I had one of the most lovely experiences at a Saturday night movie in Miami that I have had in years. Driving home along the leafy, winding roads to Coconut Grove, I thought--why can't all experiences at Miami theaters be like this? The movie that I saw was nothing special---Just Wright--which is a fun little romance with Queen Latifah, plenty of NBA action, some jazz, and some stunning shots of NYC. What was best about the movie was the audience--about 50% of the theater full of folks of all ages including one whole row of teenage girls. No one kept their blackberry on, issuing that annoying light. No one talked on the phone. No one screamed out or talked incessantly. And, here is the part where I felt like I was in a dual reality--folks were shouting at the scream, en masse, "kiss her" and hissing at the villianess and breaking into applause at the appropriate times. There was--and I hate to use this cliched phrase-such a wonderful energy that I left the theater so in love with Miami.
This is not usually the case, especially on Saturday nights, as moviegoers in Miami tend to be loud, selfish, stupid, and rude. I continually have to play MJ Southern, movie palace policewoman, which distracts from my overall film experience as well as possibly earns me death threats or, at the very least, nails in my Camry tires.
In fact, I try to go to the movies in NYC as much as I can because the audiences there are so respectful. I recently saw The Secret in Their Eyes at the Lincoln Cinema Plaza, an arthouse that could definitely use a sprucing up. But, I loved it because, even though the theater was completely full, there was total silence and no eerie lights emamanting from people's laps. Of course, the median age of attendees was probably 52, but nonetheless, it was refreshing to attend a movie where folks actually wanted to watch it.
I have been grappling with what do about asking folks to shut off their blackberries. I would be very interested in your thoughts on this. Shushing people is not that difficult, but asking them to keep their texting and incessant checking delayed until after the movie is something that I have not mastered. The few times that I have said, "could you turn that off until after the movie?", I only get comments like "this can't be bothering you" or "I'm not talking" or "I can't be out of touch" or "shut your hole, Granny". I made that last one up, but it's pretty close to a real reaction.
Lately, this is what I have been doing. At the sure-to-be-a-classic Hot Tub Time Travel, I was surrounded by folks with their phones glowing merrily and the sound of Chiclets being chewed in SurroundSound. These people were, for the most past, what appeared to be UM students, so I had a real challenge to untether them from their life support. The fellow on my left appeared to be a graduate student, so a little older and hopefully wiser. Every time he lit up his device, I leaned over and said, "who are we texting now?" This, of course, garnered me exasperated and even irritated looks, but I kept this going. Now, people around us were shushing me, but I said, "I am just seeing what my seatmate is texting, so you'll have to forgive us". I stared him straight in the eye and said, "look, I will annoy you to death as long as you are annoying me with your blackberry. Every time you look at it and that light comes on, I want to see what is being written to you. You feel that it is OK to disrupt my viewing experience, so I have the same right to disrupt yours. Don't you agree?"
This actually works, but, Christ Almighty, it is so tiresome! I will look forward to any suggestions you have for ameliorating the Friday/Saturday night viewing experience. Please don't suggest only going on weeknights or waiting for the DVD. Sometimes, there are movies that must be experienced with a crowd on opening weekends and I can't let being a Family of One deprive me of that privilege.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Family of One Attends Stephen Sondheim's 80th Birthday Celebration
About twenty-one years ago, I had one of the most fabulous weekends of my life in New York City. When I tell you about it, you will think that I am making it all up. But, it really happened and I have only recently been able to enjoy it because it was so painful to think that those times were over.
I stayed at the delightful and charming hotel called the Wyndham, not part of any chain, but more of an apartment hotel on W. 58th Street, just across from the Plaza. The suites were reasonable and huge and decorated in wonderful chintzes. Lots of folks appearing on Broadway would stay there. So, it was like coming home to stay in one of those suites.
On Thursday night, I took one of my favorite beaus (a man whom I saw off and on for over twenty years) to a restaurant called Aurora where I had been very friendly with the chef for a couple of years. I thought it was oh so French to take a current lover to the restaurant of a former lover and, indeed, we had a fabulous meal. As I walked out of the restaurant which was at 49th Street and Madison Avenue, I had one of those incredible magical moments in NYC. It was a very foggy night and the fog was all around, but you could see the tops of some of the building over it. I stood by myself and savored how lucky I was to be in New York and all that I had to look forward that weekend.
On Friday night, I saw the stupendous show, Jerome Robbins' Broadway which was such a treat for one who loves musicals as I do. On Saturday, I met a good friend for gingerbread pancakes in the cafe at the Hotel Pierre and then saw The Heidi Chronicles by Wendy Wasserstein starring Joan Allen. That night, I went to a restaurant down on Seventh Avenue South that my chef friend recommended. It was called Rakel and there was a hot new chef in the kitchen. I found it energetic, if unremarkable, and returned to my suite where I did the most unlikely thing and went to sleep at 9:30. By the way, the chef's name was Thomas Keller.
On Sunday, I saw a revue called Black and Blue followed by dinner at Cafe Luxembourg. After the dinner was the real piece de resistance of this enchanted weekend--a salute to Stephen Sondheim by the NY Gay Men's Chorus with "special guests" at Lincoln Center
I wore the most divine LBD of pure wool which I had purchased at Jaeger and featured a cowl neck, cinched waist, and came just above the knee. I had on sheer black hose (remember those days?) and three inch black pumps, classy, but not stilettos. I was beside myself with excitement to be wearing this outfit and going to this show and to have had this NYC weekend. I would never have suspected that would be my last NYC weekend by myself for many years which is probably why it has been so painful to remember it.
The show was remarkable. There was Elaine Stritch singing Ladies Who Lunch and the ladies from Follies and the original cast of Company. There was such an excitement in the air because everyone just knew that Sondheim would make an appearance even though those around me said that he was very shy and usually did not attend these concerts. In 1989, there was not one of us at the concert who had not been personally affected by AIDS, so there was a very bittersweet energy as well. The most moving part of the night was when the chorus sang "Our Time" and "Not a Day Goes by". Tears rolled down my face as I saw the looks of yearning and acceptance and devotion and affection on the faces of so many around me. Most people were quietly weeping as well. Suddenly, from the back of Avery Fisher Hall, came a slight, bearded figure running down the aisle with amazing speed. In reality, he was probably just striding, but, in my memory, he was running. He had a huge smile. It was Stephen Sondheim. Every single person leapt to his feet and was clapping, clapping and crying and laughing and hugging the people around him. It took my breath away and remains, to this day, one of my most poignant theater-going experiences. The quality of the show, the affirmation of hope amongst such sadness, and the connection that we all felt in the audience will be with me always.
