Fall in love with magnificently restored renaissance châteaux; with a beautiful countryside of rivers, farms vineyards and forests; with postcard-perfect towns; with comfortable inns and luxurious manor houses, and great food and wine. For a gay couple, there may be few more romantic places to spend a week than the beautiful and historic Loire Valley.
It’s a great getaway too for a group of friends, and an emerging and vibrant (if small) gay scene offers the possibility of meeting the locals. For the single traveler, an organized tour is a great way to see the region. Some of the best tours are by bicycle, as there is an extensive network of dedicated bike paths following the Loire River, and the gentle terrain makes for easy cycling. Alyson Adventures offers all-inclusive cycle trips in the Loire with a focus on singles, relaxed itineraries, extremely knowledgeable guides and a van to pick you up if you get tired of biking!
Certainly the main attractions of the Loire are romance and history. The renaissance châteaux built by Charles VIII, Francois I, Catherine de Medici and other royals during the hundred years that the French court relocated from Paris give the Loire its distinctive storybook charm. The region is light on industry and heavy on forests, vineyards, farms and placid, shallow rivers. A few larger, still-quaint cities provide amenities like shopping and nightlife.
Must-see sights are really too numerous to mention: the Chateaux of Chaumont-sur-Loire,Chenonceaux, Chambord and Azay-le-Rideau; charming villages; historic cities such asAmboise, Chinon and Orléans; the bustling and ancient university town of Tours; the gardens of Villandry and the Parc Floral de la Source; plus small wineries and the unique and unusual troglodyte (limestone cave) houses. And the Loire region is home to a growing gay population.
Conveniently for both residents and visitors, it’s a mere hour’s train ride from central Paris. Its closest cities, Tours and Orléans, are attracting increasing numbers of openly gay residents, and with them bars, saunas, restaurants and discos.
Sleep like a king (no, literally!)
The châteaux of the Loire are not just for visiting. Many have opened their doors to paying guests, offering luxurious private bedrooms and grand and romantic salons and gardens. Though no chateau or hotel in the Loire is exclusively gay, a number are gay owned. The Château des Ormeaux (112-150 euros), a 10-minute drive from Amboise, offers secluded luxury in a 19th-century villa recently restored and run by three fun-spirited gay men. Rooms in the main house are roomy and deluxe, while one room occupies a (well-outfitted) traditional troglodyte cave dwelling. Communal dinners are offered several nights a week, adding to the homey atmosphere.
In central Amboise, you could hardly ask for a more luxurious setting than the Manoir Les Minimes (95-170 euros). Enjoy an aperitif in the grand public rooms with the owners, a charming gay couple, and their friendly dog Olga, then retire to your lavishly appointed bedroom and bath with views of Amboise and the Loire. Many such chateau accommodations can be found through Bienvenue au Château (www.bienvenueauchateau.com) — an association of owner-occupied châteaux with the charm of a private home and the amenities of a good hotel.
If you prefer something simpler, the Loire is peppered with charming, inexpensive inns. In the center of Orléans, the gay-friendly Hotel d’Abeille (64 rue Alsace Lorraine ; +33 2/3853-5487; 47-69 euros) has spacious rooms, quirky charm, a super-friendly staff, very reasonable rates — and even free WiFi Internet. Always a good bet is the Logis de France (www.logis-de-france.fr) association-inns, which range from simple to quite elegant. Most have excellent restaurants, and all offer great value. And even in the most out-of-the-way places, a same-sex couple sharing a bed should not raise an eyebrow.
Food and wine: oh la la!
The Loire is a region of excellent wines — perhaps not as well known as Burgundy or Bordeaux, but also not nearly as expensive. In fact, wine may be one of the last great values in France, given the depressed state of the dollar. Try the Vouvray Petillant, the local take on champagne. Coteau du Layon is like a bargain sauternes, and is perfect with foie gras. Touraine and Sancerre are crisp, excellent whites, and reds range from light and refreshing Touraine to full-bodied vintage Chinons. Visit local wineries, or simply enjoy them at meals. Terrific restaurants abound in the region, with prices half what you’d pay in Paris.
Le Pavillon Des Lys in Amboise, for example, is one of the best in the region. Charming Chef-owner Sébastien Bégouin (you may start to feel that everyone in the picturesque town of Amboise is gay) serves an amazing eight-course gourmet extravaganza (at the bargain price of 38 euros) to a handful of tables in a beautiful manor house in the heart of Amboise. For food lovers, this is not to be missed.
Le 4 Saisons (351 rue de la Reine Blanche +33 2/3866-1430), a Logis de France in Olivet just outside Orléans, serves delicious regional specialties in a romantic setting on the tiny river Loiret. Great little traditional restaurants abound, and there are also newer, more urban restaurants, like the hip Next Door (as in next door to and run by Philippe Bardau’s haute Les antiquaries; 6 rue au lin; +33 2/3862-4000) in Orléans and the tasty wine bar L’Hédoniste (16 rue Lavoisier +33 2/4705-2040) in Tours, which attract a trendy gay/straight crowd.
Meet des locales
Gay venues are multiplying throughout the region as homosexuality becomes more visible and accepted. Orléans and student-filled Tours have small but friendly gay scenes — though most all establishments are mixed, attracting gay men, lesbians and stylish heterosexuals. They tend to be small as well, so it’s no surprise that the most popular bars in both Tours (La P’tite Chose 32 rue de la Grosse Tour +33 2 4776-0009) and Orléans (Le P’tit Café 255 rue de Bourgogne +31 2/3862-5886) have the abbreviation for petite in their names.
“Trendy” bars, like Orléans’ Bel Air, (44 rue du Poirier +33 2/3877-080) featuring elaborate cocktails and modern, “urban” design are also popular with local gays. Discos, such as the venerable Le Gi (13 rue Lavoisier +33 2/4766-2996) in the heart of Tours, are strictly late-night weekend-only affairs. As they are small (by urban standards) and attract an almost exclusively local crowd, the atmosphere can be quite friendly. Male-only hard-core cruising options are limited to a handful of local saunas, such as the newly opened and very popular Savon (rue des Grand Champs at rue d’Illier +33 2/3868-1198) in the center of Orléans (saunas tend to be popular quite early, always call ahead for closing times) and the two-year-old cruising/darkroom bar Le Stud (84 rue Colbert +33 2/4766-6570) in Tours, which is named and modeled after the San Francisco Stud in its leather bar incarnation of 20 years ago.
Alons-y!
The best way to get to the Loire is by train, with fast, frequent service to Orléans and Tours from central Paris. There is even a high-speed TGV train direct from Charles de Gaulle airport to Tours. You can arrange a rental car pickup at the train stations from any of the usual agencies. Driving is fairly effortless; the country roads are picturesque, well maintained and well marked — though a good road map is essential.
Resources
France has for years now devoted itself to becoming one of the most gay friendly travel destinations — not only Paris, with its gay neighborhoods, gay mayor and diverse and teeming gay cafés, clubs and discos — but also smaller cities, towns and the countryside have become very gay-friendly.
The French government tourist office offers a wealth of information — both gay-specific (www.franceguide.com/us/gay) and more general regional information (us.franceguide.com and westernfrancetouristboard.com). More gay information is available on the Web (www.gayvox.com and www.leguidegay.com) or the national gay magazine Têtu (available at any French news stand) and free regional gay publications distributed in local clubs.
“It would be easier,” I remark, “To have lunch with Jacques Chirac.” We are standing outside the Pilier Sud, at the entrance to private elevator to Restaurant Jules Verne. Our way is blocked by a pleasant but stern young man, clad in all black, with a radio headset. It is a near impossibility to make a reservation at Jules Verne, the luxury restaurant on the second tier of the Tour Eiffel.
“Three months in advance” is their standard reply…and even then…I finally had a friend who works for the French Tourist Office in LA make the reservation…to her slight annoyance, as even for her it required multiple phone calls and faxes. It’s somewhat ridiculous…Le Grand Véfour, Le Cinq—great, three star restaurants—booked with a simple fax on our last trip to Paris. Anyway, even after going to such great lengths to extract a reservation, and a fax from the restaurant confirming such reservation, the Jules Verne insists that you reconfirm the reservation the day before. OK, slightly annoying, but not unheard of. Except that they never answer their telephone. Call, call, and call again, and all you get is a multi-lingual message telling you that all lines are busy and please try again in a few minutes. At the prices they charge, you’d think they could hire someone to answer the phones…or outsource it to a call center in India or something. Finally we sent them a fax. But, of course something has gone astray…our table has been canceled (and given to who I wonder, considering the difficulty of making a reservation and the impossibility of reaching them by phone. Have they a list of stand-ins at the ready?) Calls are made from the elevator desk to the restaurant upstairs; someone comes to confer with us…I wave my confirmation fax (bearing the imprint of the French Tourist Office) and Logan explains the multiple unanswered phone calls. Still the young man in black bars our entry to the private elevator lobby, snicker though he did at my comment about lunch with Jacques Chirac. Clearly this is a commonplace occurrence. Someone in authority explains that they had tried to call our hotel, unsuccessfully, that morning, and then—finally behaving in the manner one expects from such a restaurant—says, but of course we will take care of everything, please come up…
From that point on, all is pleasant. A sweet boy lifts us to the second étage in one of the tower’s uniquely slanted elevators; we can see the young and the vigorous clambering up and down the stairs as views of Paris flash in and out of sight between the steel girders. We are offered an aperitif in the bar, but already they have a table ready for us. It’s a small table…too small really for the theater of food the restaurant requires, but it is right at the window, on the best side of restaurant. All of Paris is below our table: Sacre-Coeur on its hill, the Place de la Concorde, the Arc de Triomphe, the roofs of the Madeleine and the Opera, the expanse of the Louvre, and, in the distance, the distinctive towers of Notre Dame and the brightly colored tubes of the Pompidou Center. Directly under us, on the platform below the restaurant, tourists admire the view. It is spectacular, as promised. Inside, the restaurant is all black and grey and leather—very eighties. It seems a bit, well, too eighties, though in mint condition. Logan admires the china, white with black geometric accents, eighties too, but handsome. I find the black stemmed wineglasses less successful. We have glasses of Veuve Cliquot vintage rose (€29 a glass!) Logan promptly knocks his over—25 euros spilling into my plate and lap—fortunately protected by my napkin. Fortunately our only mishap. Service is efficient, professional, but no better than most Paris restaurants. Food is fairly excellent. The à la carte menu is shockingly expensive—50 starters, €90 entrees, and up. But there is a very nice “businessman’s” lunch menu for 55 (the only thing not translated into English—Logan finds this very cunning). He and I have a starter of haddock prepared three ways: a soup that is almost entirely fish flavored air—really good; haddock tartare, and a little spinach and haddock tartlet. Abbie has a terrine of foie gras and oxtail—terrific. They have lamb for the main course—they proclaim it excellent. I have quail—deboned for the most part, and stuffed with foie gras. It is excellent. We drink two bottles of wine, a white and a Bordeaux, neither particularly expensive. Dessert is a sablé with strawberries, with custard and ice cream; and a lemon thing that Abbie had. Various little candies and cookies and truffles are brought to the table, of course. The wine waiter is cute. After lunch, we wander downstairs and out amid the milling crowds for the view of Paris from the open platform. Logan buys another cheap souvenir Tour Eiffel to add to his odd little collection. We make a waiter open the back door to the Jules Verne for us, so we can take the private elevator down. We are about the last lunch guests to leave the restaurant. The crowd was largely American; a few French people. What can I say? The view: extraordinary. The decor: fair. The service: good but not outstanding. The food: very good. The price: the prix fix lunch is a good value. Otherwise for the money, I’d go to Le Cinq, hands down.
After lunch we caught a taxi to the Louvre. I felt such a tourist, taxi-ing from monument to monument. Everyone was over-tired in the Louvre…but we saw the remounted La Gioconda—or rather the crowds around it. It is better located and better lit. They have moved the Veronese wedding feast to the other end of the room. All and all, the room looks better. They have also finished refurbishing the rooms containing the grand format paintings. These galleries look quite good. We escaped the crowds though, for the Richelieu wing and the Mesopotamian art, the French sculptures in the sunlit courts, and the medieval objects tucked away on the floor above. These galleries are essentially deserted.
***
This spring, without really planning to, I ended up spending 24 days in France—nine in Paris and the remainder touring the towns and countryside in a wide arc around Paris from Reims in the Northwest to Chinon in the southeast. I made two separate trips to France; the first a last-minute press trip organized by the French tourist office to promote the “Gay Friendly” Loire valley followed by a long-planned trip with my business partner (Mr. Logan) and my mother (Abbie), AKA Nonna, which took us to Paris, Chablis, Berry, and again the Loire valley. The press trip focused on the cities of Orleans, Tours and Amboise, so the only real overlap was Amboise, which I visited on both trips. A detailed and chronological account of the trip would be lengthy and unnecessary, therefore I will recount only some of the more entertaining anecdotes, such as the one above.
***
Our first press visit was to the Parc Floral de la Source—a large garden of a former Château that now houses offices for the university. It was chilly, and just slightly too early in the season for most of the flowers, except the tulips. The most remarkable thing a about it is that it is the source of the river Loiret—hence the name. I don’t think I’d ever actually seen the source of a river before; so somehow I always imagined something rather grand—melting glaciers or something. Here the water bubbles up out of little hole in the ground and forms a small decorative stream that runs through the rather formal garden. It looks quite artificial really. When we dined a few nights later at Les Quatre Saisons, a beautiful inn and restaurant (with very good food) which sits picturesquely on the banks of the Loiret a dozen kilometers or so outside of Orleans, the decorative little stream had become a wide and rather impressive river. I still have trouble believing all that water comes out of a little hole in the Château grounds, but I’m assured by those with a more thorough knowledge of earth sciences that this is just the way these things work.
***
Our guided tour of Orleans took us to the old city hall, and the rather nice Cathedral of Sainte-Croix, and of course numerous statues of Jeanne d’Arc—patron and liberator of the city in 1429. The city was preparing for the annual festival in her honor on the 8th of May, taking place a few days after we depart. Apparently, each year a local girl—a virgin of course—is chosen to play the role of Joan, and she rides into the city on a horse and then much feasting and drinking ensues. Orleans is a pleasant and compact city of (newly) cobble stoned streets and quaint buildings. It’s easily explored on your own. Except for one thing you won’t see—and this is what I love about these guided press tours—the secret entrance to the excavated medieval gate and drawbridge. We were assembled on the main square, in front of the large equestrian statue of Jeanne d’ Arc when our guide from the Orleans tourist office takes out her keyring and presses something that looks like the little device that unlocks the doors on a car. She presses a button and a three meter square of cobblestone(!) in the place du Martroi, slowly, silently, and electrically opens like a huge trap door, and out of the ground rises a steel spiral staircase. Descending the staircase to some depth, we explore the foundations of the city wall, and drawbridge gate, and medieval moat. Rather impressive. It seems it was unearthed while constructing an underground parking garage. When we exit, the whole thing is closed up at another push of a button and the massive cobblestone trapdoor disappears seamlessly into the surface of the square.
***
Another guided tour—this of the privately-owned Clos Lucé, the final home of Leonardo da Vinci, in Amboise. Our guide is a completely charming young man with an endearing shyness and beautiful blue eyes. I would mention his name, but he seemed so shy that I think it might embarrass him. He keeps apologizing that he only gives tours to children—perhaps afraid that a group of fully adult homosexuals may be bored with his presentation. Actually I think he was an inspired choice. They run us from place to place on these press tours, so our (or at least my) attention span often grows rather childlike; plus the Clos Lucé is the perfect place for children. It is filled with reconstructions and models of Leonardo’s inventions that you can actually play with, and has lots of interactive exhibits, all of which seem more ideally suited to children, who may become bored with the don’t touch aspects of the Châteaux and Cathedrals. Again we got an insider treat—our guide unlocked the gate in the basement of the house that provides entry into the underground tunnel that once connected the Clos Lucé with the nearby Château d’Amboise. (So that Leonardo could be visited by his patron François I without the king having to go outside.) The tunnel has mostly collapsed but a hundred meters or so of dark, damp, off-limits passageway remain. It’s rather fun to explore, in a creepy way. Fortunately, I have learned a few things while traveling, and have a flashlight in my bag!
We meet up with our guide again, unexpectedly, at the bar La P’tite Chose in Tours, at a meeting of the local gay social group. Here we have a chance to chat with him and his friends over drinks. We discover that badminton is the group’s most popular sporting activity.
***
I’ve decided I really like the quirky Hotel de L’Abeille—the group is split, and this is the hotel I’m not staying at. The staff is gay, and friendly, and a few of them rather cute. The rates are really cheap, around 50-70 euros per room. The lobby is comfortable and has free wifi. (Why is it that the most inexpensive hotels are likely to provide free internet, while a in a room that costs several hundred euros, they will add an additional, sometimes absurdly high, charge?) The whole decor may be aggressively over the top, but the place has character and charm. The clientele is mixed. Gay and straight couples as well as one really attractive young man on his own! Breakfast looked good. My hotel, across the street (Hotel d’Arc) is just comfortably bland. And none of the other lodging in town seems very special at all.
***
Andrew, one of the writers, tells us a story about the gay sauna in Orleans—the brand new Savon—which I had declined to visit on a Monday night. He said he was in the steam room with a cute French boy—apparently there was a decent crowd of two dozen or so—and he started chatting him up—fluency in French, which I definitely lack, can be an advantage. Anyway he tells us, admitting it was a totally corny pick up line—he asks the boy if he has ever had sex with an American. The boy says no. So Andrew asks “Would you like too?” To which the French boy replies, “Yes…with a young American.” A hysterical story as he told it, and that he would tell it with such relish and amusement is a good example of his personality. You should also know that besides being charming, Andrew is extremely handsome, rendering it even more amusing.
***
Amboise, a small, almost too cute town straddling the Loire, is a real discovery. Two beautiful, luxurious manor house hotels, at very reasonable rates for such unrestrained luxury—the Manoir des Minimes and Le Clos d’ Amboise, and a restaurant that is so fantastic—and such a bargain—as to be almost beyond belief.
The amazing dinner was at the recently opened Pavillon des Lys—8 courses for €38 euros. I have no idea how they do it. Each course was amazing. The chef/owner, Sébastien, a gay guy (which is why they put it on the itinerary, I suppose), does all the cooking alone. There are two waiters. It is a small restaurant, about nine tables (with four lavish bedrooms as well.) Dinner consisted of…
Champagne and little snacks in the garden
Then dinner…
1. a beet and parsley cappuccino
2. foie gras and potato tart with Coteau du Layon wine
3. smoked salmon with a local Sauvignon wine
4. roasted sea bass
5. medallion of beef with (Chinon wine, I think)
6. chariot of local cheese
7. pre-desert course of little parfait and cookies
8. a chocolate mouse thing
9. a green apple clafouti with calvados ice-cream
and a glass of poire William in the salon.
hmm…seems like more that 8 courses. It was fantastic! They serve only two multi-course set menus (one vegetarian, rather a rarity) which change daily.
