lounge asked if I would like to be moved to row 1. I am usually suspicious of "gifts" so hesitated for a moment, then remembered that row 1 is the row where the seats become beds. I couldn't say yes fast enough. It was also interesting because Elizabeth is the same lady who always checks me and I stand in her line even if there is a wait. On this occasion, several ladies were just sitting there and started taunting me that I should check in with them because Elizabeth was too old. I think they were kidding; however, I stayed with Elizabeth and it was worth it.
Just anticipating having a bed made me as giddy as if Warren Beatty was picking me at the airport and driving me to Provence for the weekend. And, after my crazy few days, it was the most wonderful feeling, after the pseudo-gourmet meal, to recline and actually sleep. My friend K has forbidden me to actually book Row 1 moving forward. She says that I can justify outlandish expenditures better than Dolly Parton at a wig convention. Indeed, I am already thinking. . .now if I only took ONE trip a year. . could I splurge on the bed? Nah, just thinking out loud.
I had a lovely couple of days at the Pavillon de la Reine, a small hotel on Place des Vosges and then I moved over to what I consider my Paris spot--the Sainte-Beuve.
I arrived on Saturday and, on Wednesday, I had that day that we all hope to have when we go on vacation--that absolutely perfect day that we always reflect on and that keeps us planning vacations because it is so sublime. On a slightly drizzly morning, I took a cab to Fauchon in the Place de la Madeleine from where I was going to stroll over to Le Meurice for lunch. I left plenty of time for procuring gourmet treats and strolling. I finished up with lots of time to spare--in fact, I had an hour to kill. What to do? Angelina for their legendary hot chocolate--no, too rich before lunch;more shopping--no, I didn't want to carry more bags; oh, there's the Ritz--what about a pre-lunch glass of champagne?
I am seated on the banquette where I have sat before and enjoyed a glass of the house champagne along with marcona almonds and a selection of olives. And a USA Today. There is hardly anyone there, so I can enjoy the coziness and understated decor all to myself. By the time I leave, folks are starting to come in, especially women wearing Hermes scarves tied in ways that I can never seem to pull off.
On to Le Meurice. This has to be one of the most beautiful dining rooms in the world. It is a grand room with large windows overlooking the Tuileries. There are four chandeliers, incredible Baroque art, and much, much gilt. It is probably the closest that I--or anyone--will ever come to eating in a palace. It is worth the $$ to just sit there. But, then, there is the view of the Tuileries which, in the winter light, is somber, but stunning.
I had told myself that, having had less than stellar meals last year when I ordered the Prix Fixe menus at fancy places, I would order a la carte. One look at the menu and I had to rethink that strategy as an appetizer was around $120 and a main course was around $150. I don't mind being self-indulgent, but I do have my boundaries.
Because I loved everything on "Le Dejeuner" and because almost everyone was ordering it, I had it as well. It was luscious and rich and memorable---just like one would imagine:
Vol-au-Vent a la tour de Nesle which was a lovely rich soup with escargots and mushrooms, slightly robust, but not overwhelming.
Filet de sole braise a joinville which had to be cooked twice because the chef was not happy with the first preparation and was served in a jus d'huitres that was light, but so flavorful
Fricassee de rognon de veau a la grainte de moutarde which were perfectly prepared veal kidneys served with incredible creamed potatoes. Never did I think that veal kidneys could be so delectable.
Moka-- served as a cake roll which was fabulous although I was starting to get very full because there had also been amuse-bouches, incredible bread, etc.
For the wine, I enjoyed, in addition to a glass of Bollinger, a glass of Chassagne Montrachet 2006 and a Chateauneuf du Pape "boisrenard", both of which were so unique in their tastes--woodsy and dank for the Montrachet and velvety and rich for the red.
Feeling incredibly blissful, I climbed into a cab and was transported back to the Sainte-Beuve where I wasted no time taking a long, restorative nap.
Around 8:00, I strolled over to a place where I had been the night before called Sensing. It is a new "anti-bistro" in Montparnasse, very modern in decor. I told le directeur that I had dined at Le Meurice for lunch. He invited me in and insisted that I have an appetizer sampler with only four tastes on it, a bit of cheese, and a frozen clementine souffle. The perfect end to my day.
Well, no, not the end. I strolled back to the hotel and encamped on a couch in front of a faltering, but lovely, fire with a glass of red wine and listened to my iPod to my heart's content. The next day, I slept until noon.
If snyone ever says to you, why would anyone take a vacation by themselves, I want you to tell them about this day because it was the standard. But, not because everything was so ritzy (no pun intended). It was because there were such unexpected delights as well as moments that I had anticipated for months. Everything came together and nothing was grating. It was like a day in a bubble which is a vacation should be.
And, just to bring the trip full circle, as I was boarding the plane to Miami from Philadelphia, who spots me but a dear friend who is an employee of the airlines, also heading back to MIA. He offers me a ride home which I gratefully accept. I come out of the baggage terminal as he pulls up. Anyone who has ever dealt with accepting a ride at MIA knows what a nightmare it can be. So, the ease of jumping into a waiting vehicle was, in itself, a small miracle.
I arrived at the triplex not mopey or sad, but invigorated by running into my friend and pondering how the unexpected serendipitous moments of this trip would be with me always.
More later.
The day before I was to leave, major decisions had to be made about Aunt Louise. These decisions are, of course, always monitored with the help of Mother. Need I say more about my stress level?