Later this weekend, I will be going to another show in NYC--this one saluting Stephen Sondheim's 80th birthday. I look forward to letting you know about this show. And, I am grateful beyond words to be back on my path to NYC, having wonderful meals, seeing dear and devoted friends, and wearing a new black dress that may not approach the sexiness of the Jaeger LBD, but which I have to admit looks pretty damn good.
I stayed at the delightful and charming hotel called the Wyndham, not part of any chain, but more of an apartment hotel on W. 58th Street, just across from the Plaza. The suites were reasonable and huge and decorated in wonderful chintzes. Lots of folks appearing on Broadway would stay there. So, it was like coming home to stay in one of those suites.
On Thursday night, I took one of my favorite beaus (a man whom I saw off and on for over twenty years) to a restaurant called Aurora where I had been very friendly with the chef for a couple of years. I thought it was oh so French to take a current lover to the restaurant of a former lover and, indeed, we had a fabulous meal. As I walked out of the restaurant which was at 49th Street and Madison Avenue, I had one of those incredible magical moments in NYC. It was a very foggy night and the fog was all around, but you could see the tops of some of the building over it. I stood by myself and savored how lucky I was to be in New York and all that I had to look forward that weekend.
On Friday night, I saw the stupendous show, Jerome Robbins' Broadway which was such a treat for one who loves musicals as I do. On Saturday, I met a good friend for gingerbread pancakes in the cafe at the Hotel Pierre and then saw The Heidi Chronicles by Wendy Wasserstein starring Joan Allen. That night, I went to a restaurant down on Seventh Avenue South that my chef friend recommended. It was called Rakel and there was a hot new chef in the kitchen. I found it energetic, if unremarkable, and returned to my suite where I did the most unlikely thing and went to sleep at 9:30. By the way, the chef's name was Thomas Keller.
On Sunday, I saw a revue called Black and Blue followed by dinner at Cafe Luxembourg. After the dinner was the real piece de resistance of this enchanted weekend--a salute to Stephen Sondheim by the NY Gay Men's Chorus with "special guests" at Lincoln Center
I wore the most divine LBD of pure wool which I had purchased at Jaeger and featured a cowl neck, cinched waist, and came just above the knee. I had on sheer black hose (remember those days?) and three inch black pumps, classy, but not stilettos. I was beside myself with excitement to be wearing this outfit and going to this show and to have had this NYC weekend. I would never have suspected that would be my last NYC weekend by myself for many years which is probably why it has been so painful to remember it.
The show was remarkable. There was Elaine Stritch singing Ladies Who Lunch and the ladies from Follies and the original cast of Company. There was such an excitement in the air because everyone just knew that Sondheim would make an appearance even though those around me said that he was very shy and usually did not attend these concerts. In 1989, there was not one of us at the concert who had not been personally affected by AIDS, so there was a very bittersweet energy as well. The most moving part of the night was when the chorus sang "Our Time" and "Not a Day Goes by". Tears rolled down my face as I saw the looks of yearning and acceptance and devotion and affection on the faces of so many around me. Most people were quietly weeping as well. Suddenly, from the back of Avery Fisher Hall, came a slight, bearded figure running down the aisle with amazing speed. In reality, he was probably just striding, but, in my memory, he was running. He had a huge smile. It was Stephen Sondheim. Every single person leapt to his feet and was clapping, clapping and crying and laughing and hugging the people around him. It took my breath away and remains, to this day, one of my most poignant theater-going experiences. The quality of the show, the affirmation of hope amongst such sadness, and the connection that we all felt in the audience will be with me always.
Later this weekend, I will be going to another show in NYC--this one saluting Stephen Sondheim's 80th birthday. I look forward to letting you know about this show. And, I am grateful beyond words to be back on my path to NYC, having wonderful meals, seeing dear and devoted friends, and wearing a new black dress that may not approach the sexiness of the Jaeger LBD, but which I have to admit looks pretty damn good.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Family of One Has the Chef's Special
I don't know about you, but sometimes when I have been traveling for a few days, I just get so weary of having to make a decision about what I am going to order, especially for dinner. Sometimes, when I run up against cuisine fatigue, I will use the hours before to think through what I want, especially if I have seen the menu. But, sometimes, I just am sick of reading menus and pondering what would be good. I have developed a new strategy that works pretty well. For restaurants where I know the chef (and sometimes even if I don't), I will call the restaurant and tell the reservationist to let the chef know that I will eat anything that he prepares (except, of course, for green peppers) and how many courses I would like. This never fails to cheer me as it gives me the feeling that I am going to a good friend's house for dinner, but I don't have to worry about bringing the wine.
This is an incredibly busy time of year for those of us in college publishing because this is the time that all of our customers (professors)choose the textbook that they will be using for fall. In my case, I work with sales reps and the professors to customize the books to their specific needs and, of course, all of the decisions are being made now, but there is only one of me to get all of the books prepared. I have learned to pace myself during this time and to take time for one fun hour or so a day.
I had a reservation for one at Anson's, one of my favorite haunts in Charleston where a new CIA-trained chef, Jeremy Holste, has recently taken over the kitchen. I met him on one of his first weeks there and we hit it off as we both love the Wreck (the fabulous fried seafood den on Shem Creek), sweet tea vodka, and, of course, almost anything edible.
Jeremy had sent me a few taste treats over my last visits that were not on the menu, so I had high hopes for a very lovely dinner. I was not disappointed and I was tickled to be served personally by Jeremy who would then sit down with me in my booth that will hold six and discourse for a few minutes. Here is what I had--
***Chilled cauliflower soup served over diced smoked salmon and tomatoes, very thin celery, and a tiny bit of chopped nut for texture. Outstanding.
***Perfectly prepared diver scallop (albeit a bit salty, but that was fine with me) and perfectly prepared ravioli--one of each with tiny bits of pea sprout, pancetta, and pearl onion
***Thin and tasty carpaccio covered with an array of wonderful tastes including something akin to a caponata, a green tomato relish, pickled garlic with pine nuts, and tiny bit of a mustard/mayonnaise combo. Each bite was unique, but none of it was cloying or overwhelming.
***Pan roasted tilefish with a fingerling potato or two served in a sauce with Anson's bacon and a hint of truffle
***Baked Alaska served over strawberry sauce.
I don't know if I would have ordered any of these taste sensations. I doubt it, since I am always drawn to the oysters and pork products at this delightful restaurant. But, what a marvelous way to rejuvenate my palate for a memorable meal.