I immediately made reservations for my return trip with Logan and Abbie, as we would be staying nearby. Our encore dinner was equally impressive. Logan and my mother loved it. It was a warm evening, so all the tables were set up outside in the walled gravel courtyard. The indoor tables with lamps and stuff…all as formal as if in the dining room. The weather was perfect for it. We were the first to arrive (at 7:40) and the second to last to leave (at just before midnight.) Well, we spent an hour on the upstairs terrace having our coffee (or verbena) with a tiny chocolate pot de crème and waiting for the check. From the terrace there we had a postcard view of the illuminated St. Hubertus chapel, with the Château behind, as dusk turned into night. Amazing. We were the only ones invited to have our coffee up there, so didn’t we feel special? Same waiter as before (and Sebastien said hello briefly at the end of the meal). Only nine tables, but all were full. And this time only 33 euros! So it went like this:
Aperitif: Kir Vouvray pettilant with little bites: a shrimp, a tapanade, a spoon of beet, and a little glass of melon.
Then
1: a goblet of almost pureed vegetables and herbs; a parmesan cracker
2: Foie Gras with sel gris and a tiny lettuce salad
3: Crabmeat, tomato and avocado mille fiule with a crispy pastry
4: A small filet of fish on a bed of baby peas
5: A half quail with some mushrooms and tiny root vegetables
6: Cheese from the cheese board—a long plank that it took both waiters to carry to the table (actually the cheese is a supplement to the menu, but they comped us on it.)
7: rhubarb clafouti with strawberry ice-cream
8: a glass of fresh sliced strawberries with a glass of vanilla ice cream
9: a mango parfait, a little raspberry on a cookie, a tulle cookie
Then the delicious pot de crème with coffee on the upstairs terrace
We did not drink too much, just two bottles of wine and our aperitifs. We had a light red Menetou-Salon with the first 4 courses, and a Chinon with the quail and cheese.
Oh, the Manoir Les Minimes is fabulous. It’s a grand manor house; my room is extravagant—my bathroom even has a view of the Chateau. Owned by two charming gay guys (in matching pin-striped suits!) Everything in Amboise seems to be owned by homosexuals. Even the director of the Château d’Amboise, I’m told, is gay!
***
At the first dinner at Pavillon des Lys, after everyone had made their selections from the enormous Chariot du Fromage, one of the writers remarked that he had selected an particularly pungent (I believe his descriptions was stinky) cheese. Christophe remarked casually, not really as an explanation, that the cheese in question was from Alsace. Except that in giving a correct French pronunciation to that region of Eastern France, it sounded like “It comes from Al’s ass.” That got everyone’s attention, and much merriment ensued. It took Christophe a few seconds to understand what all the laughter was about.
***
A nice tour of Tours—excuse the obvious pun. It’s one of the larger cities of the Loire, and a big university town. Lots and lots of students. A cute half-timbered medieval quarter with lots of crowded sidewalk bar/cafes. The ruins of the enormous Basilica of St. Martin of Tours—now the city streets run right through the footprint of the giant church; only a couple towers remain. A new, much smaller, 19th century basilica was built during the religious revival to house the relics. I was the only member of the group who wanted to see his relics—so our guide took me to the reliquary under the alter while the rest of the group had coffee. Two interesting stops on the tour that I would have never discovered on my own: We visited a traditional silk weaving factory where they still weave fabric by hand on 18th century looms. For historical restorations I presume, as it is a tremendously expensive process. Apparently it is the only surviving weaver from the time when Tours was the Royal silk weaving city. The fabrics are beautiful—but even the spools of thread were astonishingly beautiful—they glowed with an almost internal light. We also visited an artisanal baker, where all the bread is made by hand and baked in a traditional, pre-WWII brick oven—one of the few surviving in France. Really good bread—in a country of good bread—but a dying artform in an age of more modern, mass production techniques. Anyway the brick oven is essential to the perfect texture of the soft interior and crisp crust of the breads at Veiux Four.
***
Christophe (our host from the LA office of the Maison de France) wore his “Sophie” (The Doyle/Logan Company logo and mascot) T-shirt to dinner last night. It was sweet. I had been wearing mine occasionally during the trip—I brought both, as they are black (I travel in black, it’s just one less decision to make.) The business card, I realize from this, is very successful—everyone remembers the dog logo “Oh I have your card, I remember the dog!”
Sadly the only word that adequately describes dinner is ‘ridiculous.’ Yes, you can have a bad meal in Paris—even an expensive bad meal. It was good that we were, by then, tired of eating. Christophe was a bit sad, because it was our last dinner, and it was a disaster; but really, the place was so absurd as to be amusing. It is a “trendy” restaurant. Well just that word is enough to set off alarm bells for me, and for Andrew too. Christophe says that some “trendy” restaurants in Paris are quite good, and fun, and I have no reason to doubt him. He’d never been here before. I’m rather sure he won’t be back. It was the Cantine du Faubourg…a very big place, in the basement of a building in the fashionable eighth arrondissement. Well, already it was trying too hard to be trendy. Orange plastic T-rex’s on the stairs going down. Gauzy curtains. Cool, modern, straight edged furniture and goofy lamps. Actually it was kind of pretty, in a sort of LA, sort of just past being trendy, way. And the clientele was not trendy—pretentious, plastic surgeried, breast enhanced, yes—but trendy, no. I thought they might all be people who made a lot of money in illegal activities. Mixed with just plain rich people from the neighborhood. Anyway, all this is forgivable…but as a restaurant, the place was a disaster. We were seated….early, 8pm, there was only one, maybe two other tables occupied in this huge space. We ordered drinks. They never came. We waited and waited. Finally the waitress came and told Cristophe that they couldn’t do drinks because “the computer was down” but we could have wine instead. We said “fine”…but got a good laugh out of that. Then, mysteriously and without explanation, our drink order (just slightly wrong) arrived. We were offered a very limited menu. Some kind of shrimp starter and chicken skewers or tuna steak for a main course. The little filo wrapped shrimp things were fine—they were served for no reason on long tiles, which didn’t really fit on the table. The mains they mixed up…I got chicken instead of tuna, but both were said to be equally insipid, so I didn’t miss much. The chicken on a stick was just that…coated with some kind of spice and served with noodles that Christophe aptly described as “bland”. The tuna came over-cooked (not very trendy!) and with a pyramid of instant rice! The harried, clearly unskilled waitress had to bring all the dishes to the table, two at time, unassisted, while dozens of staff did nothing but glide elegantly around the room, looking beautifully detached. Honestly, the place had an enormous staff—all very pretty, dressed in all black or all white outfits—but they did absolutely nothing but swan around the room, looking pretty. Dessert was decent; red fruits and lemon sorbet. The PR director—a fabulously dressed black woman, came over to greet us and deliver an obviously insincere “anything you need just ask” speech. The highlights of the restaurant it seems, are that they change the interior decoration twice a year, and that they will send a car to pick you up and bring you to the restaurant! It is probably the only way they can get anyone in the door. Yet it was quite full when we left at eleven. We had a good laugh about it, and as I said, as we were still full from our very nice lunch, it hardly mattered. Perhaps it was even better at that point to have an amusing story.
(That really good lunch, by the way, was at L’Ecluse St. Honoré, one of a small chain of wine bars featuring Bordeaux wine and simple, excellent food. As it was a very hot day, we were served two cold courses, both excellent, and a dessert. All the while we were entertained with amusing stories by Patricia Deckmyn, the exceedingly charming and witty ‘Ambassadress’—public relations director—of the restaurant.)
***
We sit in a café on the Rue de Rivoli, because my mother wanted a croque monsieur. It’s an inexpensive neighborhood café and tabac—The Jean-Bart—with nothing to call attention to it and consequently devoid of tourists. I’d been here before; the food is good and it is remarkably cheap for Paris. It’s pretty busy on a Friday night, and we’ve snagged a sidewalk table at the very end. Service is slow, but the atmosphere is festive. At the table next to us, separated only by the space of the doorway, are three French boys. They are drinking a bottle of rose from coca-cola glasses, smoking, talking on their mobile phones. They are dressed in the international style of youth: baggy jeans, an expanse of boxer shorts showing, one expensive designer accessory each, casually worn. The prettiest one—though it’s a close contest, sports a Gucci belt. One is rather hyperactive, always leaping up, leaving the table, going off for extended periods. The other two are far more languid. They slouch in their wicker chairs, opposing sides of the tiny cafe table, legs entwined. They might be gay. They might not. Clearly they are no older than 17, probably younger. Clearly they are enjoying their evening on the town; the wine, the cigarettes, the casual interaction with the waiter, the calls to friends on the mobile phones. It’s a scene I can’t imagine in America, and I can’t but feel that the lack of such casual, and innocent, adult fun is somehow detrimental to developing responsible, well-rounded adult personalities. The waiter, himself about 20, faux-hawked and cute mainly because he tries so hard, is friendly and funny despite the crowd and the frantic pace it demands. A young man stops at my table and asks for a cigarette—not for him, but for his girlfriend, who laughs and remains shyly in the background, clearly embarrassed. Her boyfriend is gregarious and clearly unembarrassed, or if he is conceals it completely with bluster and good cheer. I proffer her one of my Galois and light it and he kisses me on the cheek and she, laughing, says “merci, merci.” The boys, two now, abandoned again by their manic friend, stare languidly into each others’ eyes, whisper secrets, smoke their own cigarettes.
***
Logan, always the culinary adventurer, ate a pigs foot (deep fried and admittedly tasty, if bony) at Brasserie Flo in Reims, and a plate of horse tartar (which I declined to try, but which he declared the best tartare ever) at a sidewalk bistro in Bourges. I’ll refrain from the “I’m so hungry…” jokes.
***
Open ateliers in Belleville (an artsy Paris neighborhood). Very crowded. Too many children—not really the children I mind so much as the attendant strollers, chariots, etc. which consume so much space. Followed about the same route as we did two years ago. Saw perhaps ten percent of the open studios. A few very good artists…nice etchings, a few nice painters. I had the idea that it would be great to do an annual Belleville/LA show…bring the works of the ten best artists to LA for a group show. The work is cheap…the artists almost all unknown. Much of it would be hugely popular in LA. Some of the work is really good…and we saw only a fraction. Belleville is fascinating. Deteriorating buildings opening into magical, spacious courtyards. Wonderful restorations hidden here and there. A fascinating neighborhood of terrific, ungentrified, raw spaces. Dilapidated, but not at all dangerous (at least it seems so). Is there any place like it in LA, I wonder, or even in Amsterdam. Lively too, as there are shops and cafes; Chinese and Jewish restaurants. Ugly sixties high-rise housing too, but not so much as to be overwhelming. Hilly, unusual for Paris; an ancient aqueduct; an abandoned rail line. Secret courtyards and amazing raw space.
***
Renting the car in Paris (from Avis—the best choice I think in France) was more trouble and time consuming than renting at a provincial train station. The girl that helped us was obviously new, and took forever. She wanted to see out plane tickets! Said it was an Avis requirement…I had never heard that one before—the rental agency was at a train station, and I had arrived in Paris, as often, by train, I’m not sure what I would have produced! Fortunately I had my itinerary and my e-ticket computer printout with me, as they were in my passport case. I thought they might want to see my passport…but she didn’t ask for that. Rented many Avis cars in France and it always takes like five minutes…in Dijon or Orleans…but at Paris Gare de Lyon it was a big production. The staff not even bilingual…good thing Logan was along to help me with all their questions. Really, I have always just shown them my reservation and they’ve tossed me the keys! Surprisingly, driving in Paris was the easiest part. Drove back to the hotel, then out of town, with no problem, no getting lost, no real traffic. But I’d take the train out of town just to avoid the Paris rent-a-car location.
***
The Hotel Crystal, in Reims, is unchanged, and Madame Jentet seemed younger than ever. Surprised, when I greeted her by name…but quickly recovered and didn’t let on that she didn’t have a clue who I was…but I would not expect her to remember me from our brief meeting seven years ago! We visited the Cathedral, of course. Had dinner at the Brasserie Flo. The restaurant we had planned, and had been to before, Au Petit Comptoir, was closed on Monday. After dinner Logan and I had a walk and visited the tiny Lesbigay Bar! It was predictably dead at midnight on Monday, but kind of cute. A silly boy bartender sang along with the CD’s. I had gone into the tourist office in Reims earlier as a kind of test (are regional tourist offices gay friendly even if you are not on a gay tour?) and asked the girl at the desk about gay clubs. She didn’t bat an eye, tried to find some information and marked this place on the map. Turns out it is listed in the general tourist guide as well. She said from there I could find information on everything else. I guess there is a disco, but I didn’t bother asking about that for a Monday night!
***
The Hostellerie des Clos, in tiny Chablis, hadn’t changed much either. Comfy cheap rooms combined with fancy expensive dinners. Had a walk around the town, to the church that is always closed, then dinner in the hotel restaurant. Set menu for €52 euros…white and green asperges, salmon-trout, veal liver, cheese, strawberry and chocolate dessert. Two bottles of Chablis and one bottle of Banyuls with dessert and after. Quite drunk on the Banyuls; it has a very high alcohol content; delicious with chocolate though. Ate at the hotel restaurant the second night too…a la carte, so it cost twice as much! Oyster and crayfish terrine and then a pigeon. Logan had morels stuffed with foie gras and sweetbreads. Abbie had green asparagus with truffles and then scallops. I have no idea how much money we spent there…I don’t want to know…but the set menu is a much better deal; of course it always is. We were going to eat the second night in the restaurant in the village of St. Bris that we discovered on out previous trip, but found it is both closed on Wednesdays and under a new owner—so who know if it is still good…it couldn’t be as unique and special as before, anyway. A strange note though…everything in the Yonne region seems to be closed on Wednesdays! Both restaurants we wanted to go to, the market across from the hotel—it just seems a very strange day for everything to close. Also in the Yonne, the churches are never open…where as in the rest of France they just leave the doors open all day so you can wander in and have a look about. Anyway, spent our second day in Chablis driving around on tiny roads and stopping in cute tiny towns. Visited the Abbaye church at Pontigny…I didn’t remember it until we got inside; it is really beautiful in its starkness. I remembered it then, and recalled my photos of it. Ended the day in Auxerre, visiting the Abbaye there, St. Germain, a quite beautiful church and cloister done up with very high tech lighting and museum installations. Tour of the crypt with (9th? 10th?) century frescos…anyway, supposedly the oldest in France. Also visited the Cathedral of St. Etienne; strangely more impressive on the outside than in, even though the exterior was extensively scaffolded. They do have a reliquary with some bones of St. Steven (he of the stoning) behind the altar.
The Hostelerie des Clos is very comfortable with reasonably priced rooms. No-hassle, free wifi internet. Very beautiful public areas and courtyard. The whole town of Chablis seemed to be getting a makeover—restored streets of medieval buildings and a new fancy hotel and new fancy restaurant being prepared to open. It seems it has become something of a real tourist destination since our last visit. Logan theorizes that the magazine article in “Saveur” which led us there three years ago started a trend.
***
Drove today on very tiny roads from Chablis to Briare, to see the pont-canal. It is very impressive. A beautiful piece of very elegant 19th century engineering. Very, very long too, as it crosses an extremely wide section of the Loire as well as the 16th century shipping canal that runs alongside it. It’s very strange to see this long bridge of water crossing a river. Funny too, to think that when it was built, in the late 19th century, it was already obsolete. Canal shipping, so vital for centuries, had already been replaced by the railroads. Strangely, no one was at the canal itself, except a group of Dutch students.
***
Lovely here at the Château de la Verrerie, as always. Arrived in the early afternoon and walked around the grounds—it was quite hot today. Logan and I borrowed bikes (in rather poor repair) and cycled around the grounds a bit. Visited the chapel—which is more beautiful inside than I remembered, with lovely paintings on the wooden ceiling. I love it here, because it is like staying in a private home—albeit a very, very grand private home. They have wifi here now, too…the only problem is that it doesn’t penetrate the thick stone walls…so you basically have to go down to the office to connect. Also they charge 10 euro for the password to the network (good forever we are told…although how much time does one spend at La Verrerie!) which I think is just silly. Nice dinner at the restaurant on the grounds, La Maison d’Helene. More white asparagus, as it is the season. And strawberries, which are uniformly outstanding. Logan ordered the most expensive Sancerre on the menu (57 euros) justifying it by saying it would cost three times as much in LA. We had a red Fixin (burgundy) too. The wine bill for this trip is going to be huge…I don’t even want to know about it. The Chablis was very good of course. We played several games of Cluedo in the lounge after!
***
A Saturday morning visit to the pretty village of St-Aignan. It was very busy, and it turned out that Saturday was market day. A fun market in the center of town with meat, vegetables, cheese, etc. Really cool Romanesque church with a crypt full of medieval frescoes. Impressive hilltop (private) chateau. We drove from there to Civrey, to the pleasant Hostelerie du Château de l’Isle and settled in early. We switched Abbie’s upstairs room for the one she had before in the little woodshed annex. She likes it; no stairs and a stall shower. It’s the cheapest room they have, and only used, I think, for overflow. There is a nice new glass pavilion where they serve dinner. They only have one menu per night…I can’t say I remember exactly what it was…though I do remember enjoying it. I got a kick out of Logan asking our teen waiter for advice on which of the old Vouvray wines was best. (He had a definite opinion though.) We had a Vouvray and, I think a Touraine red. We were the last diners in the dining room—a sudden rainstorm had blown in during dinner, and the rain was drumming down on the roof.
***
Discovered Loches, a pretty little town with an impressive castle-like chateau (small manor house, interesting church, donjon, intact walls with only one gate) and saw the sights. Interesting in that there were basically no tourists. Churches were busy in the morning (surprisingly so, until we realized it was mother’s day in France). But it seems no one visits Loches. What a contrast to Chenonceau! An amusing sight: two carefully marked handicapped parking spaces closest to the foot of a long staircase leading up to the Château gate! We also visited a ruined Abbeye on the opposite side of the river. Then I drove to Montresor, just because it was nearby and Logan loves it so. We sat in that same café (Café de la Ville) and had a little wine and shared a gigantic salad of meat (it was just after lunchtime). Then Logan and I went for a walk…he saw an empty house for sale, right on the little river that runs along the village, so we noted the phone number! It is all very pretty. Visited the little gothic church that was built as a funerary chapel! Talk about a nice tomb!
***
No trouble finding our hotel in tiny Chinon, and got lucky with a legal parking place just across the narrow street. The Hotel Gargantua—after the character by Rabelais; it’s not that it’s so large. In fact it’s a rather quirky, family run hotel, in an old (16th century) renaissance house. Pretty cool actually. Right in the center of town. Great view of the Château de Chinon. Nice big room and very low prices. The other nice, inexpensive hotel in town, the Diderot, seems a bit swankier and a bit more professional; it’s bigger and in a 19th century building with a cute garden. A toss up perhaps. Dinner was good, we ate in the dining room because of the variable weather, though it had stopped raining and was warming up again. (The next night they were serving dinner on their terrace, which seemed really pleasant.) That night though, we ate at Au Plaisir Gourmand, for our gourmet meal. We got the best table. Abbie had a lobster salad which was great. Logan had veal sweetbreads and kidneys. I had a menu—crab terrine, lotte in verbena, duck breast, strawberries. It was good, as always, but not as good as Pavillon des Lys—where both the food and the setting (outdoors in the courtyard, with coffee on the upstairs terrace) were magical—and cheaper!
