Bill R. Baker
January, 2007
Rue Quentin Bauchart was surprisingly warm for a January 29 evening as we approached Number 13, the site of Le Bistro de l'Olivier. In fact, at 7° C, it seemed quite balmy compared to the severe ice storm we left last week in South Texas. Until four nights ago, the only Olivier we knew was Lawrence, but now, as we went in for our second visit, the entire wait-staff (i.e., both Marc and Joel) treated us as friends, if not quite regulars.
Typical Americans, we arrived early for dinner, around 19H30 (military types will have no problem with this Gallic approach to the hour). Our concierge at the Hotel Francois 1er recommended it on our arrival in Paris, the l'Olivier being only a few steps away around two corners. Parisian directions are a little vague, but a second start put us on the right route.
It is a neighborhood place. We had opportunity to compare it to better-known places, but none we liked better. Not that it is cheap! If it involves food and Paris, it is expensive. The food is very good but what makes this place special is its local ambience; it has a small town feel three blocks from Louis Vuitton on the Champs Elysees.
Two patrons were seated when we arrived, and more began to trickle in. A lone elderly man (God, he was older than I am), was greeted by Joel, who shook his hand and showed him to a table. Later, Joel sat at the table and chatted with him as he took his order --- the antithesis of the "haughty French waiter". Marc seated us and took our initial orders to launch the evening, a big bottle of Evian and one of Bourgogne Pinot Noir. Both were good. As the place filled, it appeared at least one-half the diners came often. By the time the evening was over, we numbered twenty-five or so.
My journals usually describe more detail than necessary, but most things of interest have been said, many times, about Paris. Everyone knows the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame de Paris, Arc d'Triomphe, Champs Elysees, la Bastille, et alii ad nauseum. In addition to food, though, I want to mention a couple of places we found of particular, if less wide spread, interest.
One is called the Musee de Moyen Age, museum of the middle ages, also called the Cluny.
We have a reproduction of a fifteenth century tapestry in our dining room and wished to see the original. It is called the Vendange and celebrates the harvest festival when grapes are picked, pressed, and fermented into wine. In it, the lord and lady of the manor make their well-appointed way among the workers. One worker is stomping out the vintage in a large wooden tub while his wife collects the juice in a pitcher. Above, two men rotate a lever pressing large clusters of grapes. It appears a careless worker is about to get her arm crushed, but surely she will move it at the last second. A couple of centuries ago, someone sewed our tapestry to a similar (though only casually related) one. They are still together. It is a lovely thing and tells an interesting five-hundred year old story. The Cluny is in a magnificent building dating back to the time the Romans conquered the Celtic Parisii, the former inhabitants who lent their name to the city. The Romans built the building just on the left bank from the Ile de la Cite, now the site of Notre Dame de Paris and the main police station. The basement of the Cluny had both a hot bath and a cold bath, neither currently in use. Upstairs is a great collection of medieval stuff, including the tapestries. As in America, many harried teachers herd many beautiful children from site to site, hoping to infuse a little learning and culture. Also, as in America, the children are of many colors with the boys competing for coveted viewing positions (less out of interest in better viewing than of winning), while the better-behaved girls walk two-by-two talking and laughing.
The other site for special mention is Place des Vosges (pronounced vozh), a square on the edge of the Marais district a few blocks from the Place de Bastille. Place des Vosges is a lovely green square containing four formal fountains, an equestrian statue of Louis XIII (I have a little trouble keeping the Louis' numbered correctly) and is surrounded by great red brick architecture. Victor Hugo lived here.
Before the revolution, it was called by some royal name, but that seemed inappropriate in a Republic. To stimulate tax collection, the government formed a competition; the first region to pay its taxes would get its name on the square. The Vosges region paid first. The Vosges Mountains border Alsace and are the French equivalent of the Black Forest on the other side of the Rhine. Actually, les Vosges is even prettier than the Black Forest, and when Stella and I drove through both thirteen years ago, far less densely populated by locals, tourists, or cuckoo clocks.