And, of course, I was visited throughout the evening by the manager, the bartender, and the waiters whom I have grown to adore in the past couple of years. I have been going to Anson's for fifteen years, but it was never a restaurant where I felt like family. I love turning that corner.
And, of course, I can't wait to go back although, next time, the seven layers of heaven pork belly and cornmeal fried oysters may be calling my name.
This is an incredibly busy time of year for those of us in college publishing because this is the time that all of our customers (professors)choose the textbook that they will be using for fall. In my case, I work with sales reps and the professors to customize the books to their specific needs and, of course, all of the decisions are being made now, but there is only one of me to get all of the books prepared. I have learned to pace myself during this time and to take time for one fun hour or so a day.
I had a reservation for one at Anson's, one of my favorite haunts in Charleston where a new CIA-trained chef, Jeremy Holste, has recently taken over the kitchen. I met him on one of his first weeks there and we hit it off as we both love the Wreck (the fabulous fried seafood den on Shem Creek), sweet tea vodka, and, of course, almost anything edible.
Jeremy had sent me a few taste treats over my last visits that were not on the menu, so I had high hopes for a very lovely dinner. I was not disappointed and I was tickled to be served personally by Jeremy who would then sit down with me in my booth that will hold six and discourse for a few minutes. Here is what I had--
***Chilled cauliflower soup served over diced smoked salmon and tomatoes, very thin celery, and a tiny bit of chopped nut for texture. Outstanding.
***Perfectly prepared diver scallop (albeit a bit salty, but that was fine with me) and perfectly prepared ravioli--one of each with tiny bits of pea sprout, pancetta, and pearl onion
***Thin and tasty carpaccio covered with an array of wonderful tastes including something akin to a caponata, a green tomato relish, pickled garlic with pine nuts, and tiny bit of a mustard/mayonnaise combo. Each bite was unique, but none of it was cloying or overwhelming.
***Pan roasted tilefish with a fingerling potato or two served in a sauce with Anson's bacon and a hint of truffle
***Baked Alaska served over strawberry sauce.
I don't know if I would have ordered any of these taste sensations. I doubt it, since I am always drawn to the oysters and pork products at this delightful restaurant. But, what a marvelous way to rejuvenate my palate for a memorable meal.
And, of course, I was visited throughout the evening by the manager, the bartender, and the waiters whom I have grown to adore in the past couple of years. I have been going to Anson's for fifteen years, but it was never a restaurant where I felt like family. I love turning that corner.
And, of course, I can't wait to go back although, next time, the seven layers of heaven pork belly and cornmeal fried oysters may be calling my name.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Family of One Celebrates Easter
There should probably not be a reason for a single person to feel down on Easter; after all, the holiday is about the resurrection of our Lord Jesus and not particularly wrapped around celebrations with family and friends. In its purest form, it is the holiest of days, a day for reflection about one’s faith and joy about the message that He is risen and what that represents for eternal life.
So, why did I feel so sad? I love my church in the Grove, I have so much to which I look forward (Stephen Sondheim’s 80th birthday celebration in NYC, a visit to Madrid this summer, countless visits from beloved friends, etc). But, I really felt that I was missing out by not participating in one of those lovely, scrumptious Southern buffets that are traditionally served as part of Easter lunch among many of my friends. I had told myself that I was sure it would be OK to visit one of these friends, but I don’t like the thought of intruding on their family time and being seen as one of those dreaded “orphans”, like on Thanksgiving Day.
After lolling on the sectional sofa on Friday evening, pondering a solution to this dilemma, I realized what I needed to do. Being in possession of several fine side dishes that I had brought back from a fabulous dinner at Prime 112 with colleagues AND having just purchased a tres petite ham as well as some lovely white asparagus, I decided to make my own buffet.
Usually, I will prepare a lovely plate and either eat while watching something on TCM while stretched out on the blue sofa on the second floor of the triplex OR I will curl up on the sectional sofa on the first floor of the triplex while listening to music. It had never occurred to me to create a buffet for myself, but it was wonderful fun.
I heated the ham and roasted the asparagus and placed those on one plate. Then, I filled faux Chinese porcelain bowls with the sides from Prime 112—mashed sweet potatoes, cauliflower au gratin, and creamed corn with truffles. I opened a half bottle of a 2006 St. Estephe that I brought back from Paris. I stretched out on the blue sofa since there was a wonderful documentary about Hollywood musicals filling the screen. I was happy as Peter Rabbit.
And, then, of course, today I had a wonderful time at my church service, particularly enjoying a rousing rendition of Widor’s Toccata in G and a thoughtful sermon, followed by brunch at my dear Jaguar where I saw a colleague from Boston as well as friend from book club.
I must point out that when I told Mother about the buffet, her immediate response to my description of a tiny ham was “that ham did not come from a pig because no pig could produce anything tiny—that ham must have come from a squirrel”. I really could not argue with her logic.
On another Mother related note, I was surprised that she did not become obsessed by the recent storms that decimated many homes in the High Point area. Thanks to many of you who wrote to make sure that Mother and Dad were OK. The night of the storms, she called and said very mildly that there seemed to be some bad storms heading for Guilford County.
A couple of days later, she recounted the following—“on the night of the storm, someone rang our back doorbell (an outside door that leads on to a sun room of sorts)—I peered out to see who it was and it was a person dressed in a long, black coat with a ski mask and a big, black hat. I said, ‘dear Lord, please don’t tell me that Carson and I are going to be killed tonight’. It was Mrs.C.W. Scott, Jr, from next door who braved the storm to tell us that our phone was off the hook. She had put on every conceivable piece of clothing she could find. “
I pointed out that the killer probably would not ring the doorbell and, hence, she was not in immediate danger. But, she came right back—“they ring the doorbell to throw you off the track”.
Our thoughts and prayers are with those folks who suffered considerable damage during the terrible storms.
And, hoping that you have a lovely Easter or Passover or beautiful spring day.
So, why did I feel so sad? I love my church in the Grove, I have so much to which I look forward (Stephen Sondheim’s 80th birthday celebration in NYC, a visit to Madrid this summer, countless visits from beloved friends, etc). But, I really felt that I was missing out by not participating in one of those lovely, scrumptious Southern buffets that are traditionally served as part of Easter lunch among many of my friends. I had told myself that I was sure it would be OK to visit one of these friends, but I don’t like the thought of intruding on their family time and being seen as one of those dreaded “orphans”, like on Thanksgiving Day.