***
We drove to Candes St-Martin to see the old, partially fortified church. It’s been fixed up a bit. We just went for a drive after that…up the Loire to Saumur, and past, to a little town that Logan remembered—where we visited another church. Took a much quicker road, on the other side of the river, back to Chinon. Good luck in finding our same parking space. We spent the afternoon shopping in Chinon (shoes, pastries—langues des femmes, pates de fruits—an extra duffel bag!) We sat in the pretty square and had some coffee and water.
***
Last night in France, back in Paris. We did a bit of last minute shopping in the Marais—somehow the thought of leaving brings out the desire to buy things. We had dinner at C’Amelot on the rue Amelot in the nearby 11th. They have the one menu per night. It was a cold pea soup with mint (delicious); monkfish; and pigeon with polenta. Abbie wouldn’t eat the pigeon, though she declared the polenta excellent. I’m sure she had enough to eat, and Logan and I split her pigeon. The one choice you have there is dessert: she had the best, a strawberry granita with strawberries and cream; Logan’s was second-best, a warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice-cream. And mine was good: warm cherries with a (fennel? very subtle) ice cream. We walked back to the hotel, the convenient and very inexpensive Sevigné, across from the St-Paul metro station. It’s actually a short walk. Logan was tired, but I wanted to visit the bar Andy Wahloo, where I had been taken once by my Parisian friend Mafoud, so I walked over there and had a glass of wine. I’m glad I saw it again. I really like it….fun atmosphere, comfortable, cute waiters. A nice end to the trip, as we won’t count the Aéroport Charles de Gaulle!—Clay Doyle
In Amsterdam, out with friends for an evening, we’ll have a few sensible rounds of beer and eventually someone will suggest “het laatste biertje”. The last little beer has become something of a joke among my friends, for of course the last beer invariably produces an additional round and then another as each in turn steps up to provide his companions with a last beer.
This is something of a metaphor for my time in Amsterdam. I came on a whim, really, with no firm plans, and the idea of living here for six months, maybe a year. All right, perhaps I am being a bit disingenuous, as I did sign a two year lease on an apartment the day after arriving in the city. But the lease allowed cancellation at anytime with two months notice, so it wasn’t totally insane. Not insane at all, as it turned out, as two years turned to four years and then to six. And when the time came in August for the usual two year renewal…I found the building was being sold—I could get an extension on the lease only until the end of the year.
I’d never planned to spend forever in Amsterdam. But then I hadn’t planned to spend six years here either (six years, three months, two days!). But like that one last beer…each year just became easier and more appealing. My stay here has outlasted my initial desire to simply escape from Los Angeles. It has outlasted many of my ties to that city in which I spent so many years. It has outlasted my relationship with the young man with whom I moved to Amsterdam–he left years ago for the glamour and decadence of gay life in New York (Despite Amsterdam’s reputation, it can’t compete).
The last weeks have been such whirlwind of activity, I haven’t really had much time for reflection. There have been visitors, a trip to Paris, an exam in my language class, much sorting and throwing out of six years of accumulated ephemera, final dinners and drinks, a last visit from Logan, a festive farewell party, the Museumnacht, and finally, the removers. As I prepared my leaving, the elections in America, and the assassination in Amsterdam of controversial filmmaker and writer Theo Van Gogh by alleged Muslim extremists, cast a depressing tone over the city. Now it’s cold here my last night in the empty flat. It’s turned cold, but mostly dry, as the city slips into winter. The last of cafe terraces disappeared on the first of November, and Europe’s gone off daylight time, bringing an early nightfall to the city. Still, the Sinterklaas decorations have gone up and the displays of lights—coupled now with lights on all the bicycles (a sudden enforcement of a long neglected petty regulation)—create a festive, holiday air.
Having closed, two years ago, my Los Angeles studio/gallery/home of ten years and subsequently having survived three close encounters with death, the loss of a rented apartment in Amsterdam is not something I’m inclined to view with panic. In fact my initial reaction was a sort of freedom–I could go anywhere, do anything: I could travel for a year; I could relocate to a University with an MFA program in creative writing. I could hang out in LA with my family and friends, or sponge off friends in San Francisco. There was, and is, an appeal to a nomadic lifestyle.
But can I really leave Amsterdam? Could I return only occasionally and (worst of all) only as a tourist? I may not have really become a part of Amsterdam (I still mangle the language and stare at locals with bewildered expressions until they effortlessly switch to English; I’ve never bothered to get a visa, a resident permit, an identity card, or to register with the foreign police, all alleged bureaucratic requirements; I haven’t managed to marry, or even seriously date a dutch citizen. And yet if I have not become a part of Amsterdam, Amsterdam has become a part of me…the city and its culture have become a huge part of my identity; an important aspect of my self image.
I am an American who lives in Amsterdam. An American who chooses to live in Amsterdam. I don’t have a car (on the European continent at least); I travel everywhere by bike. I have a lovely apartment in the centrum, the quiet and charming Negen Straatjes. It has a view of (not quite over) the rooftops of Amsterdam. If you lean precariously out the window, there is even a canal view. I can hear the bells of the Westertoren, two blocks away, chiming the half hours throughout the night. This sound is somehow reassuring.
Though it seems so normal to say “am” and “have” the reality now is “was” and “had”. The fabulous apartment on the Berenstraat is mine no longer. The removers have come and the winter coats and the trinkets collected traveling through Europe and yet another collection of books and paintings has gone to storage. I return to California a somewhat rootless exile in George Bush’s America. I am hoping, scheming and plotting already my return to the adopted city I have come to love. With luck I’ll be back by the time the socialists retake the government! But what alternative adventures the fates may have in store for me, I really cannot at this moment even guess.
I will miss the sunny cafe terraces with the impossibly slow service. I’ll miss cycling in the brisk air. I’ll miss the incredible beauty of this city of tranquil canals and 17th century brick. I’ll miss the breathtaking skies of deep blue and amazing clouds and brilliant pink sunsets. I’ll miss my favorite restaurants and bars. I’ll regret that Paris is no longer a short train ride away. I’ll miss the Kaaskamer, and the Saturday farmers’ market on the Noordermarkt, the Friday Bookmarket; the Le Soliel pancake house and the cafe Nielsen (where I have had two exhibits of my photographs, and countless club sandwiches), Balthazar’s Keuken and the Utrechtsedwarstafel. I’ll miss the view of the Westertoren as I cross the Berensluis to do my marketing. I’ll miss the people in the neighborhood shops and the Splash fitness center and the familiar faces of boys I’ve never actually met. I’ll miss all the entertaining guests—American, French, British, Estonian, German, Italian—who have visited me here in the Berenstraat; if you haven’t made it in six years, you may have missed your chance. But I’ll miss most of all my faithful Amsterdam friends, and spending an evening with them, and having that one last beer.
Back in Amsterdam for August, after my longest stay back in the US since coming here in 1998, exactly six years ago. After nine (unplanned) months in California, it was surprising how easy it was to settle back into life here on the Berenstraat. After two days it seemed as if I’d never been away. The city itself doesn’t change much, and its seasonal rhythms repeat each year with familiar regularity.
August is a month to be avoided in many European cities, a time when locals leave for holiday, and hordes of tourists overwhelm. Amsterdam on the other hand, is a fine place in August. Most of the locals do not leave, preferring to stay and enjoy the possibility warm weather and saving their holidays for the colder months. There is a large influx of tourists, Americans, French and especially Italians, however not so many as to overwhelm this admittedly small city. Restaurants, bars, museums and the city itself remain relatively quiet and accessible. And August here is a succession of street fairs and festivals: The gay pride festival with its boat parade; the intimate Hartjes Dagen weekend on the Zeedijk; the Grachten Festival culminating in a large classical concert on the Prinsengracht; de Parade, a sort of performance art traveling show; and the Uitmarkt, where the upcoming cultural season is previewed and a variety of free concerts are offered.
I returned just in time for all of this, and in time too to catch the end of a three week long heat wave–the only trace of summer this year according to locals. As is the custom, everyone has been complaining bitterly of the August weather as well as the Spring and Summer generally–it has been cool and very stormy.
Mostly I have just been reconnecting with old friends and making a few new ones, enjoying the street parties, visiting museums, sitting in cafes, and attempting to finish my novel and bring this revised travel website some degree of interest, and adding to it a number of previously uncirculated travelogues.
The Stadelijk (modern art) Museum, whose building on the Museumplien will be closed for some years for a much needed renovation, has relocated to temporary quarters on two floors of a groovy 1960’s mini-hi rise near centraal station. The building was once the Railway Post Office, and now its stripped to the concrete interiors a housing a variety of arts institutions. It’s best feature, I must admit, is the eleventh floor rooftop cafe, a cavernous space offering spectacular 360º views over Amsterdam. The world-famous Rijksmuseum is also closed for a six year renovation, with the major works relocated to a small attached annex. Though I haven’t seen the installation, I’m told it is perfect for the quick tourist visit, as all the famous works, and only those, are displayed together in a compact space!
As for me, it is nice to be back, even if it means I am drinking perhaps too much Dutch beer. The city with its canals and 17th century brick houses is, as always, beautiful–even in a rainstorm.
With the Republican National Convention soon to begin in New York City, I thought I would post this nostalgic entry. It’s account of a trip to a wintry, snow covered Manhattan in the carefree pre- 9/11, pre- George Bush, pre- recession days of early 2000. It was a magical two weeks in a magical city; and though I’ve been back several times since then (and the other main character in this narrative has relocated there permanently), I’ve not had a better visit since.
I wasn’t really sure if I would write about this trip to New York, as I have been a periodic visitor there for nearly 25 years. I made my first, brief, visit to New York in 1976 with a college roommate. Like all first-time visitors I was then simply amazed by the hugeness of it all: the skyscrapers, the subways, the architecture, as I suppose all first time visitors are.
I returned, alone, twice in the early 80’s. I stayed, on these visits, with a friend of a friend—a doctor who worked in a New York prison and lived in a large loft in the then decidedly unfashionable East Village between First and Avenue A. Today of course, this is prime real estate. These trips, visiting on my own, allowed me to really explore the city, and I did have the late writer and film historian Vito Russo as an occasional guide to the City’s nightlife. (Vito lived in then unfashionalbe Chelsea).
I made two short visits with my family. Once we stayed in a grand but faded suite atop the midtown Iriquois Hotel—a bargain because the hotel was in the process of being closed—piece by piece. When I next saw it, it was dark and abandoned; I meant to see on this visit if it had been reincarnated as a luxury hotel—as so many old places have recently, but I never got around to it. I have photos of my sisters ice-skating in the rink at Rockefeller Center.
On the next family visit, on the occasion of my brother’s graduation from West Point, my sister booked us into the garishly tacky Milford Plaza off Times Square (I can still remember their television commercials). Times Square, as you have no doubt heard, is now another world.
I returned to New York with Michael Logan one very hot week in July of 1984. We stayed at the fabulous Algonquin Hotel and saw Sondhiem’s “Sunday in the Park with George” which still impresses me with the way Seurat’s famous painting was recreated on stage by live actors. We visited Keith Haring’s Pop Shop and saw a very young Madonna hanging out at the Boybar. We lunched (twice) at the café which in summer replaces the ice-rink at Rockefeller Center, marveling at how much money one could spend on a hamburger and iced-teas. That sense of amazement at New York prices hasn’t changed.
I made three trips to New York in the 1990’s. A trip alone, by train from my brother’s house in Baltimore. I stayed with my Berkeley friend Jeremy in the East Village (the East Village of the musical Rent—edgy and hip, but not yet trendy). There was a great place, the Life Café, on the edge of Tompkins Square Park—it was a reflection of the neighborhood that it opened for breakfast at noon. That trip was devoted mainly to the museums and the theatre; the highlight for me being the totally amazing Part One of Angels in America.
I was also there briefly on a cross country driving trip with Konrad Kemper in 1996, and again for a few days to see the very talented Jeff Burton’s first New York photography show at the Casey Kaplan Gallery.
On both of these trips I stayed with Scott Robbe, newly returned to his long time home of New York after four years in Los Angeles, where we had the good fortune to meet through my friend and traveling companion, Rufus.
On this trip as well, Scott was kind enough to house Rufus and me (for two weeks!) in his rather spectacular apartment overlooking both Madison Square park and the famous Flatiron Building. But more than the accommodations, Scott is an enthusiastic host, and spent much of our visit introducing us to friends, taking us to restaurants, bars, a favorite show, and acting as a tireless guide to the New Manhattan.
And as you have heard, New York has changed dramatically in the past few years. Not just Times Square, but long, once desolate blocks all over the city are now alive with trendy cafes, galleries, shops and the ubiquitious Banana Republic stores. There is virtually no graffiti in Manhattan—a transformation that amazes me; and the city feels, for the first time in my experience, utterly safe—as safe as a big city in Western Europe. The downside to this prosperity and order? Everything is wildly expensive—especially housing, which is prohibitive. Anyone with a decent apartment in Manhattan occupies it through some very baroque and quasi-legal arrangement (some long ago resident’s name is always on the buzzer)—or else they live in Hoboken. The cleaned up city also means that nightlife—especially gay nightlife—is frightfully dull. Forget the 70’s entirely, it’s a mere shadow of what it was even in the early 90’s.
Still, it’s a city where even in two weeks we could not visit all the sights, museums, exhibitions, or theatre that we would have liked to have seen. It’s a city of fabulous restaurants and a city where you can get any sort of food, from any culture in the world. It’s a city where you can find and buy anything—if you have the money. It’s the only American city I know where you can routinely hear half a dozen languages being spoken at any one time. It’s noisy, it’s fast, it’s busy—but the drinks are strong and the people (like Paris, contrary to reputation) are by-and-large friendly. There’s a craziness to New York—you overhear it in the conversations of people who have tried too long and without success to achieve wealth or fame—but there’s an excitement too, which becomes a bit contagious.
* * * *
Arrived in New York on a Monday early evening in January, on a day of record subzero cold. Rufus, who had already been there nearly a week, met me at the Newark airport. He has already arranged a multitude of activities for our stay in New York: restaurant reservations, Broadway shows, etc…
The night of my arrival nothing is planned, though. Scott serves us wine and nibbly things—we are staying at his fabulous Madison Square penthouse. We go out to dinner at L’Express, a nearby French-ish bistro; I have onion soup and steak au poivre. The soup is good and the steak is especially good—but the unpeeled frites are very unFrench. After dinner Scott takes us around the corner to a very old New York bar, appropriately called the Old Town Bar—it still has it’s original 1910 interior. They have basketball on the TV and showtunes on the sound system, so there is something for everyone! There is almost no one there however, because it is extremely cold out and it’s Monday; the high temperature for the day was well below freezing and really you can only walk a couple blocks before it feels like your face is going to freeze off! In honor of my recent arrival, I have a Manhattan, which is especially tasty; then a second. My mistake though is the third, because after downing that I am extremely drunk. We take a cab to another bar—the Boiler Room—a gay/hipster joint in the East Village; there is no one there either. I have a club soda, but I am still reeling from the Manhattans. Fortunately we don’t stay long, and I am soon in bed where I belong.
Today I had to sleep late because of all the bourbon. Then Rufus and I met the photographer Ethan Hill for lunch. It is still bitterly cold out and the café we had chosen to meet in had a malfunctioning heating system! The waiters and few patrons were bundled in coats and gloves and you could see your breath inside the restaurant! Sensibly we went elsewhere—to the Union Square Coffee Shop—a sort of fabulous forties old place with a hipster crowd and designer-American food. Tasty though; I had a Cuban sandwich and Rufus had meatloaf. Ethan is doing very well shooting ads for Dell Computers and lots of other lucrative stuff. He made a beautiful portfolio on his Epson printer which he then bound in hardcover and slip-cased. It’s a thin little thing, but beautiful and has only portraits— his specialty.
We didn’t have plans after lunch, so we wandered a bit—even though it was too cold for it, really. We went into the newly hip Meatpacking District to a very silly shop called Jeffrey. Absurdly expensive designer clothes (you really couldn’t be too rich or too thin) and extravagantly overstaffed with cute shop clerks. Across the street we went to a gallery that sold art glass—lots of pieces at a hundred thousand dollars each—and most of them sold! New York is so rich; well it’s the same in LA and San Francisco—so much wealth. And desperate poverty. But New York does have a glamour that California lacks. That’s it really—its just so glamorous: women in furs; fancy stores and even fancier restaurants—by the hundreds. The extravagant 20th century architecture. We indulge ourselves in that glamour this evening with dinner at Tabla—a stylish and beautiful restaurant in the lobby of an art deco former insurance company building on Madison Square Park. It was lavish, and well, glamorous. Scott knows a couple of the waiters there (beautiful boys, glamorous in their own right). It’s an experience. From the moment you walk in the door and they rush up to take your coats and sweep you up the grand staircase to the dining room! The food is billed as Indian fusion—but it is pretty darn unique; I don’t know that you could classify it at all. The sauces and preparations are pretty unusual, but they do work. I wouldn’t say it’s the best food I’ve ever had, but it was very good—and certainly interesting. They sent us several extra things, and those were the best: an amuse bouche of pureed pumpkin, an in-between course of a shrimp (fabulously flavorful and on a excellent concoction of greens and star anise) and an extra dessert of warm chocolate-date cake. I had a starter of crispy sweetbreads in an incredibly rich sauce and a main course of scallops on a bed of chopped vegetables—those veggies were a bit of a disappointment. Rufus had an oxtail which was delicious and very rich, and Philip had a crusted skate wing that looked fantastic. Yes, the composer Phillip Littell joined us for dinner—he’s been living in New York for a while now and doing theatrical projects for Disney. It was great to see him again. He and Scott had not met before, but of course they know all the same fabulous people in New York and Los Angeles!
After dinner Philip was off to a club called Beige (the haunt, I’m told, of aspiring fashion models—everything in New York is so specialized) but we just came home to rest. It gives me a chance to make these notes.
The next morning I was still not fully recovered from travel and stayed in bed while Rufus went off to meet travel writer Rich Rubin for lunch. It was 3 in the afternoon before I got moving; but then Rufus and I took the subway uptown to the Whitney to see the “American Century” show. It was mostly pretty familiar work, but the presentation was interesting. And there were a few unfamiliar things—a positive result of being ‘inclusive’ with some works outside the white male artworld canon. This provided some new and unexpected work. We didn’t quite manage to see it all of course, so we may have to go back. Rufus especially would like to see Nan Goldin’s ‘Ballad of Sexual Dependency’, a slideshow that runs about 40 minutes; and there’s a Bill Viola work I’ve never seen.
After that we dashed over to Times Square on the subway so Rufus could deliver a note to a cabaret artist he dated in college—he’s now performing in New York. So I had a brief whirlwind tour of the new Times Square.
We had a play to attend at 8: Wit, the Pulitzer prize-winner from last year about a woman dying of cancer. It was very well written, a great character, some humor, but ultimately rather depressing. Intelligent and affecting though; only the very, very end seemed a bit overdone.