We had lunch at a brasserie on a corner facing the Place des Vosges. How do you tell a brasserie from a bistro from a restaurant from a cafe? I don't know. It isn't by price. I am a bit embarrassed to harp on price, but it is a shock. Our Continental breakfasts at the hotel are wonderful and hearty. We have eggs, hot and cold sausages, half a dozen cheeses, fruit, juice, and a basket of the best products of some of the best bakeries anywhere. Therefore, we require little for lunch. We had: Two liter bottles of Evian (eight Euros each) and two Nicoise salads (sixteen Euros each). Our bill came to forty-eight Euros. Since the service is nominally included, I added a small tip of five Euros for a total of fifty-three Euros. One Euro = $1.34. Of course, the salad (various greens, celery, carrots, tuna, hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, dressed with olive oil and vinegar) was delicious. Surprisingly, we ate at tables on the sidewalk, a typical side-walk café. They had ingenious propane heaters keeping us comfortable under the umbrellas.
A couple of days ago, we had a similar meal (substitute onion soup for the salads) on the far more popular Champs Elysees. Prices were similar.
Parisians have the reputation for being brusque, unfriendly, and arrogant. My tales of Paris many years ago may have added to that reputation. On this seven day stay, we experienced none of that; in fact, quite the opposite from all strata we encountered. And they were all good-humored. The staff at our hotel, the Francois Premier, were particularly helpful, and its breakfasts were superb.
Friday evening, Stella and I celebrated my seventy-seventh birthday at Le Fermette Marbeuf 1900. This restaurant was built in the 1800's and its elaborate art deco glasswork was rediscovered some forty years ago buried under layers of Formica. Now, it is a moderately priced attraction about five short blocks down Blvd. George V from the Champs Elysees (corner of George V and Rue Marbeuf). It is beautiful, crowded, noisy, and has good food. Travel guides say it attracts the theatrical set (whoever they are), but all Frenchmen look very much alike to me, so I can’t say. The service was cordial and pleasant if a lot more harassed than Bistro l'Olivier. Actually, the multitudes of wait-staff were in danger of colliding while serving. Fortunately, they must all drive in Parisian traffic and are adept at traveling at high speeds diagonally across multiple lanes. Did I say lanes? I'm not sure there is a French word for lanes --- if so, it does not apply to streets. In Paris, a street is as many lanes wide as the number of cars fitting side by side at that moment. My driving experience in Paris began forty years ago when I borrowed a friend's nine-passenger Ford station wagon and drove here with my family of six plus my parents. I thought it was wild, then. Since, several more Parisians have afforded cars. Either I was too stupid to recognize my limitations then, or too timid now. I learned that if I could catch the eye of a crowding driver, turn my steering wheel in his/her direction, and accelerate, I could get through any given problem. Come to think of it, I applied that lesson to my military and academic careers many times. I look forward to our taxi trips, tomorrow, since I will not be driving. I saw a medieval stained glass at the Cluny. I do not know what it represents, but it may well be Parisian traffic.
L'Olivier has a prix fixe (pree feese) menu as well as la carte. The first evening, we ordered a prix fixe with Stella having a mushroom tart, lamb stew, and some chocolate cake. After advice, I selected grilled ewe's milk cheese with bitter herbs, the lamb stew (they were out of my first choice) and a dessert of cake (also chocolate) with pears and pear ice-cream. Of course, all was good, but Stella found the lamb resistant to being chewed. I think the pear ice-cream was the outstanding item that evening. The forty Euro bottle of wine was fine. Tonight, I had bouillabaise a la carte, and shared a bit of Stella's spaghetti with clam sauce starter and some chocolate dessert. She had grilled tuna as a main course. Of course, a bottle of Bourgogne Pinot Noir added its part and the final coffees wrapped it up.
At le Fermette Marbeuf on Friday, Stella's pumpkin soup and sea bass with crab sauce were good as was my mussel soup and veal. Since it was my birthday, the ninety Euro bottle of Rhone was a particular treat. We shared a rum baba dessert, which was not nearly as good as the coffee. A highlight was a pleasant conversation with an incurably English couple from Northumberland, who sat only an elbow away in the crowded place. He owns a department store which has been in his family one-hundred and fifty years. They have three daughters, one of whom shares my birthday, and the two who live in Dubai.
For anyone taking a taxi from Airport Charles DeGaulle to Paris, I suggest going to the Taxi stand after clearing immigration and customs. We did not, and welcomed the fellow who offered help from customs. He was courteous and fine, but he did not have a meter in his cab and charged us seventy-eight Euros. We are now back at Charles deGaulle waiting for our Chicago flight. Our legitimate cab driver, called by our hotel, charged a bit less than fifty, just as it showed on his meter. Maybe he had a tailwind. I hope we have one going home.
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