After lolling on the sectional sofa on Friday evening, pondering a solution to this dilemma, I realized what I needed to do. Being in possession of several fine side dishes that I had brought back from a fabulous dinner at Prime 112 with colleagues AND having just purchased a tres petite ham as well as some lovely white asparagus, I decided to make my own buffet.
Usually, I will prepare a lovely plate and either eat while watching something on TCM while stretched out on the blue sofa on the second floor of the triplex OR I will curl up on the sectional sofa on the first floor of the triplex while listening to music. It had never occurred to me to create a buffet for myself, but it was wonderful fun.
I heated the ham and roasted the asparagus and placed those on one plate. Then, I filled faux Chinese porcelain bowls with the sides from Prime 112—mashed sweet potatoes, cauliflower au gratin, and creamed corn with truffles. I opened a half bottle of a 2006 St. Estephe that I brought back from Paris. I stretched out on the blue sofa since there was a wonderful documentary about Hollywood musicals filling the screen. I was happy as Peter Rabbit.
And, then, of course, today I had a wonderful time at my church service, particularly enjoying a rousing rendition of Widor’s Toccata in G and a thoughtful sermon, followed by brunch at my dear Jaguar where I saw a colleague from Boston as well as friend from book club.
I must point out that when I told Mother about the buffet, her immediate response to my description of a tiny ham was “that ham did not come from a pig because no pig could produce anything tiny—that ham must have come from a squirrel”. I really could not argue with her logic.
On another Mother related note, I was surprised that she did not become obsessed by the recent storms that decimated many homes in the High Point area. Thanks to many of you who wrote to make sure that Mother and Dad were OK. The night of the storms, she called and said very mildly that there seemed to be some bad storms heading for Guilford County.
A couple of days later, she recounted the following—“on the night of the storm, someone rang our back doorbell (an outside door that leads on to a sun room of sorts)—I peered out to see who it was and it was a person dressed in a long, black coat with a ski mask and a big, black hat. I said, ‘dear Lord, please don’t tell me that Carson and I are going to be killed tonight’. It was Mrs.C.W. Scott, Jr, from next door who braved the storm to tell us that our phone was off the hook. She had put on every conceivable piece of clothing she could find. “
I pointed out that the killer probably would not ring the doorbell and, hence, she was not in immediate danger. But, she came right back—“they ring the doorbell to throw you off the track”.
Our thoughts and prayers are with those folks who suffered considerable damage during the terrible storms.
And, hoping that you have a lovely Easter or Passover or beautiful spring day.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Family of One Goes to a Funeral
There are very few things in life that I have dreaded as much as the start of the demises of my three immediate family members—Mother, Dad, and Aunt Louise. Having to cope with the inherent drama, the myriad of details that surround an illness and a death, the unknown grieving process—I just wasn’t sure that I could handle it well, if at all. I am happy to report that, with the passing of Aunt Louise, I now see that, as one ages, death becomes an entirely natural process and is not at all unwelcome. Because we had so much time to prepare for Aunt Louise’s passing (two months of being in critical care), I had the opportunity to work through a lot of my grief. And, thank goodness, I can look back on this trying time and be content with the choices that I made on her behalf. I do enjoy a good session of second guessing myself, but this is one area of life where I am totally at peace.
In planning her funeral, I was on new ground, not having anyone with whom to really consult. Thankfully, Aunt Louise had pre-paid her funeral, but she had also given me a very specific list of directives for her service as well as what she wanted in her obituary. I begged and pleaded with her to put this in writing, but she never would. She loved the control of telling me. For example, she wanted butterflies released at the end of the service; she wanted the local cardiologist’s wife to play the flute; she wanted a luncheon in her memory with sandwiches and iced tea. As Mother said, “even John D. Rockefeller has not discussed his funeral in such detail”. When I started investigating the logistics of her requests, they were going to be such high maintenance requests plus she had never written them down, so I wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted.I just decided to plan the service with input from Mother, the pastor, and a couple of her friends.
I don’t know how much experience you have had with planning a funeral, but I have had basically none. My only real experience was when G’s father died in a tony suburb of Hartford and I had to go with him to plan the service. Mr. W was a real character—about 5’ 4”, read Evelyn Waugh, asked me to play “Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground” on the piano every time I visited him, and hit on me constantly. He passed fairly peacefully in his late 80’s. A handsome, if unctuous, funeral director met with G and me to plan the service. He asked very traditional questions to which G responded in a most unusual way--- “What music would your father like to have played?” “None, he objected to all music and felt it was frivolous”. “To what charity would your father like to have memorials sent?” “None, he did not believe in charitable organizations.” “Whom would your father like to have as a speaker?” “No one, he was an atheist and did not want anyone spouting aphorisms at his service”. I was very puzzled because, basically, none of this was true.
Suddenly, G asked the funeral director-“Does my father have to wear pants in the coffin?” The funeral director looked very stricken. Even though Mr. W. was being cremated, there would have to be a coffin because G insisted on an open viewing. “I have never had anyone ask that question before”, the F.D. said, looking imploringly at me. I suddenly lost control and began laughing hysterically a la Mary Richards at Chuckles the Clown’s funeral. I did have the good sense to immediately bow my head and act as if I were crying. “Well,” G said, “my father disliked wearing pants intensely and I had promised that he would not have to wear them to eternity.” Not bothering to point out why an atheist would think there was an eternity, the F.D. said, “I suppose anything is possible” and he agreed to a nude below the waist corpse. I was horrified. I knew that Mr. W had recently flashed the woman delivering Meals on Wheels, but I had never heard this kind of request or the other nonsense from G. When I asked him what was driving his answers, he replied, “I’m not spending that kind of money for some aging queen to play Rock of Ages on the organ or for some elderly hack to read Thoreau. And, I’m damn sure not going to sacrifice a perfectly good pair of pants that I can give to the Goodwill next week. I’m mad enough that I have to pay for the coffin and waste a good shirt and coat.”