After that we had dinner at the Blue Water Grill, a seafood place in an old converted bank building. Very friendly waitress. We had some cold shrimps with cocktail sauce and then shared the fish special. It was a red drum fish from Florida—the waitress said it was a delicious, but very rare, fish. We hoped we weren’t eating the last of an endangered species. It was pretty tasty though.
We ended the evening by going with Scott to Pork at the Lure, a gay ‘scene’ where people stand around and sneer at each other. We met Scott’s friend Alan there and his boyfriend Lee from Tabla, and another waiter, Kane. Actually Rufus had met them all last week. Lee is rather intense and asks lots of questions and likes to discuss literature—an odd topic in a gay bar. Kane is astonishingly cute in an out-of-the mainstream way: he’s small and really skinny and has a very cute but perhaps oddly shaped head. The club was fine because of the company, and they had an artist doing portraits which was fun—and they looked good in the dark and after a few beers! The artist has an opening tomorrow in a gallery so I might go check him out in more critical surroundings. At 2am everyone left—really nearly everyone—but Rufus and I stayed another 45 minutes talking to Kane.
Thursday morning New York City was a winter wonderland. The snow swirled in huge flakes outside our window overlooking a white and gray Manhattan. The snow kept up all day long, and the city turned white. The temperature increased to a still-cold-but-at-least-tolerable-to-be-outside temperature, though the snow made the sidewalks uncomfortably slippery for me. I managed not to fall down, remarkably, but it did slow me down considerably. We grabbed a bit of lunkfast at the nearby Mayrose café (I had a huge and tasty American baked macaroni and cheese). Then we took the subway to Central Park and strolled through the south end of the park. The snow was still coming down and the park was all wintry white and bare black-brown elm trees with snow dusting their branches. We walked through the zoo, all beautifully restored, and the promenade down to the Bethesda fountain, and the boathouse in a frozen lake. There were a few people out, lots of children playing and sledding a throwing snowballs; and people taking pictures. We walked about an hour, until our toes became frozen in our boots and decided to stop in a fancy Central Park hotel for a warm beverage. We had our choice of the Plaza, or the Pierre, or the Sherry-Netherland, which was the one Rufus chose. It has a tiny, unprepossessing lobby and the only bar is the adjacent Harry’s Cipriani (as in Venice) very understated and very expensive! We each had an Irish coffee (30 bucks for 2 with tip!) We were entertained by eavesdropping on this group at the next table—some sort of Texas cattle baron and his wife from Dallas and their polo-playing investment bankers! It was like something out of a movie. They could not have been more stereotypical—we just couldn’t stop listening to their conversation.
From the bar we walked down Fifth Avenue, stopping at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and (more prosaically) at Banana Republic, and then at Saks. The Saks store is so incredibly elegant and beautiful—it’s rather amazing that the original at Fifth Avenue is so different form all the branch stores—which seem rather ordinary. I bought Rufus a belated Christmas gift—a DKNY sweater that he liked that had been marked down four times, so it was at last a reasonable price.
We got the subway at Rockefeller Center and went to an art opening in Chelsea at the Gallery 220—the artist we saw drawing portraits at the Lure the night before. Actually the show was titled Men at the Lure (Grant Schaeffer was the artist). It was a small gallery with a gay/hipster crowd (not unlike the crowds we used to get at the Gallery at The Doyle/Logan Company—and just as cheap; lots of drawings at $300 with no takers). Actually the portraits were quite nice: interesting, well drawn and nicely presented.
We came back to Scott’s to drop off stuff and change and took a taxi down to Sixth Street for an Indian dinner. Ate at Mutani where we had fantastic starters—wonderful meaty samosas; a concoction of spicy garbanzos with a puffy bread; and a fantastic sweet coconut soup that I remember from my very first Indian meal, also on Sixth Street 20 years ago. We shared a main course combo plate of more traditional Indian things that was fine, but not outstanding like the starters—I suspect we should have been more adventurous in our ordering.
After dinner, as we were in the East Village, we went out for a bit of gay nightlife. First we stopped at Wonderbar, which was cute, though not too busy. We had a comfy seat and sipped club soda and watched people come and go. From there we went to a ‘club’ at The Cock, which really was less interesting than it sounds. It wasn’t too busy either, but they had a five dollar cover and a couple of go-go boys. It was hard to tell who was less interested in the show though, the audience or the dancers. We left by 2.
Today we got up and went to lunch with Rufus’ friend Cindy. She is from Big Stone Gap and they went to school together and then to UVA together and she even lived in LA for a while. I met her once before but remembered her very differently. Now she is a lawyer and works for a small firm with offices in the Empire State Building. We went to her office (so fun—the Empire State Building!) and she introduced us to everyone who worked there and then we went to lunch. We went to an Italian place nearby and I had fettuccine alfredo for breakfast! (I really have to start getting up and about earlier in the day). After lunch, she gave us building passes to the observation deck so we went up to the top of the building for the view. It was clear today (the snow stopped and mostly all swept away) so the view was incredible—but so was the wind! So mostly you had to admire the view from inside the tacky souvenir shop that fills the enclosed part to the observation deck. On the plus side—not too crowded today!
After that we did a bit of shopping around Union Square; coffee and browsing at the huge Barnes & Noble bookstore and I bought a pair of pants at Banana Republic to take advantage of “no-sales-tax on clothing week” in New York. At 5:30 we met our friend Lauren, a producer at Nickelodeon, and her friend and colleague Dennis, back at Scott’s. We drank a bottle of wine and then all ventured out in the frigid wind to go to dinner. Scott led us to a really good little Thai restaurant in Chelsea with the rather uninspired name of ‘Regional Thai Taste’. It was very good though: lots of seafood, very clear flavors, lots of spice.
Dennis deserted us after dinner but Lauren stayed for one drink at Blu—an odd Chelsea bar that would have been very comfortable (couches and tables) except for the dance music blasting at full volume. We had cosmopolitans—tasty but (yet again) expensive.
Lauren went home after we left Blu, and I was feeling lively enough that I would have continued on from there—it was only ten or so—but we made the mistake of returning to Scott’s house to regroup. After sitting in the warm for an hour, going out seemed less appealing. Rufus wanted to go to club 1984 at the Pyramid in the East Village—which I’ll admit sounded amusing, and which might have provided a reason to venture out. Scott was coordinating meeting other friends however, and they wouldn’t be going out ’til after midnight, and by that time there would be a long line at 1984, and so then we would just go to an East village bar with a jukebox—and that didn’t seem worth going out in the cold for to me. So I decided to stay home; and then Rufus put on his pj’s and went to bed, and only Scott went out. So I’m sitting up to write this. It is very windy out!
***
An amusing weekend in New York. (Firstly, it’s probably good for the rest of our weekend that we did not venture out with Scott on Friday night—though it seems a very fun time was had by all—but the evening lasted until 7 am, which might have made it difficult to enjoy Saturday day. And our Saturday was great!)
We got to breakfast a bit before noon: just a quick bite at the nearby Mayrose (actually I had a grilled chicken sandwich). Then took the subway uptown to a matinee of “Cabaret”. We got there early so walked around a bit by Central Park South and past Columbus Circle (ugly and unimpressive) and then to Studio 54 for the performance. Studio 54, the famous disco era nightclub, has been stripped of its slick, dance-club interior (so I’m told—I never actually went there in it’s heyday), and has been returned to a somewhat decaying early 20th century theatre, but outfitted with café tables, each with a little lamp, so the interior is like a grand, but faded…cabaret. And, naturally, you can order expensive drinks as well. Actually we had decent bottle of French Champagne for 35 dollars, so they weren’t that bad (90 bucks each for the theatre tickets though. Ouch!). The production was quite good though, and the whole atmosphere is very fun. Some of my favorite songs in the show belong to Frau Schnieder, the landlady–and these were cut from the movie along with her plot line! It’s hard to see the show and not think of all its other incarnations: Isherwood’s fiction, and his autobiography, and the movie and Bob Fosse. Still it holds up well and has some great songs.
After the show we walked cross town to Bloomingdale’s. It wasn’t that exciting though. I don’t think I’ve been there in 15 years, but I remembered it as being rather glamorous—with lots of wild (if unwearable and/or unaffordable) designer menswear. It just seemed like a typical department store—the Bloomingdale’s in Century City is more interesting, if I dare to say so!
There’s a subway stop in the basement though, so we took a train down to Grand Central Station to have a look at results of the renovation. It’s spectacular! The main concourse is beautiful—and it is probably the only public space in New York City with no advertising! There is a fancy restaurant on the balcony with a spectacular view over the room, but we headed to the basement to the famous Oyster Bar. It’s not chic, but it’s pretty cool, with long counters to sit at and fabulous fresh seafood. We had a couple glasses of Muscadet and a plate of fried oysters and fresh some clams on the half shell from the raw bar. Delicious—and I rarely eat raw clams or oysters. We could have gorged on more raw things and chowders and crab cakes, but we had an invitation to dinner, so just a snack. We left planning a return in the coming week.
There’s also a big food hall beneath the station, and a wine shop, where we picked up a bottle to take to dinner. We took the train back to Scott’s and picked him up to go to dinner with Alan and Lee. They live in the West Village, and had invited us all over for a home cooked meal—which seems to be something of a rarity in Manhattan, where everyone either goes out, or orders in. It’s the only city I know where you can even get breakfast delivered! Lee is Korean, and from Minnesota, and apparently he likes to cook. Alan, a true New Yorker, never enters their kitchen. They have a cool apartment in old building which, in an arrangement typical of new York, they occupy with some kooky heiress who is hardly ever there. We didn’t meet her; she wasn’t there. Lee made a very nice dinner for us. First we had cocktails and gorged on cheese then sat down to a dinner of chicken baked with apples, potatoes, and pea pods. Scott brought a tiramisu cake for dessert. We sat around talking ’til almost 1 am—Scott and Alan didn’t want to go out because of the excitement of the night before. Rufus and I left finally to go to the East Village clubs. Rufus wanted to go back to The Cock where they have some sort of vulgar but funny show on Saturdays, but by the time we got there there was a line—it was short but it never moved. It was also a bit worrisome because everyone in line seemed to be some kind of greaseball—not at all appealing and it didn’t seem to bode well for the crowd inside—so we bailed and went to the Phoenix. It’s just a casual sort of place with a jukebox. It was fun—we had a couple of beers and watched the crowd. Then we stopped at Dick’s—not too busy—but they have a mad jukebox (it had been overridden by a DJ for Saturday night sadly) loaded with obscure New Wave discs like ‘the Xray Specs!’ We left there and went to The Boiler Room where everyone was really friendly (and really drunk) ‘cuz it was after 3 am. Then we got into a cab and came home.
Sunday began with a very late brunch with Scott. Nothing Fancy, just a typical American breakfast at a coffee shop on third avenue. Really good waffle and bacon—really bad coffee. One thing that hasn’t changed in New York is the coffee—it is still the worst in the world. I swear that they leave it simmering on the hot plate for a full day before they deem it ready to serve. Even the lattes and cappuccinos are mediocre at best. The ubiquitous ‘Starbucks’ that have sprung up everywhere are most welcome here—but of course they don’t have decent food.
After breakfast (at 3pm!) we took the subway all the way up the East Side to 103rd street to the little-visited Museum of the City of New York. At 103rd street, the railroad tracks that run under Park avenue have emerged from underground and run along an elevated viaduct and the ultra-posh Upper East Side has given way to a more Harlem-esque cityscape. Fifth Avenue though, with its views over the very north end of Central Park maintains an air of grandeur. The Museum of the city of New York, at Fifth and 103rd, is rather grand itself, though the building is far more imposing than its collections. There was a nice temporary exhibition of photographs of the ruined hospital buildings on the unrestored half of Ellis Island. There was an interesting ‘history of New York City’ room, with a timeline and fun artifacts from the last hundred years. There is also a big Broadway/theatre section of the museum, with artifacts from the Gershwins and South Pacific and Cole Porter and Noel Coward. And there were temporary exhibits of costume/fashion. There was also a collection of 19th century furniture and a few paintings, but we ran out of time and just sort of dashed by these. There is a nice shop at the museum that has good books (Dawn Powell novels) and really nice photographic prints of views of New York made from the negatives in the Museum’s collection.
Since we were on Fifth, We caught the bus that runs all the way down Fifth Avenue and got off at the stop that is directly in front of Scott’s building! It’s sort of a fun ride, as it takes you past many of the monuments of New York: The Guggenheim, the Met, the Plaza Hotel, Rockefeller Center, The Library, the Empire State Building…). We had intended to rest up a bit when we got back, before our big dinner (we had reservations at Balthazar—one of the city’s most in-demand eateries). But instead of resting we went with Scott to the Mercer Hotel for a drink. A friend of his from LA (who directs commercials with American stars for Japanese television, for products they wouldn’t dare be seen endorsing in the US) was in town to shoot something and staying at the Mercer. It’s very cool-sophisticated; spare and beautiful—and arranged so that you can’t actually sit close enough to anyone to carry on a conversation with them! Big leather sofas and chairs, very far apart. There was a whole wall of cool art books in the lobby though, so it would be a fine place to hang out alone.
Our restaurant, Balthazar, was near the hotel, on Spring street in Soho. We had heard and read great things about it, and getting a reservation was quite the process involving a call a week in advance to get the reservation, and a mandatory call back the same day to confirm the reservation. On the plus side, we were seated immediately upon arrival, and the place was very busy. The place is a pretty authentic reproduction of a French Brasserie—tiled floor, antique mirrors, dark wood, and tiny tables jammed together. There’s a raw bar with oyster shuckers—though it’s inside and not out on the sidewalk. Rufus was expecting—from all the hype—something a bit more. As he commented “this is just like any restaurant in Europe!” Well, yes and no. The food was typical French brasserie/bistro and totally excellent. We started with steak tartare—which was rich and delicious—and a very good goat cheese tart. For main courses Rufus had a large, beautiful pork chop and I had the cassoulet (served only on Sundays, and perfect). We drank a very good, and reasonably priced 96 Chinon. The service however, could not have been less French. It was rushed, and fussy, and bordered on inept. Things came to the table much too quickly—starters arrived before the wine, main courses arrived as soon as the starters had been cleared, and some one was always pouring water or wine—and worse—reaching across our table to pour water or wine for the adjacent table. We really just wanted to tell the waiter to go away and leave us in peace for twenty minutes! We settled for lounging after the main course with the dessert menus and refusing to order anything for a good long time. Finally I had some profiteroles and Rufus had a glass of sherry. In the end we stretched dinner out to a respectable 2 hours, without any coffee. Despite the service, the food was really good though, and I’d love to go back—though I would go next time at an off hour, perhaps after ten when the frenzy has died down.
After dinner we came home and changed, and went out to check the Sunday night scene at New York’s bars. And what we found is that there isn’t one—on Sunday night ‘the city that never sleeps’ seem to be, well, sleeping. We went to the Spike—a half dozen people and very bored bartenders. The Eagle—a few people—but very unattractive. The Lure—us, two other patrons, and the bartender. We had a very long chat with the bartender though, he was very nice. From there, we decide not to press our luck, and returned home.
Today (Monday) we were slow to get started as well; however we did drop off our clothes at the laundry—an accomplishment! We went to the Mayrose for lunch—I do like their macaroni and cheese (I sound like my nephew!). Rufus went back to the apartment to work on an article he was writing, and I went for a walk. Today the weather has warmed up considerably—it was only chilly—and quite pleasant for walking. I didn’t even need my hat. I walked down Broadway, past Union Square, past the antique shops, past the discount clothing shops. Stopped at Shakespeare and Company to look at books (Umberto Eco essays and the book about Hitler’s Pope), The Gap to look for cargo pants on sale (none), a discount store to look for cheap jeans (all of them cheap but the Levis). I walked all the way down into Soho and ended up back at Balthazar, where I got a café latte and pain au chocolate from their boulangerie (I couldn’t resist) and ate it sitting on a bench out front and watching the people pass by. (Good latte by the way—thank God.) The pastry was good but not sublime—I was hoping for sublime; everything looks delicious.
I was going to take the subway back home (mainly because I had to pee, and New York has no public facilities even though the mayor just last week ordered that anyone urinating in the street be arrested) when I noticed I was right in front of the Guggenheim Soho, which is open ’til 6 and is free. So I went in and used the bathroom and saw the show. It was an exhibition of Andy Warhol’s “The Last Supper”, paintings and silk-screens and drawings all based on Da Vinci’s last supper and also Warhol’s last work before his death. It was worth seeing, and it was just me and the security guards up there—and they have nice restrooms FYI.
Thus rejuvenated I walked back to Scott’s; first over to Washington Square and then down Fifth Avenue. When I got back, Rufus wanted to go to the movies, so we took the subway back to Soho and saw Pedro Almodovar’s film “All About My Mother” (which we had to see in the states because we really needed those subtitles to be in English). After the movie we walked to Greenwich Village and had slices (pizza slices—really good ones; one of the things you cannot get in the Netherlands is really good pizza). Then we walked some more, into Chelsea, and had Krispy Kreme donuts for desert.
Tuesday we were prompted out of bed at a reasonable hour by the arrival of some workman to replaster part of Scott’s hallway wall. So we left the apartment around 9:30 and set off to get a small breakfast. We went to the café at the ABC home/carpet store just down Broadway; it’s quite a mad little place—as Rufus remarked, “it’s as if Miss Havisham opened a tea room.”
Everything in it is for sale: venetian chandeliers and marble tables and all sorts of doo-dads. We had Café Latte and a bagel and a chocolate croissant—for 15 dollars. The store is just as mad—lots of odd antiques and faux antiques and decorative junk. After that we went in search of film and stumbled upon this great used camera store. They had a huge inventory of used photographic equipment in beautiful condition; lots of Olympus stuff, including the 100mm lens I have been looking for—but the prices are outrageous! I talked to Scott about it later and he said you have to bargain aggressively with them—something I’m not too good at.
We had arranged to meet Jeremy Proctor for lunch, so at 12:30 we returned to Scott’s apartment. The plasterers had finished their work already. Jeremy arrived about one. He has only recently returned to New York City, where he lived some years ago, after taking an undergraduate degree at UC Berkeley and masters degree in theatre at Harvard. He also spent this past summer at a theatre company in Moscow as part of the Harvard program. We got updated on all this during lunch back at the hip Union Square Coffee Shop. We ate the afternoon away, with soups and a quesadilla and pasta for Jeremy (who has always been a vegetarian) and a Caesar salad for me and a turkey burger for Rufus. And berry pie. A huge lunch. Jeremy has the classic good looks of an actor—tall, dark haired, handsome. He was really good-looking when he was 20, he’s really good-looking now, some 13 years later, and he will undoubtedly really good looking 15 years from now. He’s been back in the city only a few months, and auditioning for plays and commercials, and TV series such as the Sopranos and City of Angels. With his looks, and his training, it’s pretty easy to believe that there are big things in store for him; although Jeremy seems, unlike most aspiring actors, to be far more interested in acting than in celebrity or money. But he’s always been odd that way! In the mean time, he is working for a design firm—the same firm he worked for when he lived in the East Village eight years ago—building sets and installations for corporate events. After lunch, we walked over to Chelsea and saw the design offices—which are pretty cool, and also have this huge woodworking shop attached.