Thankfully, every single thing came together at about 11:15 AM and I was leaving for the airport at !2:00 PM. Although Mother did point out that my timing was rather bad. It turns out that my timing was good because Aunt Louise settled into her longterm care facility just fine. There weren't even any kidnappers lurking around.
I knew that this trip was going to have a different feel when I got to Philadelphia and the lady in the Envoy lounge asked if I would like to be moved to row 1. I am usually suspicious of "gifts" so hesitated for a moment, then remembered that row 1 is the row where the seats become beds. I couldn't say yes fast enough. It was also interesting because Elizabeth is the same lady who always checks me and I stand in her line even if there is a wait. On this occasion, several ladies were just sitting there and started taunting me that I should check in with them because Elizabeth was too old. I think they were kidding; however, I stayed with Elizabeth and it was worth it.
Just anticipating having a bed made me as giddy as if Warren Beatty was picking me at the airport and driving me to Provence for the weekend. And, after my crazy few days, it was the most wonderful feeling, after the pseudo-gourmet meal, to recline and actually sleep. My friend K has forbidden me to actually book Row 1 moving forward. She says that I can justify outlandish expenditures better than Dolly Parton at a wig convention. Indeed, I am already thinking. . .now if I only took ONE trip a year. . could I splurge on the bed? Nah, just thinking out loud.
I had a lovely couple of days at the Pavillon de la Reine, a small hotel on Place des Vosges and then I moved over to what I consider my Paris spot--the Sainte-Beuve.
I arrived on Saturday and, on Wednesday, I had that day that we all hope to have when we go on vacation--that absolutely perfect day that we always reflect on and that keeps us planning vacations because it is so sublime. On a slightly drizzly morning, I took a cab to Fauchon in the Place de la Madeleine from where I was going to stroll over to Le Meurice for lunch. I left plenty of time for procuring gourmet treats and strolling. I finished up with lots of time to spare--in fact, I had an hour to kill. What to do? Angelina for their legendary hot chocolate--no, too rich before lunch;more shopping--no, I didn't want to carry more bags; oh, there's the Ritz--what about a pre-lunch glass of champagne?
I am seated on the banquette where I have sat before and enjoyed a glass of the house champagne along with marcona almonds and a selection of olives. And a USA Today. There is hardly anyone there, so I can enjoy the coziness and understated decor all to myself. By the time I leave, folks are starting to come in, especially women wearing Hermes scarves tied in ways that I can never seem to pull off.
On to Le Meurice. This has to be one of the most beautiful dining rooms in the world. It is a grand room with large windows overlooking the Tuileries. There are four chandeliers, incredible Baroque art, and much, much gilt. It is probably the closest that I--or anyone--will ever come to eating in a palace. It is worth the $$ to just sit there. But, then, there is the view of the Tuileries which, in the winter light, is somber, but stunning.
I had told myself that, having had less than stellar meals last year when I ordered the Prix Fixe menus at fancy places, I would order a la carte. One look at the menu and I had to rethink that strategy as an appetizer was around $120 and a main course was around $150. I don't mind being self-indulgent, but I do have my boundaries.
Because I loved everything on "Le Dejeuner" and because almost everyone was ordering it, I had it as well. It was luscious and rich and memorable---just like one would imagine:
Vol-au-Vent a la tour de Nesle which was a lovely rich soup with escargots and mushrooms, slightly robust, but not overwhelming.
Filet de sole braise a joinville which had to be cooked twice because the chef was not happy with the first preparation and was served in a jus d'huitres that was light, but so flavorful
Fricassee de rognon de veau a la grainte de moutarde which were perfectly prepared veal kidneys served with incredible creamed potatoes. Never did I think that veal kidneys could be so delectable.
Moka-- served as a cake roll which was fabulous although I was starting to get very full because there had also been amuse-bouches, incredible bread, etc.
For the wine, I enjoyed, in addition to a glass of Bollinger, a glass of Chassagne Montrachet 2006 and a Chateauneuf du Pape "boisrenard", both of which were so unique in their tastes--woodsy and dank for the Montrachet and velvety and rich for the red.
Feeling incredibly blissful, I climbed into a cab and was transported back to the Sainte-Beuve where I wasted no time taking a long, restorative nap.
Around 8:00, I strolled over to a place where I had been the night before called Sensing. It is a new "anti-bistro" in Montparnasse, very modern in decor. I told le directeur that I had dined at Le Meurice for lunch. He invited me in and insisted that I have an appetizer sampler with only four tastes on it, a bit of cheese, and a frozen clementine souffle. The perfect end to my day.
Well, no, not the end. I strolled back to the hotel and encamped on a couch in front of a faltering, but lovely, fire with a glass of red wine and listened to my iPod to my heart's content. The next day, I slept until noon.
If snyone ever says to you, why would anyone take a vacation by themselves, I want you to tell them about this day because it was the standard. But, not because everything was so ritzy (no pun intended). It was because there were such unexpected delights as well as moments that I had anticipated for months. Everything came together and nothing was grating. It was like a day in a bubble which is a vacation should be.
And, just to bring the trip full circle, as I was boarding the plane to Miami from Philadelphia, who spots me but a dear friend who is an employee of the airlines, also heading back to MIA. He offers me a ride home which I gratefully accept. I come out of the baggage terminal as he pulls up. Anyone who has ever dealt with accepting a ride at MIA knows what a nightmare it can be. So, the ease of jumping into a waiting vehicle was, in itself, a small miracle.
I arrived at the triplex not mopey or sad, but invigorated by running into my friend and pondering how the unexpected serendipitous moments of this trip would be with me always.
More later.
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