So, with that experience hovering at the edge of my memory, I travel to High Point to execute the memorial service. It was a wonderful experience, more poignant and moving than I could have imagined, but with a great deal of warmth and humor. The funeral director in High Point could not have been more helpful or more gracious. I had envisioned a portly man with a bad comb over, but instead Mr. B went out of his way to make sure that all of our requests were handled with respect and grace. Several cousins appeared on the scene and this made for a nice reunion of sorts. These cousins are all in their 70’s and 80’s, so I had never gotten to know them well, but they were lovely and respectful to Mother and Dad. And, the folks at Aunt Louise’s church came together to create a very lovely service with a choir of about ten and a reception of about fifty. There was much laughter, a fact that I don’t think Aunt Louise would have particularly appreciated. I think we had all been under so much stress caring for her that we were joyous that she, along with us, was out of such misery.
I gave a brief eulogy and it was such a moving moment to stand at the pulpit and look out on so many folks who had given so generously of their time and energy to keep Aunt Louise in her apartment for so long. And, to see my parents, 90 and 88, as they observed and listened to everything going on. I mentioned the fact that, just last summer, Aunt Louise had told me that her favorite movie was “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”, which got a huge laugh, but was also very poignant because, as I said, how many other facts were there about her that we simply did not know. No one would have guessed that was her favorite movie. I mentioned her delight when the church organist played “The Wells Fargo Wagon is A ‘Coming” (from The Music Man) when she led in her Sunday school class as she had directed him to play something appropriate and they had just been to see the musical. I thanked the three women who had been the most consistent caregivers for Aunt Louise and told them that they represented the ideal to which we should all aspire, churchgoers or not. I closed by talking about how, when she came to visit me in New York City, her hotel room was directly across from the street from my apartment window and how we stood in our respective windows before we went to bed, just looking at each other. Even though she could never really tell me how special I was to her, I knew it and those evenings in New York were part of the reason I understood. Her favorite proverb was “I live in a small house, but it looks out onto a big world” and, indeed, Aunt Louise was a fabulous observer of life, much more than a participant.
In the days after the service, I gradually learned to not dread the sound of my cell phone ringing and giving me the latest update on her increasingly serious condition. I lost my voice for a few hours one day and gave myself the gift of just being still and letting others do the talking for me. I savored all of the wonderful things that I so enjoy. And, I realized with a hint of bittersweetness, that I am now prepared for what lies ahead as I face the funerals of my remaining immediate family. I think what was most affirming to me were the many unanticipated acts of kindness from my friends, my colleagues, and folks who just happened to cross my path.
In planning her funeral, I was on new ground, not having anyone with whom to really consult. Thankfully, Aunt Louise had pre-paid her funeral, but she had also given me a very specific list of directives for her service as well as what she wanted in her obituary. I begged and pleaded with her to put this in writing, but she never would. She loved the control of telling me. For example, she wanted butterflies released at the end of the service; she wanted the local cardiologist’s wife to play the flute; she wanted a luncheon in her memory with sandwiches and iced tea. As Mother said, “even John D. Rockefeller has not discussed his funeral in such detail”. When I started investigating the logistics of her requests, they were going to be such high maintenance requests plus she had never written them down, so I wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted.I just decided to plan the service with input from Mother, the pastor, and a couple of her friends.
I don’t know how much experience you have had with planning a funeral, but I have had basically none. My only real experience was when G’s father died in a tony suburb of Hartford and I had to go with him to plan the service. Mr. W was a real character—about 5’ 4”, read Evelyn Waugh, asked me to play “Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground” on the piano every time I visited him, and hit on me constantly. He passed fairly peacefully in his late 80’s. A handsome, if unctuous, funeral director met with G and me to plan the service. He asked very traditional questions to which G responded in a most unusual way--- “What music would your father like to have played?” “None, he objected to all music and felt it was frivolous”. “To what charity would your father like to have memorials sent?” “None, he did not believe in charitable organizations.” “Whom would your father like to have as a speaker?” “No one, he was an atheist and did not want anyone spouting aphorisms at his service”. I was very puzzled because, basically, none of this was true.
Suddenly, G asked the funeral director-“Does my father have to wear pants in the coffin?” The funeral director looked very stricken. Even though Mr. W. was being cremated, there would have to be a coffin because G insisted on an open viewing. “I have never had anyone ask that question before”, the F.D. said, looking imploringly at me. I suddenly lost control and began laughing hysterically a la Mary Richards at Chuckles the Clown’s funeral. I did have the good sense to immediately bow my head and act as if I were crying. “Well,” G said, “my father disliked wearing pants intensely and I had promised that he would not have to wear them to eternity.” Not bothering to point out why an atheist would think there was an eternity, the F.D. said, “I suppose anything is possible” and he agreed to a nude below the waist corpse. I was horrified. I knew that Mr. W had recently flashed the woman delivering Meals on Wheels, but I had never heard this kind of request or the other nonsense from G. When I asked him what was driving his answers, he replied, “I’m not spending that kind of money for some aging queen to play Rock of Ages on the organ or for some elderly hack to read Thoreau. And, I’m damn sure not going to sacrifice a perfectly good pair of pants that I can give to the Goodwill next week. I’m mad enough that I have to pay for the coffin and waste a good shirt and coat.”
So, with that experience hovering at the edge of my memory, I travel to High Point to execute the memorial service. It was a wonderful experience, more poignant and moving than I could have imagined, but with a great deal of warmth and humor. The funeral director in High Point could not have been more helpful or more gracious. I had envisioned a portly man with a bad comb over, but instead Mr. B went out of his way to make sure that all of our requests were handled with respect and grace. Several cousins appeared on the scene and this made for a nice reunion of sorts. These cousins are all in their 70’s and 80’s, so I had never gotten to know them well, but they were lovely and respectful to Mother and Dad. And, the folks at Aunt Louise’s church came together to create a very lovely service with a choir of about ten and a reception of about fifty. There was much laughter, a fact that I don’t think Aunt Louise would have particularly appreciated. I think we had all been under so much stress caring for her that we were joyous that she, along with us, was out of such misery.
I gave a brief eulogy and it was such a moving moment to stand at the pulpit and look out on so many folks who had given so generously of their time and energy to keep Aunt Louise in her apartment for so long. And, to see my parents, 90 and 88, as they observed and listened to everything going on. I mentioned the fact that, just last summer, Aunt Louise had told me that her favorite movie was “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid”, which got a huge laugh, but was also very poignant because, as I said, how many other facts were there about her that we simply did not know. No one would have guessed that was her favorite movie. I mentioned her delight when the church organist played “The Wells Fargo Wagon is A ‘Coming” (from The Music Man) when she led in her Sunday school class as she had directed him to play something appropriate and they had just been to see the musical. I thanked the three women who had been the most consistent caregivers for Aunt Louise and told them that they represented the ideal to which we should all aspire, churchgoers or not. I closed by talking about how, when she came to visit me in New York City, her hotel room was directly across from the street from my apartment window and how we stood in our respective windows before we went to bed, just looking at each other. Even though she could never really tell me how special I was to her, I knew it and those evenings in New York were part of the reason I understood. Her favorite proverb was “I live in a small house, but it looks out onto a big world” and, indeed, Aunt Louise was a fabulous observer of life, much more than a participant.