The weather today was back to being pretty awful—cold, a bit wet, and very slippery. I had thought that maybe it would be a good day to go to the MoMA and hang out indoors, but by the time we left Jeremy it was already almost 4 o’clock. So instead of art we took the subway to the East Village to the Kiehl’s drugstore and I spent 90 bucks on shampoos, shaving creams, soaps and lotions. Crazy I know, but Rufus got a bunch of samples from them a couple years ago when he worked at the magazine and their stuff is really good—and more than a little hard to find. I hope I find the products as terrific as I remember them! From there we went shopping in Soho to try to find Rufus some new boots—without much success. Anything he liked—at the various discount shoe emporiums—was not available in his size.
By the time we returned to the apartment, it was snowing quite heavily. We had a drink there with Scott, then the three of us set off for the evening’s entertainment. We had tickets to ‘De La Guarda’ a mad theater event that Scott had recommended highly—and that people we talked to seemed to love or hate; no one takes the middle ground. We dashed through the snow down to Union Square, to a theatre in an old bank building. The performance, which runs just about an hour and ten minutes, takes place in a space without seats. You enter a dark room, where the walls and ceiling are covered with paper and just sort of wait. Since Scott had been before, he rather knew the best place to position us for the show. It’s not really theatre but sort of circus/acrobatics/performance—but the whole thing is done by performers on bungee cords! There is lots of flying and bouncing and things dropped into the audience. It’s interesting, because there is sound and noise, but no dialogue or language—perhaps a few words of Spanish; the show was developed by a theater troupe in Argentina—but it is completely accessible regardless of what language you speak. I think it is all just action and physicality, and mindless fun—but I can totally see how you could read some deeper meaning into it if you are so inclined. I’m sure some do.
After that we walked in the blowing snow to the East Village, to a sushi restaurant, and had a big platter of sushi and sashimi. That was good—I hadn’t had sushi in a while, and it was a treat. After that we went to the Boiler Room—walking down the now totally deserted East Village streets, with the snow piled high and still falling—and had a scotch; and then to the Wonderbar for another. We ran into Kane and two of his friends there. We had a good time except that Rufus knocked a full glass of scotch and soda into Scott’s lap right after we got there, and that had to be very cold. At least he was wearing black so it didn’t show. We stayed for two drinks then left Kane and his friends. The snow had stopped by the time we left—much to Scott’s displeasure, as he was really hoping for a storm that would prevent him from going to the office—but the streets were snowy and slick and we had the slowest taxi ride ever back to the apartment.
The next day we were a bit slow to get going—naturally! I hung around the apartment ’til well after noon (we had some yummy Balthazar sticky buns that we had picked up the day before at Dean & Deluca for breakfast). Rufus had an article to work on so I went out in the afternoon without him. I walked down to a little diner joint on 16th street called Chat and Chew to have a bite of lunch. I sat at the counter and ate more macaroni and cheese. It was quite good and a dollar cheaper than Mayrose. I was thinking it would be a fun article (for what or whom I don’t know) to write about all the different macaroni and cheese from all the different café/diners in Manhattan. Then I thought I should really do it with my nine-year-old nephew Jonathan, as his favorite food is macaroni and cheese. He, being a child, likes it creamy and mild and I prefer a sharper cheese and a baked crusty top. I think we’d be a good macaroni and cheese team!
Fortified, I took the subway uptown to the Museum of Natural History. There was an old man playing the flute in the subway car. I gave him a dollar—his song was cheerful, but more than that I was impressed that he could stand and play the flute and keep his balance as we lurched in and out of stations.
It was still very cold and the park as seen from the museum was covered in white. In fact the area all around the museum is very beautiful—a monument to the early 20th century. You have the park, with the towers of midtown rising to the south; the museum, built in three styles—a late 19th century Richardsonian Romanesque revival, a monumental early 20th century classical revival, and a late 20th century transparent glass cube. And surrounding the museum and stretching up and down Central Park West are the ornate prewar apartment towers with their setbacks and fanciful roof lines.
The vast museum was nearly deserted, I bought a general admission ticket and a ticket to the tropical butterfly environment. I went to see the butterflies first—they’ve set up a green house which they stock with cocoons of various species and the butterflies hatch and fly about. They had some very large ones from Costa Rica—one landed on me and rode me around while I toured the exhibit. They are very strange creatures, each species of caterpillar will eat only one species of plant; in the cocoon the caterpillar breaks down into single cells ’til there is nothing left of it and the cells reform into the butterfly; butterflies can eat only liquids and live a short time—their only job is to mate. As you can see it was an educational, as well as pretty, exhibit.
From there I visited the one hall open in the new Earth and Space center currently nearing completion. It was all about rocks essentially—and volcanoes, earthquakes, tectonic plates and that sort of thing. Very multi-media and slickly put together. The whole center, when it opens, is supposed to be quite spectacular. From there I went to the fourth floor to the hall of Dinosaurs (and prehistoric mammals). This was only partially open the last time I visited the museum, but now the entire floor has been completed. Visually it is spectacular—with vast reconstructed skeletons and models of the beasts—and scientifically it is quite complex, allowing one to trace the evolutionary lines of different classes of prehistoric creatures. My favorite thing about the exhibit (after watching the BBC series “Walking with Dinosaurs”, where one followed the daily activities multi-colored dinosaurs in minute detail) were the signs all over the museum forcefully warning that we don’t know with any certainty what color dinosaurs were, how they interacted, how they moved or really very much at all about them! The curators are obviously not amused by conjecture presented as fact.
The dinosaur section is huge so I didn’t have time to explore the really old sections of the museum—the huge halls of dioramas of stuffed exotic animals or the cabinets full of gemstones. It was closing time by then, and I was meeting Rufus for a full evening of Broadway theatre.
We arranged to meet at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central. This time we sat at the counter at the raw bar, and sampled a selection of raw oysters selected by the counterman. We followed that with a couple of bowls of clam chowder—good, but next time I would opt for the stew or panroast, which is concocted from fresh seafood right before your very eyes by a chef who’s only job is to make the stew/panroast (I couldn’t tell what the difference was between a stew and a panroast even after watching him make them—but they are served in different bowls). Everyone was ordering them so they must be as good as they look. We were going to order some fried clams or calimari too, but we were full after the chowder. Instead we split a piece of key lime pie.
I have to say the Oyster Bar is one of my favorite places in New York, It’s not fancy, and it’s not really cheap. But the food is delicious and I love the counter and the prewar ambiance of the place.
After dinner it was off to Times Square and the beautifully restored Moorish-style Martin Beck Theatre for the revival of Cole Porter’s Kiss Me Kate. The songs in the show are some of Cole Porter’s silliest; they are also among Rufus’ favorite Broadway tunes, so we just had to go. Both leads were replaced by understudies that night, but it didn’t matter too much to me—I didn’t really know who the leads were anyway. Besides it’s quite an ensemble show—almost every character gets a big number to sing. It was very big and elaborate and fun and the songs (as they should be with so slight a book) were given center stage and presented with (I think) all of their multitudinous and very silly verses.
Cole Porter should be enough theatre for one night, but we were only halfway through our evening. By a strange coincidence, an old college friend of Rufus’, from UVA, who he hadn’t seen in eight years was performing that night in a Times Square Cabaret. We dashed (rather literally) over after Kiss Me Kate to the Cabaret room at the Firebird restaurant—a swanky but tiny shoebox of a room with baby grand smack in the middle and a dozen tables surrounding it. We were seated at a table to the side and back (it seemed like the worst table in the house, but I wasn’t complaining because if he turned out to be truly awful I would not want to be sitting front and center). New York seems full of these prissy, expensive cabaret rooms, and one does wonder who spends their evenings in them. Surveying the crowd at the firebird, we found theatrically attired women of a certain age; natty sweater queens of a certain age, and a variety of eccentrics all, one assumes from appearances, working one way or another in “the theatre”.
I have to say, I had quite prepared myself for the worst. Jack Donahue surprised me though with a pleasant, entertaining, and compact collection of songs. He’s strikingly handsome—which never hurts in a singer; he’s very charming and tells amusing stories between songs; and the songs themselves seemed well chosen from, in some cases, very unlikely sources (you can buy his forthcoming CD and judge for your self on that though). He’s got a good voice and sings well, though (as Rufus tells me he trained as an actor) he tends to over act while singing—emoting as if from a theatre stage rather than in a room of 30 people. We met him for a drink across the street after the show, so Rufus and he could catch up briefly on the last eight years, and he is equally charming offstage.
However, before we could leave the Firebird to meet Jack across the street we had a rather interesting encounter. Towards the end of Jack’s show an odd little man took a vacant chair at our table. After the show he began a conversation with us—first a series of fairly awful jokes; then some complaints about his grandchildren, particularly their lack of penmanship; and then the usual complaints about the state of the world. One could tell that he was going to be quite the eccentric because he was wearing pince-nez! It turns out that he is Bill Holt, the owner of the Firebird cabaret, and restaurant, and he is what could only be described by that archaic New York term ‘impresario.’ Did he therefore offer to pay our outrageous cabaret bill (70 dollars for the 45 minute show and two drinks)? I’m afraid he did not. What we got instead was a guided tour of his over-the-top Russian restaurant and highlights from his life story. It seems he married an exiled Russian noble (despite giving every appearance of being something of a mad old queen) and is obsessed with Russian culture. After making a killing in the insurance business he decided to open a Russian restaurant. It’s madly opulent, with Russian paintings (authentic and copies,) ballet costumes in Plexiglas display boxes, family photos, elaborate place settings—all quite mad—and a bit reminiscent of the Russian restaurant in Tallinn, so I’m willing to believe it’s a moderately authentic reproduction. By the time he finished our tour, the staff had locked the doors and were counting great stacks of money.
Across the street at the Irish bar where we finally met Jack for a drink, a rather strange friend of his was singing a Bob Dylan song in a dead-on impression. It was a night of non-stop entertainment.
Thursday we left behind the world of the theatre for the world of art; we decided to visit some of the new galleries in the meatpacking district and the streets just west of Chelsea. Had lunch at a really charming little French café in Chelsea called Le Gamin. Great coffee, slow Euro-style service; and really good croques and crepes. The new galleries are springing up on the cross streets between 10th and 11th avenues—in between wholesale shipping and car repair and what little industry remains in Manhattan. Between the trucks and the building renovations (and the snow and ice) finding, and getting into, some of the galleries was a little difficult. A lot of the galleries, even here, deal in established artists and big names. The mammoth new Gagosian gallery held only one piece: an enormous Richard Serra rusted iron walk-through sculpture which filled the entire building. We saw a very fun video (and I don’t usually have the patience for video art) at the Paula Cooper Gallery (‘Telephones’ by Christian Marclay) made entirely of short movie clips featuring telephones. We also saw some Dan Flavin sculptures (see, names) and I thought again how easy a time an art forger would have with his work. I like them though and thought about making one for myself. We toured one enormous building that was all galleries; here finally were some new and emerging artists. Most of the work was derivative, and dull, and not very interesting, but a few things stood out.
There were some terrific black and white paintings of the surfaces of water done on Plexiglas by Sarah Leahy. These were really quite beautiful and fresh. They were also really inexpensive. There only flaw was that they were attached to the wall with screws through holes drilled in the corners. As a gallery owner, I can guess that this method was used because the artist couldn’t afford the cost of framing the works—but the paintings are really too elegant for this treatment. I wish her great success so that she can raise her prices and have her next series beautifully framed, as befits such fine work. Also, after slogging up eight floors of galleries, we saw some terrific large scale paintings of crowds of men in 40’s style hats. The view was from slightly above so all you could see mostly were the hats. It was an odd gallery though—everyone there busily shouting into cell phones in Spanish and no information at all on the artist—I don’t even know his name.
We were going to continue our day of art with a return to the Whitney Museum—to finish up where we left off and have a look at the Bill Viola and watch Nan Goldin’s slideshow in its entirety. We had thought (along with quite a few other college students and art loving cheapskates) that Thursday nights from 6-8 were free entry—but alas it turns out that that is only the first Thursday of the month, which this wasn’t. Having paid to see the show once, I was loathe to give them another $25 for the two of us to spend an additional hour in the museum. We were supposed to meet Lauren there, but she hadn’t shown up. We were walking up Madison avenue trying to decide what to do (and there is very little to do on these residential blocks of the Upper East Side) when we ran right into Lauren on her way from the subway. After a good deal of walking east we found a café/bar (so unmemorable I can’t recall its name) and plotted dinner over a martini. We were thinking Italian and not too expensive—actually I had a craving for ‘New York’ Italian and when I said I just wanted someone to bring me plates of food, Lauren said she new just the place. We were joined by Lauren’s friend Dennis, who lives nearby, and we all took a taxi down to Little Italy.
La Mela is perhaps the ugliest restaurant I have ever seen. You might, if you were being very kind, call it fun-spirited and leave it at that. It’s a long, narrow, crowded place; the walls are covered entirely with stapled up snapshots and laser prints of the patrons; the furniture is plastic and covered with the most garishly colored plastic tablecloths imaginable. To top it all off, hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room is a sort of homemade plastic cock and balls arrangement which light up when the owner (owner? Maitre’d?) pulls a string. Well, despite this assault on the senses, the staff is most congenial and the food is just as Lauren described—copious platters brought to the table with no questions asked! First they plonk down two (liter!) bottles of wine—decent stuff—a red and a white from Italy, and then they lay on the antipasto: Grilled peppers, caprese, etc. Next is a huge platter with three pastas: a gnocchi, a penne in ragu and spaghetti. Finally a platter of secondi: garlic roasted chicken, prawns, veal picatta. Oh yes and a selection of desserts.
After dinner we actually persuaded Lauren and Dennis to join us for a drink, so we went to the Wonderbar. Just one though; After that it was home for everyone.
Friday Rufus had a meeting at Travel & Leisure magazine. I went to Chelsea for a haircut at a place called the Service Station, and had a bowl of onion soup at Le Gamin. We met up again at the Museum of Modern Art for the ModernStarts ‘People, Places. Things’ retrospective on the origins of “modern” art. Fridays the MoMA stays open ’til 8pm so we had a leisurely stroll through the galleries—till the very last few rooms of ‘places’, where we were, as usual rushed, by the museum’s imminent closing.
We took the oh-so-convenient Fifth Avenue bus back to Scott’s apartment—the bus stop is literally at the door to his building. Scott arranged dinner reservations at Alley’s End—a stylish restaurant tucked away down some stairs off a little alley in Chelsea. We had a nine-thirty reservation, but didn’t get a table till almost eleven. The place was a complete mob scene with (as the very fun girl behind the bar described them) obnoxious straight guys trying to impress their girls, and a Fellini-esque cast of mob-family characters assembling for a private party. I didn’t mind the wait though—we had seats at the bar and the bartender liked us; the crowd was a hoot, the martinis good. When we were seated we got a really fine booth and the food was really good. I had a ceviche starter then a steak with mashed potatoes; the short menu was all stylish American food. The wait staff, who were very nice, kept warning us that the kitchen was very slow, but to me the pace seemed merely refreshingly European.
After dinner we went for ‘just one ‘ drink at the Phoenix—which of course turned into three before we called it night and headed for bed.
On Saturday, Rufus and I took the Subway to Brooklyn, to meet our friend Jeremy at his new home. He’s got the top floor of an old Brooklyn brownstone with a view across the rooftops to the skyline of lower Manhattan. It’s an old Italian neighborhood with long shopping street full of cafes. He took us to the Harvest, a popular spot with big American Breakfasts—eggs, pecan pancakes, French toast, hash.
After breakfast we had a nice long walk—we walked all the way back to Manhattan as a matter of fact. It was a nice day, not so cold, and very clear. We walked the promenade along the east river in Brooklyn Heights, then took the pedestrian promenade across the Brooklyn Bridge. Great view of both the bridge and the city. We sort of strolled all over lower Manhattan and into the West Village and finally back to Scott’s.
Jeremy had a dinner engagement so Scott took Rufus and I down to Chinatown to a funny little place specializing in Chinese seafood. We had some seafood wontons and salt-baked prawns and a whole steamed sea bass.
After dinner we went back to Chelsea, to the bar Blu to meet friends: Mike Ognibene, who we met a year and half ago in Amsterdam; his Bosnian boyfriend Edin, and Marc Leonard, a friend of Scott’s. We chatted (as best one can above the blaring music) over several cocktails.
Sunday we had another big American breakfast at Chat and Chew then went to the movies to see ‘American Beauty,’ which Rufus had been desperate to see. It actually lives up to its rave reviews; it was much better than I thought it would be from seeing the previews. In the early evening Scott took us to the old gay bars of the West Village—which must now be the dullest gay bars in New York. The clientele at the Monster looked like they hadn’t left those barstools since 1969; The crowd at the Hangar likewise looked as if they stepped out of some 70’s leather bar timewarp—and to top it off they were all watching the Super Bowl! As Rufus said, “For this we rioted!?!”).
We had one more drink at a fashionable Italian restaurant on 10th street—Caffe Torino—in a building that used to be The Ninth Circle—a rather fun bar of the 1980’s frequented by artists and punks and hustlers. Scott and I realized that we had probably both been there at the same time some night long before we knew each other. On my first few visits to New York City, it was the only bar I liked to go to. One wishes it was still there.
We had dinner that night at a little hole-in-the-wall Italian place with great food—run by three brothers, I’m told. It’s called Piadina, in Greenwich Village, and its got great pastas and antipastos. I had ravioli with butter and sage and Rufus had a great penne with a meaty ragu. During dinner it began to snow, and afterwards we went for a walk in the snowstorm—Scott and Rufus throwing snowballs at limousines and café windows.
On the way back, we stopped at Splash, Chelsea’s biggest and glitziest gay bar. They have the usual over-muscled and not too exciting go-go dancers.
There was a bit of a crowd, and we had a drink before returning home. By this time the snow had turned, sadly, to rain.
Another threatened snow storm evaporated by morning, leaving our last day in New York mostly clear and not too cold—and so not interfering at all with our planned departure. We had our final lunch at the nearby Union Square Coffee Shop, and a very American farewell: Chicken tamales, meatloaf with mashed potatoes and kale, and a Cheeseburger with French fries. I never did get the chocolate layer cake I had been craving for days, though!
After lunch I finished the roll of film in my camera—two weeks in New York and I shot only one roll of film—it’s really pitiful. My only excuse is that most of the time it seemed too cold for pictures (its hard to shoot with gloves on); though I do regret not getting pictures of the Empire state building aglow in the swirling snow.
We took a car to the Newark airport, and nine or so hours later a cab to the Berenstraat in Amsterdam, and the first thing I noticed, standing on our street at a quarter to nine on a Tuesday morning, was how quiet it was! No horns blaring, no traffic, no construction. Quiet! The next thing I noticed—but this is a fluke—was how warm it was. Compared to New York where it was below freezing for most of two weeks, we arrived to find Amsterdam mild and clear.