In the days after the service, I gradually learned to not dread the sound of my cell phone ringing and giving me the latest update on her increasingly serious condition. I lost my voice for a few hours one day and gave myself the gift of just being still and letting others do the talking for me. I savored all of the wonderful things that I so enjoy. And, I realized with a hint of bittersweetness, that I am now prepared for what lies ahead as I face the funerals of my remaining immediate family. I think what was most affirming to me were the many unanticipated acts of kindness from my friends, my colleagues, and folks who just happened to cross my path.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Family of One Says Goodbye to Aunt Louise
As you know, Aunt Louise had been dying for a couple of months. One thing led to another and, for a 93 year old, she just didn't have the stamina to keep fighting. At least, that is how it appeared.
I told her goodbye two weeks ago while she was still alert enough to know that I was there. But, out conversation was definitely one-sided. Before I went in to see her, I sat in the parking lot and wondered what it would be like to literally tell someone goodbye. I can report that it is one of the most powerful things you will ever do. It was just a bit emotional, but more focused and energizing than I could ever have imagined.
Even though Aunt Louise was still around, she didn't say a lot. I ran out of things to say after about 30 minutes. I thought about what else I could say. I have only lost one other person through death who was incredibly dear to me-my beloved Bonnie Biller with whom I worked at Prentice Hall in 1996 and who died from lung cancer three years later. She was one of the most darling, perceptive, and kind people that I have ever known. I still miss her although I can feel her presence from time to time. I asked Weezie (as I called her) if she would look up Bonnie Biller when she got to heaven. In one of the two times that she actually spoke to me, she said, "yes, I will find Bonnie Biller". Her other comment was related when I reviewed, yet again, whom she would see in heaven (this is what the nurses will tell you to do). She rolled her eyes with something akin to scorn. She said, very clearly, "I will also see the people that I never liked". I assured her that since it was heaven, there would only be people she liked. She rolled her eyes again. That was the last time we really spoke to each other.
Aunt Louise's journey over the last six months has been arduous--told that she would have to leave her apartment because the church that owned it was selling it; being rushed to live in a nursing home; being rushed to a hospital; and then living in two facilities after the surgery that she had to have. For a woman who lived at least 20 years in one place at a time, this was a lot of moving around. When the nurse called me today to say that she had passed, I was truly happy that, at last, she could be at peace.
Aunt Louise was not given to warm declarations or yucking it up. She took life pretty seriously. She was an incredible craftswoman who could make a crocheted cover for my iPod or craft shredded coconut crust for a key lime pie like I will never taste again. She was one of my biggest cheerleaders and always reminded me that even though I am a family of one, I have been incredibly blessed with friends who are much better than family.
I felt just a tiny bit alone tonight, but I savored it. The next few days will be spent with my parents and being there for them which is as it should be, but still very taxing. The times that I had always dreaded facing as a family of one are starting. And, thankfully, they are not so bad. Love to each of you.
I told her goodbye two weeks ago while she was still alert enough to know that I was there. But, out conversation was definitely one-sided. Before I went in to see her, I sat in the parking lot and wondered what it would be like to literally tell someone goodbye. I can report that it is one of the most powerful things you will ever do. It was just a bit emotional, but more focused and energizing than I could ever have imagined.
Even though Aunt Louise was still around, she didn't say a lot. I ran out of things to say after about 30 minutes. I thought about what else I could say. I have only lost one other person through death who was incredibly dear to me-my beloved Bonnie Biller with whom I worked at Prentice Hall in 1996 and who died from lung cancer three years later. She was one of the most darling, perceptive, and kind people that I have ever known. I still miss her although I can feel her presence from time to time. I asked Weezie (as I called her) if she would look up Bonnie Biller when she got to heaven. In one of the two times that she actually spoke to me, she said, "yes, I will find Bonnie Biller". Her other comment was related when I reviewed, yet again, whom she would see in heaven (this is what the nurses will tell you to do). She rolled her eyes with something akin to scorn. She said, very clearly, "I will also see the people that I never liked". I assured her that since it was heaven, there would only be people she liked. She rolled her eyes again. That was the last time we really spoke to each other.
Aunt Louise's journey over the last six months has been arduous--told that she would have to leave her apartment because the church that owned it was selling it; being rushed to live in a nursing home; being rushed to a hospital; and then living in two facilities after the surgery that she had to have. For a woman who lived at least 20 years in one place at a time, this was a lot of moving around. When the nurse called me today to say that she had passed, I was truly happy that, at last, she could be at peace.
Aunt Louise was not given to warm declarations or yucking it up. She took life pretty seriously. She was an incredible craftswoman who could make a crocheted cover for my iPod or craft shredded coconut crust for a key lime pie like I will never taste again. She was one of my biggest cheerleaders and always reminded me that even though I am a family of one, I have been incredibly blessed with friends who are much better than family.
I felt just a tiny bit alone tonight, but I savored it. The next few days will be spent with my parents and being there for them which is as it should be, but still very taxing. The times that I had always dreaded facing as a family of one are starting. And, thankfully, they are not so bad. Love to each of you.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Family of One Dines in Paris 2010
At last, I have a chance to finish telling you about the meals that I had in Paris a few weeks back. I consider this trip one of my best because I carefully balanced my rich meals with less robust ones as well as bistros with haute cuisine. Enjoy!
BEST SATURDAY LUNCH—I can think of few greater pleasures than getting off the plane for Paris, driving though a rainy Saturday morning to a charming hotel on the Place des Vosges, and then strolling about a block to a café bustling with relaxed Parisian energy. I was lucky to be pointed in the direction of Le Petit Marche by the hotel concierge. Fabulous lentil soup, salad with goat cheese—that sounds so basic, but it is so delicious when prepared with TLC as only the French can do. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking une rue typique—welcome to Paris! Le Petit Marche, 9, rue de Bearn (just off Place des Vosges)
BEST SUNDAY AFTERNOON—the hotel concierge almost wept when I told him of my plan to stroll over to Bar a L’Huitres for at least a dozen oysters and a half bottle of something white. Indeed, perched in the café overlooking Boulevard Beaumarchais, steps from the Bastille was even more wonderful than I had imagined. The Belons and Claires were superb. The accompanying pork rillette was something for which I would have cheerfully paid. The half bottle of a white Burgundy was fabulous. Almost as wonderful—being surrounded by happy, chattering folks doing the same thing on a brisk, sunny Paris afternoon. Bar a L’Huitres, 33, blvd Beaumarchais.