One of my many wine and food journeys through the French countryside, this time the Burgundy region, accompanied (as often) by Michael Logan. This trip produced the Bourgogne slideshow photographs and the short food and wine article for Out & About. What follows is a rather detailed account of the trip…
25 May 2002 Aboard the Thalys to Paris
Ah well, here I am once again racing towards Paris. I’m a little tired, though I went to bed early, I didn’t sleep well, waking up very early, and repeatedly. I guess I was just overly excited about the trip. So it’s nice to be underway.
We’ve reached that part of the trip where the train goes really fast —so we’ll be in Paris in no time now; this trip I think is even faster than the last time I took it; I guess they just keep trimming the travel time bit by bit.
And Paris… well, we must go to the Pompidou Centre, and the Palais de Tokyo exhibition space; There’s that funny museum in a mansion in the 3rd that is supposed to be quite nice… not sure what else Logan wants to do… the Louvre no doubt —we’ll have to go late. And we must shoot some video of Paris… and with Logan doing his turning around —perhaps at the Palais Royale. And I want to have some oysters. And some foie gras!
Natalie Merchant and her band were in my car on the train from Paris…
25 May 2002 Paris
1 am, so really, we’re back early I suppose. Watched the Eurovision song contest in a little bar/coffee shop in the Marais, with a small but enthusiastic gay crowd. Not as fun as in Amsterdam though. Latvia won… it was neck and neck with Malta. The most fun really was Slovenia —with these drag queens. Well it was fun to watch —and the interminable voting. Mad little “fairy tale” vignette films about Estonia between each song! Curious, but they grew on you and seemed rather fun by the end. Before that we had dinner at Balzar —white asparagus (good, but I agree with Nathan, slightly over cooked) and steak tartare —that could not be improved upon —and frites —the only thing they could do to make those better would be to serve more of them!! And I had a bite of Logan’s delicious chocolate eclair —the dessert of the day. We left the restaurant and it started to poor down rain —almost out of a clear blue sky; so we caught a bus over to the Marais. It cleared up quickly; walking back to the hotel there’s a big bright full moon and the city looks so beautiful.
26 May 2002 Paris
Up late today… and all day, off and on rainstorms; so we went to the Pompidou Centre. There was a big surrealist show that was actually a bit overwhelming. Magritte, Dali, Max Ernst… I like the Magrittes, but a lot of the the rest just doesn’t appeal to me. Maybe we should have gotten the audio tour… it was huge. The whole post-1960 floor of the main museum has been reinstalled —and all my favorite works are gone! That was bit disappointing. I suppose they have to rotate things, but all-in-all I did not think the current selection was nearly as impressive… the collection does have to compete with the views over Paris —and more people seemed to be looking out the windows than looking at the permanent collection. Of course the sky was beautiful —very dramatic clouds in a changing sky. At one point the Sacre Cour looked like something from a fairy tale with a backdrop of fluffy clouds… we had a coffee and tart at Georges around tea time —super expensive; and then there’s the odd and aloof fashion-model staff…
Dinner tonight at a new place —the Table d’ Aligre at the Place d’Aligre (there’s a famous covered food market there) in the 12th not far from the Bastille. A pleasantly unassuming place with really good food, and really inexpensive. Good cheap wines too. We had foie gras and this braised lamb with artichokes and olives —it was delicious, especially the fat. I had an apple thing for dessert. The waiters were really nice and then when the one found out we were Americans he wanted to know about taking the train from New York to Montreal —which oddly enough I happened to know something about; so I told Logan to tell him that it was really nice —that’s what I’ve read anyway. Dinner for three with wine and the foie gras was 108 euro’s —a great deal, and very pleasant. We had a long walk back, now it’s time for sleep.
27 May 2002 Paris
… a day of doing very little. Slept much too late, but then we walked over to the Marais for a very late breakfast around noon. I had a cup of excellent tea (Marriage Bros.) and a croissant served by the cutest teen you can imagine! Afterwards we collected Brian and went over to the sixth, around Saint Sulpice. for some shopping. We had salads for lunch at an unremarkable but decent Bistro (ubiquitously named Bistro du Metro); We stopped in Saint Sulpice to look at the Delacroix’s and the crumbling chapels. We watched some shirtless boys disassembling the market stalls. We dodged intermittent rain showers. We shopped… well Brian shopped and Logan and I looked. We walked back through the Luxembourg gardens. Logan and Brian went off together to go to a used record store (where Logan was picking up a Joni Mitchell etching he had bought on ebay!) and I walked back towards the hotel. I stopped in a church, St. Ettienne du Mont, a sort of pretty gothic/renaissance hybrid begun by Francois I. Inside they have a tiny relic of St. Geneviève; they used to have her entire corpse, but the revolutionaries burned it and threw it in the river! I came back to the hotel, and Logan came back and we were going to go to the late hours at the Louvre… but we never made it. There was a tremendous rainstorm with thunder and a deluge… when it let up a bit we just walked down the street to have a glass of wine. We had dinner at nine at the Caveau de Palais, as Brian is quite fond of it. The food was quite OK, but we were seated upstairs and it was not so festive… really so much of the fun is a lively atmosphere and getting to see what everyone else is eating. That odd woman still rules the place with authority and the little dog still runs in and out. My cod was good, and brian had a quite wonderful whole fish, and it’s not terribly expensive… just wish we had gotten a table downstairs. We strolled home after, and went to sleep…
27 May 2002 Paris
Today quite active… we managed to get up at a reasonable hour and have our breakfast downstairs at 9:30. After breakfast we got on the metro and went to visit the Catacombs. I wanted to get us there before they closed for lunch —but they’ve changed the hours again, now they don’t close for lunch but they don’t open until eleven… so we had a twenty minute walk around the neighborhood–a nice market street lined with food shops and butchers and bakers and fishmongers. Not too many people in the catacombs —one had a bit of a feeling of being all alone down there at times; It’s quite large. Well, I had just been in September, but Logan and Brian had not been in a while. It’s a pity they don’t have a nice guide to explain everything though. Afterwards, Brian was hungry so I suggested we get back on the Metro line 4 and have Lunch at Deux Palais. We had a good lunch there —it really is one of the best of these generic Bistros —good frites, a decent roast chicken, Logan had a very good steak tartare and I had a delicious fresh strawberry tart. And we had a little pot of beaujolais. And the place was all full of smartly dressed Parisians from the Palais du Justice.
After lunch, Brian went to rest and Logan and I went to check out the new exhibition space in the Palais du Tokyo. It’s a cool space —this big 30’s style Neoclassical/fascist architecture —the interior of the new space has been stripped back to the framework. But it’s all so hip… like it’s been turned over to hipster teens and they’ve run amok. A huge space with really just a few highly over-conceptualized pieces of art… Outside, in front of an arcade of impossibly tall square pillars, three French teens attempted tricks on skateboards —they seemed so much like they should have been a piece of installation art. And in the other half of the building, the more conventional old modern art museum (of the City of Paris) goes to the other extreme —way too staid and dull (they do have good temporary exhibits here —it’s where we saw Douglas Gordon several years ago —but the temporary exhibition space was closed for installation.)
Now, resting before a drink, and dinner at La Villeret. All day today it’s been gray and raining, or drizzling. No dramatic downpours but no bits of blue sky or dramatic cloudscapes either. And rather chilly for the time of year…
Later…
Had a delicious dinner at La Villeret. We set out early and stopped at that attractively modern little AOC wine bar where I had tea the day before. We had a couple glasses of wine —very economical, Chinon 3 Euro’s a glass; the same cute boy was there, and a very nice woman. We sat and chatted and drank our wine and watched the gay boys rendezvousing, while it poured down rain outside. Eventually we paid up and went to catch the (very crowded) 96 bus to dinner. At 8:20, we were among the first to arrive at La Villeret. Of course it filled up completely as we sat there and ate. For starters: Logan had a concoction of cold lentils with bits of lamb tongue and foie gras on top —it was really delicious; Brian had the white asparagus —cooked the way I like, with a bit of rigidity, and served with a delicious vinaigrette and a slab of lardons. I thought mine was least successful, a sort of a crab salad, with pastry and wild asparagus. But it did have lots of crab. My main course though, was the best I think —a big hunk of braised pork shank with the most incredibly delicious honey glazed skin and honey sauce. Mr. Logan had a beautiful hunk of fish and Brian had veal liver. For dessert I had pan fried fresh cherries with some ice cream —delicious; and Logan had rhubarb with a blanc mange. We drank a bottle of 96 Savignier from the Loire. Dinner was first rate, and really a bargain (130 for three) for such elaborate preparations; It was the fanciest meal we’ve had so far this trip, even though the room and all is quite casual and neighborhoody. After dinner we took a leisurely stroll back to the Marais —it had cleared up for the moment —and sat at the Open Cafe and had a couple of drinks and watched the boys go by. The best of the lot was our super-cute waiter, Cyril. Finally we decided to walk back to the hotel —just as it started to rain again!
29 May 2002 Paris
Today we managed to get up and down to breakfast before 10 again! After breakfast, Logan and I headed over to the Musee d’ Orsay. There was a special Mondrian exhibition —his painting before his trademark abstract style —that we wanted to see. It wasn’t crowded —no lines or delay to get in, and though there were a lot of people at the Mondrian exhibition, it wasn’t unpleasantly crowded at all. The museum is in the midst of some sort of renovation, so a number of galleries were closed, and most of the big academic paintings were off view —no loss really, except for Jesus and the Nelly Apostles. We looked at the kitchy —but fun —sculptures in the center, and of course went up to the rooms on the top to see our favorite impressionists. I hope they re-hang the whole museum once the renovations are done —there are too many fabulous little paintings stuck away in tiny, grim rooms. After, we walked along the Seine, heading for the Marais, and lunch with Brian. It was a nice day, perhaps slightly cool, but dry, with clouds that were purely decorative. We stopped at the Bouquiniste Alain Huchet —fortunately, one of the few bouquiniste open today —so Logan could look for a cookbook birthday present for June. He found something in short order —we barely spent anytime browsing; just as well I suppose, as I really didn’t need to buy anything! We met Brian back at the AOC Cafe, so we could have these delicious looking club sandwiches that we saw people eating the night before. They were good; the cute boy was there again; I think he is a member of the family that owns it. After that we went shopping —the Camper store for new shoes, the Chaise Longue just to look at silly things, and the FNAC record store at the Bastille (with a stop at the place de Vosges, just for fun). Now we’re resting up in our room and listening to a Marianne Faithfull album (her new one, released only in Europe) on the iBook cd player, before we go out to a trendy restaurant for dinner.
Later…
Dinner at Salon d’ Helene… the little downstairs place of Helene Darroze, chef-of-the-moment in Paris. Actually the bistro —well not really a bistro —is very successful; a small, elegantly modern room, spacious and comfortable, serving little tapas-like plates of things. The food’s a little bit French and a whole lot “chef”. The service is friendly and casual —the whole little room attended by one cute girl and one cute boy. (after you get through the entrance that is, shared with the upstairs restaurant, where a boy in a little cap opens the door for you and a man behind a big desk checks your name off a computerized reservation list! Anyway, the food was interesting and complicated, and fortunately also delicious. We had seven little plates to share, which they brought round in two groupings; then a round of 3 very interesting cheeses, then dessert. Let’s see, first there was a soup with asparagus and foie gras with bacon on top; fava beans with black truffle and foie gras ice-cream(!); and a piece of almost raw salmon with couscous. Then we got a little pot of sweetbreads; a big piece of pork lard with roasted potatoes and girolle mushrooms; a plate of shredded oxtail; and a big lump of roasted foie gras. Then a spanish cheese, a soft cheese and a roquefort. My dessert was ille flotant–a very tasty and light meringue floating in a soup of summer red fruits —no creme anglais —very tasty; and Logan had a really chocolatey millefiulle. Dinner was nice —lots of eating but all so small that I don’t feel at all bloated; and while you wouldn’t call it cheap, it wasn’t too expensive —considering Logan ordered a bottle of champagne as soon as he sat down, and at € 70 it was a third of our bill! There were a lot of less expensive wines to chose from, so I think you could eat there for 50-60 euros a person —a good deal for a really fancy place. I took a copy of the menu —it changes monthly with a daily special.
We were going to go to the Eiffel Tower after dinner —but of course dinner went on a bit too late. The weather was nice, so it would have been a good night. I’ve been going to go the last few times I was here… and just haven’t made it.
30 May 2002 Beaune
Our first day in the countryside and, of course, today was all about gorging ourselves! We’ve had two cheese courses today! Oh those country meals.
Getting here was pleasantly uncomplicated. We caught a bus just steps from the Agora St. Germain, which took us to the Gare de Lyon. We caught our TGV train and rode a little over an hour and a half —through incredibly picturesque countryside —to the station in Dijon. At the tiny Avis office at the train station, everything was arranged and it took about 30 seconds to get our car —a really nice VW Golf. Avis is so nice to deal with. We drove straight out of Dijon and about halfway to Beaune on the N road. I had scoped out a place for lunch the night before in the Routard Guide, in case we were hungry —and of course we were. This place was in a tiny village outside of Nuits-Saint-Georges, the Auberge du Coteau in the tiny village of Villars-Fontaine. All the meats are cooked over a wood fire in a fireplace at one end of the dining room (a bit like in the Vosges). Logan had wood-grilled lamb and I had wood-grilled beef. There was homemade terrine, and our first of many “Jambon Persille” to start. Then they left the huge groaning cheese board at our table. Very tasty, and a fine introduction to the Cotes d’Or.
It was a quick, and very scenic, drive into Beaune. We circled the town looking for the “Hotel de la Poste” and pulled up in front of this very glamourous establishment. The Logan got out his confirmation, and realized we weren’t staying at the Hotel de la Poste (rejected as part of our austerity plan) but at the Hotel de France. So we drove on, and found it —a much more basic sort of Logis across from the Beaune train station.
Beaune is still a fairly small town; the historic center enclosed by mostly surviving ramparts. We were just a block outside the center. We took a late afternoon stroll into town to check out the sights. There’s some pretty little squares (one with a miniature carrousel), a nice shopping street, the very famous Hotel Dieu —the medieval hospital —which we decided to visit later. We did stop into the Collégiale Notre-Dame, a crusty old (mostly) Romanesque church. And we scoped out various restaurants —one very beautiful place, all the tables set up in the garden of a villa. This is the Jardin de Remparts, which has an excellent reputation, and undoubtedly the prettiest location in Beaune; sadly it was already ‘complet’ during the weekend of our visit. After our exploration of the city, we stopped at a little outdoor cafe and had a kir. The kir is especially good —really good cassis made locally in Bourgonge, and proper Bourgonge Aligote wine. The weather was especially nice and summery as well.
We did find the Americans in Beaune! After being so conspicuously absent in Amsterdam, and even in Paris, Beaune was positively swarming with Americans. (On the other hand, Chablis, we would discover later, was all Brits and Australians. And in the historical sites, the Abbeys and Churches, the few visitors tended to be Germans.)
Because the weather was so pleasant in the evening, I really wanted to eat outside. All the terrace restaurants seemed rather touristy, unfortunately, but we did find one, La Grilladine, that despite being full of Americans, seemed nice. It had a nice looking menu, a good wine list, a Bottin Gourmand recommendation, and a pretty interior where some locals were eating. We got a very pleasant outdoor table, and it turned out the food was very good —and we had what turned out to be our favorite bottle of burgundy on the trip —a Fixin. I had a tasty boeuf bourguignon and the jambon persille to start; I’m afraid I don’t recall what Logan ate (probably foie gras!). It was really nice on the terrace, and entertaining as well. The Americans were typically loud and demanding, and the several waiters were young, and obviously new summer help. Well they were quite unbothered by it all, but the headwaiter was in a tizzy; he was this very ‘Basil Fawlty’ sort of character caught between the demands of the patrons and the inexperience of his staff. One thought he might at some point simply explode!
There’s not much happening in Beaune after dinner, so we returned to our room overlooking the train station. Now there’s no passenger service in Beaune after about 11pm —but apparently it sits on the main freight line between Paris and Geneva! About every 20 minutes a huge freight train would roar past the station. Strangely though, the noise didn’t really bother me.
31 May 2002 Beaune
Mr. Logan has picked out some far-flung sites for us to visit today. They don’t seem so far-flung on the map, but actually driving to them you feel the distance. We’re heading to the Southernmost part of Burgundy — almost into the Beaujolais, north of Lyon. All along the N road, (the main roadway, but still only one lane in each direction most of the route) there are the most stylishly grisly highway markers. They are life-sized black and red metal cutouts depicting a stylized, but very recognizable, dead person! There is a marker placed at every point on the road where someone has been killed! And there are, I must say, quite a lot of them. Most chilling are the little groups where 3 or 4 people have died together. Well, I told Logan. at least if we get killed driving this road, we will get little markers to commemorate the event. Perhaps they would even append a little sign: “American Rufuses”. And the way people drive it is no wonder so many die on the highway —they go so fast on these narrow, curving roads. I cannot drive fast enough for the locals, and then someone is tailgating at high speed; I frantically try to find a place to pull over so they can get past. Fortunately there is not a whole lot of traffic, and one often has the road to oneself for a while.
Our first stop is Paray-le-Monial, the most perfectly preserved of the Cluny monastic churches. It is a sober Romanesque church, said to be a smaller version of the great church at Cluny, now destroyed. The church sits facing the river and is quite impressive. There is also quite a nice garden behind. The church’s main claim to religious fame is that it is here that the cult and the doctrine of the “Sacred Heart of Jesus” originated. I don’t think I understand the Sacred Heart well enough to try to explain it… but apparently at some point in the middle ages a young nun at the convent down the street saw a vision of Jesus with a flaming heart on the outside of his chest (we also visited the little chapel where she had her vision.) This seems to have been thoroughly (and perhaps rightly) ignored until the 19th century, when in a frenzy of religious ferver it was revived, and formalized by the Vatican, and Paray-le-Monial became a pilgrimage site. Anyway, out in the garden there is this pavilion which tells the story of the visionary nun in an endless series of narrated dioramas. We started to watch, but it just went on and on, and we were shortly defeated. There was also a nice street market in town that day, and we bought a little pastry to eat.
From Paray-le Monial we had a short, but circuitous drive to Cluny —the seat of the once-powerful Cluniac Monastic Order —to see the remains of the great church. It was at one time the largest church in Christendom, but it was demolished during the Revolution, and really there is not much left. From the excavated foundations, and one remaining chapel, you can get an idea of the size… they sell you a ticket which entitles you to a tour, but we discovered that most of what is interesting to see you can see for free. The admission doesn’t get you much. The town itself is somewhat interesting; We climbed to the top of the cheese tower (no idea why it’s called that) for the panorama, and we visited the little town church, which was very cute and crusty.
From there we next stopped at the little medieval town of Tournus to see yet another Abbaye Church. The Abbaye de St. Philibert is one of the oldest romanesque churches in Burgundy. It’s a fortified structure with great thick round pillars and not many windows. There was a pretty little courtyard, and (I later read) another chapel above the gloomy narthex, which we missed. Also in the town is a preserved (or restored) medieval pharmacy, but after not finding it following a cursory stroll through the town, we gave up and headed back to Beaune. With all the driving added in it had been a long day. The scenery however —forests, vineyards, cows, canals, little stone villages —was beautiful.