BEST ENERGY—I stayed away from La Coupole for years because I had the notion that it was overrun by tourists. I found out differently a year ago and I very much enjoyed the energy of a Friday evening on this trip. It was completely mobbed—with locals. I had to sit at the bar for 45 minutes while I waited for a table in this brightly lit, cavernous restaurant. The food is fine—not bad, not stupendous. But, what is wonderful is the incredible energy emanating from everyone—the captains, the waiters, the patrons. The steak tartare and pommes frites are not bad and very affordable. And, who wouldn’t love a place where each person waiting is assigned the name of a composer rather than a number? La Coupole, 102, bd du Montparnasse
WORST MEAL—While I like Au Pied de Cochon as much as the next person—it practically defines French onion soup and the setting is just delightful—I made a crucial error in ordering pig’s trotters. Every time I have ordered this dish, it is always served as the pig’s heel, filled with some sort of scrumptious dressing. But, this time, I received, literally, the pig’s trotter—a mass of bones and tissue that resembled something out of a Tim Burton movie. I was able to extricate exactly two bites—and I mean bites—of meat. Fortunately, there were wonderful pommes des frites which I dipped into the accompanying Béarnaise sauce. I certainly didn’t go hungry. But, next time, I will stick with more oysters (who can ever get enough?) or one of the fish dishes. Au Pied de Cochon, 6, rue Coquilliere
BEST MEAL/EXPERIENCE—I suppose it goes without saying that my best meal would be at Taillevent, long considered the very finest restaurant in Paris and one of the best in the world. As I wrote last year, I made the mistake of ordering the prix fixe lunch which was lovely, but not memorable. This year, I was determined to order a la carte and what a wonderful decision that was. I was given a wonderful table and greeted sincerely, if not effusively, by Jean-Marie Ancher, le directeur, as well as several lovely captains and waiters. I was trying to maintain a sincere, but not effusive air, myself. But, then, Jean-Marie and I connected over our mutual respect for Danny Meyer and his fabulous NYC restaurants and I relaxed into myself and a fabulous dining experience starting with the marvelous gougeres of which I ate about 15. I consulted with my captain over which dishes to order, dallying between a crab tart and roasted winter vegetables. I decided to go with the latter, simply because I had eaten so few vegetables on my trip. I also ordered the scallops in a simple lemon butter sauce. And, a chocolate soufflé.
Much to my surprise, the crab tart was brought out. I could not imagine that I was being given a lagniappe at such a deluxe restaurant, so I asked the server it that was correct. He answered, “oui”, with a hint of a smile. The captain came over and beamed—“ce n’est pas les vegetables”—and we both beamed. The crab tart was luscious: slightly creamy with handfuls of crab and a very light, buttery crust. And, just a hint of shallot. Next, came the roasted vegetables accompanied by the captain with a truffle and a grater in his hand. P’sh, p’sh, p’sh went the grater until the vegetables were covered with a mound of truffles. I almost wept at the generosity and the anticipation of the wonderful taste and the sheer wonderfulness of a fabulous lunch served by people who knew how to make a guest feel truly pampered on a sunny Friday afternoon. This time, Jean Marie strolled over, bent down, and whispered—“ you have a friend in the kitchen”.
For some reason, I had a hard time with those scallops. It took me about thirty minutes to eat about ¾ of them. I chewed and chewed and drank wine to help me swallow, but they just weren’t as tender as the ones that I am used to. Of course, as I am writing this, I am marveling that I was able to even eat two of them, given what I had already consumed.
And, then, the chocolate soufflé which was perfect in its texture, temperature, and flavor.
I was the last person in the restaurant and I apologized profusely to the staff for keeping them there. It had been a dining experience to treasure—the unexpected treats, the wonderful flavors, the stately space, the kindness of the staff—all filled me with such happiness.
I saw Jean-Marie sitting at his computer in his small office off the hall and asked if I might come in. He immediately rose to his feet and we chatted amiably while a cab was called. More than 20 minutes passed and he continued to chat amiably. I told him that I would be fine alone, but he said, “I consider you a friend now and I would never let a friend wait alone”. We began talking about restaurants in Paris and he cautioned me about going to ones that are not only outrageous in price, but not of a high quality. He asked that I consult with him about my next round of restaurants and I cheerfully agreed.
Finally, the cab arrived and I waved au revoir to my new friend and smiled all the way back to my hotel, thinking of such a lovely experience.
Other recommendations-
One of my best meals was at Le Cameleon, a bistro off Blvd de Montparnasse, and featuring lovely dishes—I had a boudin noir, sole meuniere with some of the best pommes pureed of my life, and a delightful apple tart. This sounds pedestrian, but it was all perfectly prepared and the setting was elegantly casual with lots of well-heeled Parisiens in their 50s and 60s crowding the banquettes. Le Cameleon, 6, rue de Chevreuse
La Ferrandaise—located near the Sorbonne and frequented by scholarly types, this neighborhood bistro has a charming, effortless appeal. Wonderful, if a little robust, cuisine. I had a pate, boeuf bourguignon, and a chestnut soufflé and could not eat again that day. La Ferrandaise, 8, rue de Vaugirard
Tan Dinh—when you cannot handle another hearty, rich meal, I suggest this excellent, if stark, Vietnamese restaurant just behind the Musee d’Orsay. Cash only and fairly expensive—at least $60 euros—but well worth it for the change in cuisine. Tan Dinh, 60 rue de Verneuil.