Later…
We had dinner at Bénaton, a little chef-run place that is reputed to be one of Beaune’s best. It’s a small dining room, and though there is a nice garden at back, all seating was indoors. fortunately we got the table by the door, as it was quite warm. The food was good, with an amuse bouche, starter, main course, cheese and dessert. Sadly, I didn’t write down what we had, and now I can’t remember! It was on the other side of town (by the hotel de la poste) so we had a leisurely walk through the deserted town after dinner.
1 June 2002 Beaune
Today we are up for a morning visit to Autun, to see another 12th century church. We went to see the Cathedrale St. Lazare, famous for its stone carvings by Gislebertus. There’s a big last judgment over the door, and lots of smaller scenes on the capitols —Adam and Eve, things like that, all very stylishly, almost modernly, realized. We had lunch in a fancy hotel nearby —I had us seated on the terrace, as it was a very sunny day, but I roasted poor Mr. Logan. They didn’t have an umbrella for us, as this French family at the next table was hogging two. Despite the lack of umbrella, it was a nice lunch —we had just a main course and dessert —but again, I don’t really remember what we ate. Afterwards, we had a rather exhausting hike around the old ramparts —but never quite getting on the top of them, which was our intention. Then we drove to see the old Roman city gate and the remains of the Roman Amphitheater. As a Roman City in the first century, the population of Autun was four times what it is today. After that, we hurried back to Beaune, because we still had our sightseeing to do there. We took this tasting tour of the Cellars of the hotel Dieu —very touristy really, but also sort of fun —there are like 14 different wines to taste, all down in this refreshingly cold and dark cellar. And then you can buy things, but of course we couldn’t because there was no way to take them home! Then we visited the Hotel Dieu itself —The most famous sight in Burgundy, and really it is very beautiful. The courtyard is surrounded by restored medieval buildings, with those famous brightly-colored-patterned tile roofs.
Later…
It’s 11:30 pm here at the Hotel de France, across from the rail station in Beaune. It’s a funny hotel —in many way a quintessential Logis de France. Everyone is super friendly —a typical family owned hotel.
So for my food and wine of Burgundy article… aperitifs: Kir, which is really good here in its region of origin and the Cremant du Bourgonge, a cheap, but very refreshing sparkling wine. The best food of the region, I think, is the simple, basic sort of country food… the Jambon Persille; the escargot (but how on earth did they first think to eat them?!); the meats grilled over a wood fire or the classic braised dishes of boeuf bourguignon or coq au vin. Plenty of nice cheese too… and of course the red burgundies are a delight.
The scenery is wonderful… lots of forests, and rolling hillsides covered with vines… and everywhere tiny herds of white cows —the famous charolais beef (dare I say though, that I prefer the chianini beef of tuscany?). But driving along the tiny roads is really beautiful —it’s a prettier landscape even than the Loire, I think, and seems somehow more remote. That is except for Beaune —Beaune is overrun with tourists. All the American Rufuses who are not in Amsterdam and not even in Paris, seem to be here in Beaune —along with a fair number of German tourists as well. Actually, when you get out of Beaune, and visit the other towns —places more famous for history and architecture than wine —then there are no more Americans, and all the tourists are German! But really, nothing is very crowded…
… so back to our silly hotel… when Logan made the reservation, they said we had to take one dinner at the hotel, so he booked us here for Saturday night. Well fine… and we went down to dinner tonight around eight —and they had totally forgotten about us as they had booked a tour group of 45 persons into the restaurant! I thought this was very silly —so they were going to put us all alone in this sort of annex room, which seemed very depressing, but we got them to put us at one of the tables for the bar that sit out on the sidewalk facing the train station. That was perfect, the weather was quite warm, no breeze, a beautiful sunset —so really it couldn’t have worked out better. And the man running the place, and his teen son, were both really nice and really friendly. We had a very simple regional meal–snails and the jambon (delicious); a sort of flank cut of the charolais beef (inoffensive but unimpressive); a big-ass assortment of local cheese, and some cassis ice-cream. We drank a nice cote de nuits 96 burgundy; and I had a glass of marc de Bourgonge after dinner. The owner even gave me a cigarette to have with it. We watched the bus group arrive (it was dinner stop on a trip from Paris to the south of France) and we watched the people come and go from the train station. It was quite nice actually —much better than eating in the slightly stuffy, climatisee, dining room.
2 June 2002 From Beaune to Chablis
We left our hotel in Beaune and arrived in Chablis a bit after five. It’s a longer drive than one might think —although our trip today included plenty of rufusing. The first 90 minutes involved finding and visiting a ruined Abbey (Saint Margaritte) outside the town of Builland, not far really from Beaune itself. We got a bit lost finding the town, and then finding the Abbey ruins involved a bit of detective work —they are not marked by any sign, or monument marker, which is a bit unusual. We saw a picture at our hotel, and I wanted to visit. So we found them eventually (they are indicated, vaguely, on our Michelin map) up a very narrow, dead-end road above the town. It’s a nice ruin, the substantial remains of a small gothic church, and other buildings —but you can’t get too close. The ruins are privately owned and surrounded by a double fence of barbed wire. They are quite isolated, but we were not alone —there was also a family of German hikers and a bicycle tour. There was even a little parking lot, so one assumes there must have been signs to it at one time —though we were the only car to come up the tiny road. Fortunately! The drive from Beaune to there, and then on to where we picked up the bigger road to Chablis, took us through a forest, which was really pretty. Forests, fields of wildflowers, white cows in little pastures, some rugged stone cliffs, tiny villages —and all very peaceful. Very few other cars, and all quite sleepy —well it was Sunday, and everything in the villages was closed up, of course.
We made it to the bigger road, which was also quite scenic, and where we quite sped along, between the villages. We were heading to the Abbaye de Fontenay —a sight Logan picked out —halfway between Beaune and Chablis. Around 1pm though, I started to get hungry —and the towns we were passing through seemed so small as to not really have any restaurants. Logan checked the Routard and found a highly regarded place in the town nearest the Abbaye: Mirrabelles, in St. Remy next to Montbard. We located the restaurant without too much trouble —and it was complet! Well it was Sunday lunch after all, but it must be very good; it’s quite an out of the way spot —even for the town of Montbard. Well, we went into the town center and had lunch at L’Ecu, the Logis in town. It was ok, nothing special, and a little pricey. We did get to sit on a nice shaded terrace, and at least we didn’t starve. (Good thing we did not wait and try to eat at the Abbaye —it’s totally isolated and the only food there is in three vending machines!). Anyway we drove into the isolated valley and found the Abbaye. It is the oldest surviving Cistercian Abbaye. (The Cistercian order was founded by monks who found the Cluny order too luxurious. Those kooky monks.) It has all been recently restored, and is quite an intact complex from the late romanesque/early gothic period. An impressive and somber romanesque church, a beautiful cloister, gothic chapter house and scriptorium, a dormitory with a ships hull wooden roof, and a huge 13th century gothic forge —almost as big as the church. Apparently it was the first iron works with a waterwheel for power; water was also diverted for fountains on the monastery grounds. It’s all quite pretty; smaller in scale than some of the other abbayes we’ve visited, and very peaceful. A few busloads of tourists, but they were sort of easy to ignore.
A lot of the way, we drove along the canal du Burgundy —it’s long, and very tranquil —with lock houses, and with boys diving and swimming from the banks or the bridges. After Fontenay, we drove on to Chablis, a cute little town with a gothic church towering over the center. Haven’t really explored yet, just arrived at the hotel and decided to rest a bit.
Later… in Chablis
Here we are in our little room in a cute fancied-up hotel in Chablis, the Hostellerie dus Clos. The room is cute but tiny; it looks out on a nice little courtyard, where I may go to continue typing in a bit. It is supposed to have the best restaurant in Chablis, so we will see. I am a bit hot and tired from driving all day.
And Later Still…
So we had dinner at our hotel tonight —at the world’s fanciest Logis! Well actually the rooms aren’t that fancy at all, but the lobby/restaurant is totally over the top. And all kinds of waiters and waitresses in fancy dress running about —in stark contrast to the poorly dressed Brits, and even the casually attired French patrons. Anyway we had aperitifs in the courtyard, dinner in the fancy dining room and our after dinner infusion du maison in the “salon”, in big wingchairs. Dinner was delicious —fairly inexpensive ingredients, but very well —and elaborately —prepared. Only mini-pricey at 49 euros each —and with a good Chablis for 20 Euros. They have a lot of reasonably priced Chablis —and some very expensive ones for the rich foreigners, I’m sure. Anyway, we had a little amuse bouche of cold tomato soup with a bit of shrimp in it —I ate Logan’s as well; Then a salad of little white asparagus, wild asparagus, and (mostly) little mushrooms in a delicious sauce. Then I had a pike fish mouse with crayfish and crayfish sauce, and they made a delicious piece of grilled sander for Mr. Logan. Then we had veal kidneys(!) in a Chablis sauce —three little slices really, in a sauce that was just perfect for them. Then an assortment of local cheeses. We drank a 1998 La Chablissiene Vielles Vignes —the sommelier recommended it; he wouldn’t let Logan order the one he had picked out that cost twice as much —he said this one was much better. I thought it was good —but then what do I know. For dessert we had some strawberries, very fresh, very delicious, with some little syrup and a croustillant. Then our infusion de la maison —with vervienne in it and the usual plate of very tasty little sweets. We took a short walk around the deserted town after dinner, and now we are resting in our suite… there are lots of really big mosquitos out in the town… so I’m a bit apprehensive. The room is not climatisee, so we have to leave the window open —it’s quite warm tonight.
and one more thing…
Cloches! The main courses arrived covered with silver cloches, which were whipped off in unison. Lots and lots of staff actually —and we didn’t even see into the kitchen. In the morning we have the true test —the breakfast!
3 June 2002 Chablis
I will mention the excellent breakfast at the hotel. They actually set up early this morning to serve it in the courtyard —I could hear them through the window —but then it started to rain and they had to move everything inside. It was a very good country in breakfast —lots of tasty pastries; good bread for toast; jams and honey in little crocks; good yogurt in glass jars, some dried fruits, and oddly, a custard. Tasty. The inn is a bit of an odd hybrid: the rooms, and the breakfast, seem like a really good Logis; but the lobby, and the staff and restaurant are like a Leading Hotel of the World. It would almost be stuffy, except there are enough people working here who are obviously summer help —less than perfect and sort of amused by what they’re doing; it helps take the edge off. And the food is really good, and the prices not excessive for the quality of the food —and the rooms are not expensive. It could use more French people though —there is far too much English being spoken; lots of Australians and Brits. It does have a big elevator, and the whole place is wheelchair accessible —a real rarity among country inns —so there are a number of guests in wheelchairs, living it up, which is a nice touch, and probably worth mentioning in an article.
A trip to Mr. Bricolage!
We asked the woman at the desk about having our laundry done and she directed Mr. Logan to this “Pressing” in a mall outside of Auxerre —at the “Geant”. Well, I knew by the time we were halfway there that it was too far to leave our laundry —when would we get back to pick it up, next year? But we sort of followed through anyway, and found this sort of mall on the ring road around Auxerre and went into this huge K-Mart sort of store —very American, except for the French-speaking —and inquired about an electrical adapter to replace the one I left in Beaune. they didn’t have one, but the cute boy (yet another one) consulted with someone and told us to go across the road —to Mr. Bricolage. Just like in America, though we could see it across the street, it was impossible to walk to; we had to get in the car and drive there! It’s a big Home-Depot like store, and they did indeed have just what we needed; Mr. Logan loved the place, and I had to talk him out of buying pricey European light bulbs to take home! After we left Mr. Bricolage, we realized we should have just bought new t-shirts at the Geant —easier and probably cheaper than the laundry —but we didn’t drive back to do it. Instead we set off on the day’s sightseeing.
And on to the relics of Mary Magdelene…
After we left Mr. Bricolage, we drove south to Vézelay, an old monastery church and hilltop village. It was a very important pilgrimage site in the middle ages —they have a reliquary in the crypt with the bones of Mary Magdelene! We got to see them. The church is large and very handsome —rather light inside for a romanesque church, and very austere except for very nice capitols on the pillars carved with flowers, bible scenes and religious legends. On has to hike up this long, slightly steep main street —lined with galleries selling ugly paintings, and lots of restaurants —to the church. The monastery buildings were mostly pulled down, leaving the church surrounded by a large park with amazing views down on the surrounding countryside and other little villages. There were surprisingly few other visitors, and we had the place mostly to ourselves. It had been sprinkling or threatening rain on the drive down, but when we left the church the clouds had dispersed and it became a sunny, and very warm, day.
From Vézelay we drove about 15 km to the town of Avallon —an old fortified town with a funny old romanesque church —the nave descended in steps so it was on about four different levels. the town also had an old clock tower, and the old ramparts. Driving back to Auxerre to visit the Cathedral there, we stopped in a really cute little town called Cravant. We stopped because it just looked so picturesque from the side of the road —there was a stone gate leading into town. Just a little place with tiny alleys —petit rues —running behind the houses, and a pretty little gothic church with fabulous gargoyles, that was all locked up (there was a sign directing visitors to someone’s house to get the key, but we didn’t bother.) There was also this mad enclosed pool fed by a fountain from a nearby stream —no explanation as to the purpose at all —but it looked like some sort of healing waters (at least I’d like to think so); it was enclosed, so not really decorative, but didn’t really seem functional either. Logan suggested it was for watering livestock, but I pointed out that it would be rather difficult to get them in through the rather small doors! (It was and old public wash-house of course —there was one in Chablis as well, we later found.)
From there we drove on to Auxerre —it’s a rather large town or a small city. You even have to pay for parking, though it’s quite cheap. And it was lively after the other places we’d been —lots of young people, students racing around on motorbikes and having drinks in cafes. It had a big old gothic church, Cathedrale St. Etienne —quite tall, with impressive windows, and below, a romanesque crypt, leftover from the previous church, with some old frescoes still extant. The old part of town has some narrow lanes with half timbered houses; It’s built on a hill and the river runs along the edge of the old city (now the modern city sprawls across both sides of the river). There are a couple of other large churches as well, which we did not visit. And the city has a long shopping street (in addition to all the mega-stores on the outskirts), but apparently the shops in this region of France are all traditionally closed on Monday.
We didn’t have dinner at the hotel tonight, but we had aperitifs and then afters —I had their excellent infusion maison, and Logan had this mad bright green mint liqueur called Gat 27. A bit like scope on ice. We had dinner at a place down the street called Bistro de Grand Crus, a simple little place which was fine but not amazing, and not so busy on a Monday night. We probably should have driven out of town to a little country inn —there was one that sounded really good in Logan’s wine book —but I didn’t really want to drive anymore; most of the other places in Chablis were closed on Monday night. Logan did have the Jambon de Morvan —a sort of prosciutto-like ham, but served in thick slices. I had some white asparagus, and then a cuisse de canard and Logan had a nice piece of white fish. It was all fine. Pretty cheap too, except for the €30 bottle of Chablis.
Had a long walk around the totally deserted and shut-up town, our after-dinner infusion and drink at the hotel, and now to sleep. We have dinner here at the hotel tomorrow —I’m planning an easy day of looking around the town and then driving a route of nearby wine villages.
4 June 2002 Chablis
We had lunch today in this terrific little restaurant —a tiny place we just happened on. Actually it was mentioned in Logan’s wine book, but it didn’t make it sound like much. It’s one of those discoveries that one makes in the French country side that is just a very happy accident. It’s Le St. Bris, in the little village of St. Bris Le Vineux. The owner of the place is Jean Francois Pouillot, and he works mostly alone in his small restaurant. When we arrived for lunch, at about 1:45, there was just one table occupied; he emerged from the kitchen and gave us a warm welcome, seated us at a little table, and got us a half bottle of the local white burgundy from nearby Chitry. We ordered just the simple plate of the day, a grilled Andouillettes de Troyes; with an apple rhubarb tart for dessert. There were several very delicious sounding menus written on little chalkboards —but they were all four and five courses, and we really wanted a small lunch. Apparently M. Pouillot decided we had to have a starter anyway, so we brought us a little crock of 6 escargots to share. They were delicious, in garlic, butter and parsley. Then our plates with beautiful white andouilletes —usually not my favorite I must confess, though they are a specialty of this region —and it was delicious (just the slightest suggestion of that innardy smell that is sometimes so overpowering). They were flavorful and tripey but not at all gross. I hope I’m not damning with faint praise here —but it was good and nicely presented on a plate with a few little vegetables. Then we got two huge slices of the apple rhubarb tart —the rhubarb green and crisp, finely chopped and mixed with a bit of custard. After that, coffee and some special little chocolates and biscuits from the bakery in the town. All the time the owner would come out to chat (in French of course) and ask questions of us; he told Logan that he prefers to work alone; he feeds 10 to 15 people at lunch and at dinner, and he likes to be able to interact with the diners, and do everything himself. I wish we had found it earlier in the trip, as I would like to go and have his huge groaning multi-course meal. I’m sure it’s fabulous. On the menu outside it said “a true cuisine de chef still exists” —his motto for the place. I just think it is great —a real find, and a place to look forward to returning —delicious, personal, interesting and inexpensive. I get much more excited about a place like this than about the very fancy place at our hotel —even though the food is indisputably terrific, it has been featured in bunch of magazines even.
If St. Bris is full, or a large group comes by, he sends them to the Auberge des Tilleuls in Vincelottes. We actually stopped there first for lunch (this is the place I had thought about going for dinner the night before), but decided that all the set menus seemed too large for what we wanted… but it’s good, regional cooking, and a beautiful terrace, tented, on the waterfront along the tranquil river Yonne. Very pretty, and it’s a Logis as well. Still I’m glad we moved on to Le St. Bris —it’s a special place.
We explored Chablis on foot in the morning. It has a pretty little riverfront promenade, with a few little parks, a swim pool that is filled from the river in the summer months, An old riverside washing house, some mills —one of which is of course a restaurant. We tried to go in the pretty —and from a distance, imposing —little gothic church, but it is in the midst of a re-roofing, and it was all locked up. We visited the town cemetery as well —another old church, but likewise locked up. The rest of the day we spent driving around the nearby wine towns —just cute, very little towns —with interesting old churches, all of which were locked up. And we drove by the cremant caveau of Bailly, and we had our fabulous little lunch in St. Bris, and saw an old Templar church (the oldest church in the l’yonne) in Fontenay des Chablis. The highlight of the days sightseeing though was Potigny —where there is an old, very handsome Cistercian Abbey. Very little visited, compared with the more famous abbeys, but really worth it —large and imposing, beautiful light inside; we bought a little guide in the shop to tell us all about it. I think the best thing though is being able to appreciate it in complete tranquility. During most of our visit we were all alone.
Back in town we stopped at the caves of the Chablis wine growing commune, La Chablissiene. Logan bought 6 bottles of wine —which we are lugging now; I wanted to have some shipped to Amsterdam; but apparently they can’t ship outside of France. There are good things, very inexpensive, and shipping within France doesn’t amount to much —but so much for the common market I guess… at least where wine’s concerned. The only way is to bring a car so that one can drive it back —so I guess I’ll just look for some of these things in Amsterdam. After that it was back to Hostellerie du Clos, and making some notes, and then off to dinner…
Back in the hotel now, and it’s storming. A sudden rainstorm has blown up out of nowhere, and it’s dark and thundering and pouring down rain!