Sensing—called the anti-bistro, this Guy Martin is a real find, especially when you tire of the same décor in the brasseries and bistros. Excellent and not-too-rich cuisine and a wonderful bar in the front. 19, rue Brea (just off Blvd de Montparnasse)
BEST SATURDAY LUNCH—I can think of few greater pleasures than getting off the plane for Paris, driving though a rainy Saturday morning to a charming hotel on the Place des Vosges, and then strolling about a block to a café bustling with relaxed Parisian energy. I was lucky to be pointed in the direction of Le Petit Marche by the hotel concierge. Fabulous lentil soup, salad with goat cheese—that sounds so basic, but it is so delicious when prepared with TLC as only the French can do. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking une rue typique—welcome to Paris! Le Petit Marche, 9, rue de Bearn (just off Place des Vosges)
BEST SUNDAY AFTERNOON—the hotel concierge almost wept when I told him of my plan to stroll over to Bar a L’Huitres for at least a dozen oysters and a half bottle of something white. Indeed, perched in the café overlooking Boulevard Beaumarchais, steps from the Bastille was even more wonderful than I had imagined. The Belons and Claires were superb. The accompanying pork rillette was something for which I would have cheerfully paid. The half bottle of a white Burgundy was fabulous. Almost as wonderful—being surrounded by happy, chattering folks doing the same thing on a brisk, sunny Paris afternoon. Bar a L’Huitres, 33, blvd Beaumarchais.
BEST ENERGY—I stayed away from La Coupole for years because I had the notion that it was overrun by tourists. I found out differently a year ago and I very much enjoyed the energy of a Friday evening on this trip. It was completely mobbed—with locals. I had to sit at the bar for 45 minutes while I waited for a table in this brightly lit, cavernous restaurant. The food is fine—not bad, not stupendous. But, what is wonderful is the incredible energy emanating from everyone—the captains, the waiters, the patrons. The steak tartare and pommes frites are not bad and very affordable. And, who wouldn’t love a place where each person waiting is assigned the name of a composer rather than a number? La Coupole, 102, bd du Montparnasse
WORST MEAL—While I like Au Pied de Cochon as much as the next person—it practically defines French onion soup and the setting is just delightful—I made a crucial error in ordering pig’s trotters. Every time I have ordered this dish, it is always served as the pig’s heel, filled with some sort of scrumptious dressing. But, this time, I received, literally, the pig’s trotter—a mass of bones and tissue that resembled something out of a Tim Burton movie. I was able to extricate exactly two bites—and I mean bites—of meat. Fortunately, there were wonderful pommes des frites which I dipped into the accompanying Béarnaise sauce. I certainly didn’t go hungry. But, next time, I will stick with more oysters (who can ever get enough?) or one of the fish dishes. Au Pied de Cochon, 6, rue Coquilliere
BEST MEAL/EXPERIENCE—I suppose it goes without saying that my best meal would be at Taillevent, long considered the very finest restaurant in Paris and one of the best in the world. As I wrote last year, I made the mistake of ordering the prix fixe lunch which was lovely, but not memorable. This year, I was determined to order a la carte and what a wonderful decision that was. I was given a wonderful table and greeted sincerely, if not effusively, by Jean-Marie Ancher, le directeur, as well as several lovely captains and waiters. I was trying to maintain a sincere, but not effusive air, myself. But, then, Jean-Marie and I connected over our mutual respect for Danny Meyer and his fabulous NYC restaurants and I relaxed into myself and a fabulous dining experience starting with the marvelous gougeres of which I ate about 15. I consulted with my captain over which dishes to order, dallying between a crab tart and roasted winter vegetables. I decided to go with the latter, simply because I had eaten so few vegetables on my trip. I also ordered the scallops in a simple lemon butter sauce. And, a chocolate soufflé.
Much to my surprise, the crab tart was brought out. I could not imagine that I was being given a lagniappe at such a deluxe restaurant, so I asked the server it that was correct. He answered, “oui”, with a hint of a smile. The captain came over and beamed—“ce n’est pas les vegetables”—and we both beamed. The crab tart was luscious: slightly creamy with handfuls of crab and a very light, buttery crust. And, just a hint of shallot. Next, came the roasted vegetables accompanied by the captain with a truffle and a grater in his hand. P’sh, p’sh, p’sh went the grater until the vegetables were covered with a mound of truffles. I almost wept at the generosity and the anticipation of the wonderful taste and the sheer wonderfulness of a fabulous lunch served by people who knew how to make a guest feel truly pampered on a sunny Friday afternoon. This time, Jean Marie strolled over, bent down, and whispered—“ you have a friend in the kitchen”.
For some reason, I had a hard time with those scallops. It took me about thirty minutes to eat about ¾ of them. I chewed and chewed and drank wine to help me swallow, but they just weren’t as tender as the ones that I am used to. Of course, as I am writing this, I am marveling that I was able to even eat two of them, given what I had already consumed.
And, then, the chocolate soufflé which was perfect in its texture, temperature, and flavor.
I was the last person in the restaurant and I apologized profusely to the staff for keeping them there. It had been a dining experience to treasure—the unexpected treats, the wonderful flavors, the stately space, the kindness of the staff—all filled me with such happiness.
I saw Jean-Marie sitting at his computer in his small office off the hall and asked if I might come in. He immediately rose to his feet and we chatted amiably while a cab was called. More than 20 minutes passed and he continued to chat amiably. I told him that I would be fine alone, but he said, “I consider you a friend now and I would never let a friend wait alone”. We began talking about restaurants in Paris and he cautioned me about going to ones that are not only outrageous in price, but not of a high quality. He asked that I consult with him about my next round of restaurants and I cheerfully agreed.
Finally, the cab arrived and I waved au revoir to my new friend and smiled all the way back to my hotel, thinking of such a lovely experience.
Other recommendations-
One of my best meals was at Le Cameleon, a bistro off Blvd de Montparnasse, and featuring lovely dishes—I had a boudin noir, sole meuniere with some of the best pommes pureed of my life, and a delightful apple tart. This sounds pedestrian, but it was all perfectly prepared and the setting was elegantly casual with lots of well-heeled Parisiens in their 50s and 60s crowding the banquettes. Le Cameleon, 6, rue de Chevreuse
La Ferrandaise—located near the Sorbonne and frequented by scholarly types, this neighborhood bistro has a charming, effortless appeal. Wonderful, if a little robust, cuisine. I had a pate, boeuf bourguignon, and a chestnut soufflé and could not eat again that day. La Ferrandaise, 8, rue de Vaugirard
Tan Dinh—when you cannot handle another hearty, rich meal, I suggest this excellent, if stark, Vietnamese restaurant just behind the Musee d’Orsay. Cash only and fairly expensive—at least $60 euros—but well worth it for the change in cuisine. Tan Dinh, 60 rue de Verneuil.
Sensing—called the anti-bistro, this Guy Martin is a real find, especially when you tire of the same décor in the brasseries and bistros. Excellent and not-too-rich cuisine and a wonderful bar in the front. 19, rue Brea (just off Blvd de Montparnasse)
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