Later…
OK, I have to say that dinner at our fancy hotel restaurant was a bit too big. I liked the less expensive menu with the kidneys more. Everything tonight was really tasty; it was just too much, too many courses of very rich food. We had an amuse bouche of cold cantaloupe soup —delicious. then we had a salad with foie gras and girolles mushrooms. This was a replacement for the morell mushrooms stuffed with foie gras —which Logan was dying to have —but which for some reason wasn’t available. Then I had a little soup of crayfish tails and Logan had a morrel soup with green asparagus. then we had “line caught” bar, pan fried. Then we had a medallion of lamb. Then we had a cheese assortment. Then we had little fried pastries filled with rhubarb and accompanied with strawberries. Then we had our infusion maison, and the little cookie things. So you can see —it was a groaning amount of food. We drank another chablis (1998) of course, and an Irancy red Bourgonge (2000, a more robust year for this very light red) with the lamb. It stopped raining so we could have a walk after dinner, but it wasn’t enough. I feel like I’m going to have to work at losing some weight when I get back to Amsterdam.
5 June 2002 Aboard the TGV to Paris
A long, sort of exhausting day, the return to Paris. It lacks the excitement of the outbound journey, and perhaps it was a mistake to book the return in the afternoon; there’s something good about getting the travel over with early in the day. But then it took us an hour and a half to drive from Chablis back to Dijon —even using the autoroute, it’s a longer trip than I thought. Then getting the gas, and finding the train station. So around 12:30 we set off for a quick tour of the town. It’s sort of a large place —bigger than any of the other cities we’ve been to on this trip, and bigger than Tours for instance, and very grand seeming, with a huge baroque complex in the center housing government offices and a musee des Beaux Arts. This was the Palace of the Dukes of Burgundy, but much and often added to over the centuries. There are also a number of Churches: the Notre Dame, with a very funny gothic facade absolutely covered with protruding gargoyles; and a big gothic church with a very odd looking renaissance facade —and inside a miraculous statue of the Virgin Mary from the twelfth century. (It is believed to have saved the city from siege by the Swedes in the 16th century and from destruction by the Germans in WWII.) And Dijon has a big shopping area, with a Galleries Lafayette and H&M, and a big old iron covered food market, which was unfortunately closed for the lunch hour when we were there. So that’s it —we skipped a big lunch, as we’ve been eating far too much, and just had a hot cheese/onion/ham sandwich which we took away from a bakery. It was very oniony. Now we’re on the TGV —this one seems to have originated in Lucerne, Switzerland —and we’re racing back through the Burgundian countryside (very pretty) towards Paris. There was a storm last night, and now remnants of it all day; lots of wind, but then some sun too; and then brief bits of rain. Apparently the weather in Chablis, especially, is very unstable, and they are prone to sudden storms rising up from nowhere.
Specialties of Chablis/ the l’Yonne:
Gougères —little cheese puffs, a snack with an aperitif
Andouilletes —tripe sausages
Pain d’ Epices —gingerbread
Jambon Morvan —prosciutto like ham served in thick slices
soft cows milk cheeses —famously Époisses, a smelly, runny cheese; and chaources, a milder creamy cheese
Cherries —in springtime; asparagus in season
Escargots —from burgundy
“Terrior de l’Yonne” organization for regional products: butchers, bakers, and restaurants.
Wines:
Chablis —very dry chardonney grown in a small appellation surrounding the town on limestone soil. On of France’s best white wines, and the best of the Burgundy whites.
Cremant de Bourgonge —the best from Bailly near Chablis; this area is quite near the champagne region, and like many champagnes it is a sparkling wine made from Chardonnay grapes —but much cheaper.
Bourgonge Aligote —a cheap white wine that, with the local creme de Cassis, is the basis for a proper kir.
5 June Later… Paris
Our train arrived right on time at the Gare de Lyon and the bus trip to the hotel was super easy —it’s practically door to door service. It was nearly six by the time we got settled, and we were pretty hungry too. Logan decided he wanted to eat at Bofinger —for a very typical last meal in Paris. He called them but they wouldn’t take a reservation, but said if we got there by seven we could likely have a table. So we walked over to the Bastille and arrived at Bofinger a bit after seven. There were only a very few tables occupied at that hour of course, so it was no problem and we got a nice table on the ground floor. All was very pleasant until they seated these two very odd women at the table next to us. One was very loud, and despite a funny sort of accent, very American. She was ugly in the extreme, with unkempt hair, warty complexion, and some kind of hideous pink sleeveless hand-knit top. Her companion was none too attractive either, but at least very quiet in a mousey sort of way. Well the loud one was just complaining about everything —they were eating there on some sort of voucher given by a tour company or something, anyway they weren’t even paying for dinner, but nothing seemed to suite —“We don’t want any wine, we want coffee and tea —this coffee’s too strong! Sausages! who would eat sausages for dinner? Can we have extra vegetables? How about broccoli? Do you have broccoli? She wants a salad too… ” The waiters were so accommodating to all this, I was absolutely amazed; where the Parisians get their reputation for rudeness, I don’t know. Anyway, at first it was impossible to ignore this woman, and Logan and I both inwardly groaned —it stopped our conversation, and her voice just reverberated in the space between us. Apparently she was here to see the Louvre —that was her mission —and if she was forced to endure the city of Paris in order to do it, she was just going grit her teeth and soldier through it. Oh how I wanted to tell her to lighten up, have some wine, enjoy her free meal! Well, fortunately, the restaurant filled up quickly, the noise level rising to drown her out more-or-less, and their food came and she shut up —occasionally —to eat. And the ironic thing is they devoured the food —every bite: the onion soups, the fish, the mashed potatoes, the artichokes, the side of greenbeans; the extra salad —Logan said she commented constantly on how delicious it was, so go figure.
I enjoyed my dinner as well, but then I expected I would! We had Lillet served with a little dish of green olives and tiny pretzels. Then I had my big platter of six oysters with a glass of Chablis, while Logan had foie gras (again!). Then Logan had a fish that was the daily special, and I had braised duck. We had a nice bottle of Burgundy (a Mercurey) with it. Then Logan had a coupe colonel and I had a chocolate tart. It was all quite good —maybe it’s a little pricey, now that with the Euro one is aware of the prices —and it was great fun to watch the waiters dashing around, in and out of the kitchen, up and down the stairs, carrying trays piled with dishes and grand plateaus de fruit de mer. We stopped afterwards at the Petit Fer a Cheval for a drink —it was full of fashion-modelly drunk rufuses inside —but we sat outside so it was ok.
6 June 2002
Logan left early in the morning —before breakfast —so I had breakfast alone in the hotel, then set off dashing all around Paris on my own. And I really did dash around. First I took the Metro out to the 16th, where I’d never really been before, a sort of a well-to-do but non-touristy area, and walked several blocks to find the Foundation Le Corbousier —housed in a double villa he built in the 1920’s. One of the Villas is open to the public, and it is quite fabulous —very cubist, very stylish, probably not so easy to live in; but it’s on four levels with lots of windows, and interior spaces looking into other rooms and cool built-in bookshelves, and picture rails and light fixtures. I left there and walked all the way to the Trocodero —just to see the neighborhood, which is very residential, very typically Parisian. At the Trocodero I stopped to take in the view of the Eiffel tower, and the view of all the tourists and school kids taking in the view. Then I walked another couple blocks to the Palais du Tokyo, where I made a second visit to the hipster contemporary art space. The Wolfgang Tilmans had just opened, and I wanted to see it. Actually it was impressive and beautifully installed —this huge curving white space with a very high, sky lit ceiling; and the pictures —huge, tiny and everything in between, tacked to the walls all over the place. And some of the pictures were very affecting, especially the snapshotty portraits. But so much of his work is so banal —I know that the banality is sort of his stock in trade —but really I think it’s too much; and actually his newer work is more abstract —big photogram things and such; they don’t have much emotional appeal, but they do show some effort.
By now I was quite hungry, so on a whim I dashed to the subway and went to the Palais Royale and to Willi’s wine bar —arriving about 2:15, just in time to have a nice lunch at the bar: Asparagus and broadbean soup with a glass of Riesling, and veal liver with a cote rotie; a refreshing dessert of fresh cherries and orange slices with a slab of hard bitter chocolate. Very tasty. After lunch I had a bit of a walk around the Palais Royale, then took the metro out to the eighth and walked around looking in shop windows. Finally got back to the hotel after six; Went to the laundromat down the street at seven so I could have some clean clothes. At ten, walked over to the Marais, and had some dim sum things at that little place by St. Paul. Then sat at a sidewalk table at the Open cafe and had a few beers. Checked out the Full-metal and the QG bar —neither very busy, then checked out the Arene —busier, but as dreadful as I remember it being (thought I’d give it a second chance); and really expensive beer too.
7 June 2002
More photography… Before lunch, the show at the photo museum at the Hotel Sully —which after I paid my 5 Euros, I realized I had already seen —last year at the Van Gogh Museum. It’s this personal collection of American photographs from 1840-1940. It was interesting enough to see again though. And then, after Lunch, I went to the other photo museum in the Marais to see the much hyped Klien+Paris exhibit. Big and garish, and many funny juxtapositions; mostly crowd shots from the street, or group shots a society events. In between I walked out to the Place de l’Aligre and had lunch at the Table l’Aligre. I had the daily menu: a crab salad, a roasted codfish, and a creme brulee; it was all very tasty and included wine, and a cafe —all for 20 euros. A good deal, especially when you consider that I had just spent that morning 10 euros for two cups of coffee and a piece of toast at the AOC cafe.
It was a bit gloomy all day in Paris, but now that I’ve come back to the hotel to rest after a day of dashing around, it’s cleared up and become quite sunny. 8 pm and it’s very sunny and bright. I’d take this computer to a cafe to make my notes, but I haven’t had it plugged in and the battery is not charged.
Later…
I had a lie down in the early evening, then went out for a walk at dusk to take some photos and have a snack. I was going to stop at the Deux Palais, but it was closing, so I went to the Panis and had a croque on country bread.
8 June 2002
Out today pretending to shop. Actually I bought a summer shirt and some boxer shorts at this cheap, stylish store from Spain called Celio. Then it was just browsing around the St. Germain des Pres and San Sulpice. Then I happened by a little movie theater where they were showing the Larry Clark film “Bully”, so I decided to go see it. It was really good, I thought. Then over to the Marais for a bit more non-shopping —I tried in vain to find this one men’s clothing store that I had seen earlier in the week. Then on my way back to the hotel, I stopped at Notre Dame and caught a bit of the Saturday evening service. Lots of singing, and very nice to experience the church in use. I hadn’t a big lunch on Saturday, so I went out to dinner at Polidor. It was fun —because of the people —but it is not as cheap as I remember it. (dinner cost me as much as lunch at Willi’s.) I had a lentil soup (rather dull) and the pintade with cabbage, which was quite good, and a huge tarte tatin with creme freche. Sat with a girl from London and her two French friends; they were nice.
Dithered about where to go for a drink that night —Keller or Docks or Transfert. Decide on Transfert, but it was a mistake —it’s the tiniest bar in Paris, and was empty as well. So after taking the metro there (it’s at the far end of the Louvre) I had to walk back to the Marais, and just went to the Full Metal, and actually didn’t stay out too late.
9 June 2002 Aboard the Thalys to Amsterdam
Very tired today —too little sleeping the last three nights —so most of the trip back I’ve just been listening to music and staring out the window at the landscape. Some really beautiful cloud formations as we sped through Northern France. Holland is predictably gray.
I had an early lunch before I left Paris —a steak tartare at the Terminus Nord. It is yet another Flo group brasserie, but anyway that does assure that the food is of a high calibre. I was torn between steak tartare and oysters —I only had time for one course. Had the tartare and a half bottle of Cotes du Rhone. Anyway it is directly across the street from the station, so it is very convenient.
Now I have my article to write, but it won’t be done on the train. I finally get out the computer, and we’re racing into Schipol already —so we’ll be in Amsterdam in 15 minutes.
France has a long history of tolerance for alternative sexuality. It’s been a refuge for homosexuals from Oscar Wilde to James Baldwin to Gertrude Stein, and a live and let live attitude regarding love and sex seems to prevail. Recently though, France has been moving beyond tolerance to a genuinely enthusiastic embrace of gay residents and visitors. The mayor of Paris is openly gay. Recent legislation extends domestic partner (essentially marriage rights) benefits to same sex couples–and this approved under a conservative national government. Gay bars, bed and breakfasts, shops, restaurants, gay organizations, saunas and discos are proliferating–not only in Paris, but in smaller cities throughout France. The national and regional tourist offices, businesses, mainstream hotels and restaurants, and individual city governments are all enthusiastically welcoming gay travelers. It’s nice to be wanted!
Pride in Gay Paree
You’ll feel especially welcome during the last weekend in June, when Paris’ puts on it’s huge annual gay pride celebration. Watch the festive, chaotic and very long parade from any point along its considerable route from Place d’ Italie to Nation (Bastille is a convenient location) or join in and march with a favorite group–every one is welcome to participate as well as watch. Afterwards, the Marais becomes a huge street party for the remainder of the evening. Naturally there are disco parties and special events the whole weekend long. And while Paris Pride is the ultimate, cities throughout France now have gay parades and events–you could spend all of June celebrating gay pride, French style.
Even on a normal day, Paris is the center of gay life in France, with a huge gay community, bars and clubs of every description, trendy gay restaurants, stores selling trendy clothes and campy doodads, and an excellent gay bookstore (Les Mots a La Bouche). Begin your exploration of Gay Paris at the Open Cafe. It seems like every gay boy in Paris eventually strolls by these sidewalk table, and you can happily linger over a coffee, beer or cocktail. Pick up free copies of the several weekly gay agendas for detailed listings of the many other bars and events. The Marais, the lively and traditionally gay quarter of Paris is so popular now that gays have begun colonizing adjacent areas as well–Rue Oberkampf, Canal St. Martin, and the slightly seedy Second Arrondissement are all worth a look. Of course you will see gay people everywhere in Paris and you should feel at home wherever you go.
Racing to embrace gays
Many visitors–and many Parisians themselves–have the impression that that gay life in France begins and ends in Paris. Now a number of regions and cities throughout the country are taking various initiatives to prove that they are just as gay friendly as the capitol. Leading the pack in the this regard is Le Mans, a Loire Valley town best known for the exciting (but not at all gay)Circuit Des 24 Heures du Mans auto race. Yet the city also boasts an organization of gay friendly businesses—Charte d’accueil et de bienvenue Lesbian and Gay Friendly—which now includes most of the hospitality industry in Le Mans. For instance, the grand old belle époqueHotel Concorde, traditional and charmingly old-fashioned, proudly displays its gay friendly charter at the front door. Restaurants are also gay friendly; try traditional cuisine of the Loire atLe Grangeraie in the center of town, or venture out to the nearby nature reserve L’ Arche de la Nature, for a simple but delicious buffet on a farm.
For something more exciting, you can practice your own racing skills on a gas powered go-cart at the very butch Circuits “Alain Prost”. The hunky staff won’t care if you are gay or even if you send your cart crashing at high-speed through the track-side barricade! Auto racing is a theme running through the town, and for aficionados there is great collection of historic vehicles in theMusée de l’Automobile. Historic Le Mans—dating back to the 13th century–is really the highlight of the city however. Vieux Le Mans, the medieval core, boasts the largest concentration of half-timbered buildings in France. And not to be missed–not that you could–is the immense Cathedral St. Julien which spans the entire range of medieval church architecture from fortress-like Romanesque to flamboyant high gothic. The gay “scene” is small town, but in addition to the gay friendly bars and cafes, you will also find a gay disco (La Limite), cabaret (Palace Cafe) and sauna (Le Nil), should you find yourself craving company.
Life in a Student Town
In Montpellier, in what is thought of as the more conservative south, perhaps it is the presence of so many students that lends a gay friendly atmosphere. Of the city’s 240,000 residents, 60,000 are students, creating an overwhelmingly youthful vibe. Add to this the relentless sunshine, and the plentiful terrace cafes that surround every square and you have one of the best cities for people watching in France! The Cafe de la Mer is the gay cafe, with tables spilling out into a popular square, and ultra-cute waiters. Grab a table and a pernod and watch the boys (and girls) go by. The nearby Rue des Teissiers is a narrow passage lined with small gay and gay friendly cafes, their sidewalk tables creating a sort of nonstop block party. For late night partying, Le Heaven and Le New THT offer boys, drinks and small dance floors once you have buzzed your way in. For sun and swimming, the Mediterranean beaches are a short drive from town and the surrounding country side is dotted with ancient villages, Languedoc wineries and ruined Templar castles.
Back in the city, the best way to see the city’s rather hidden historic sites is with the excellent three hour guided tour offered by the Office du Tourisme Montpellier. You’ll get a look into the courtyards of private renaissance houses and the 12th century Jewish ritual bath–rediscovered after seven centuries! Montpelier is home as well to some really great food; for an incredible meal don’t miss La Compagnie des Comptoirs—or their (much less expensive) sister restaurant on the beach at nearby La Grande Motte. The latter is a tent which sits directly on the beach affording incredible views of the Mediterranean and the option of a post lunch swim; the entire restaurant is dismantled in the autumn, and re-erected each spring.
Relaxing in Provence
Provence is probably the most popular holiday region in France after Paris. It’s a perfect spot for sun, scenery, wine, and lazily whiling away the days at an outdoor restaurant or a hotel swimming pool. For a real treat, L’Hotel Les Ateliers de L’Image is the sort of hotel you actually hate to leave to go sightseeing. The rooms are simple, cool and comfortable; The public areas are fashion magazine chic; but it is the large, stunningly beautiful pool and the extensive grounds that make the hotel a destination in itself. Though located in the heart of little St. Remy, the pool overlooks the open countryside–perfect for cooling off midday, or for a midnight swim. As there are only 24 rooms, it feels very exclusive, and very private. The highlight of St. Remy are the excavations of the Roman city of Glanum. You can see the foundations of the ancient buildings and the Roman street grid, yet two thirds of this sizable city remains buried. There is a short walking trail to take you there. This entire region of course was an important part of the Roman empire, and reminders of this ancient heritage are everywhere. In Arles, the Roman arena is still used for bullfights and the local variant, bull racing. In bull racing, unarmed (and apparently reckless) young men compete with bulls–the bulls are never harmed, and they, not the boys, achieve fame and status! Again, for the best look at Arles’ many Roman ruins and Medieval buildings, the Arles Office de Tourisme offers excellent guided visits in English. TheMusée de L’Arles Antique features extensive ancient artifacts from the region. Fascinating and beautifully presented, this relatively new museum should not be missed. Avignon is home to the monumental Palais du Papes, the temporary residence of the popes during the 14th century. It’s an impressive example of religious fortress architecture. The town itself is charming, retaining its old city wall and filled with sunny squares and outdoor restaurants. And with six Michelin star restaurants, Avignon offers some pretty impressive Provençal cuisine. Avignon is also the center of gay life in the region. It’s handful of gay bars (Le Cid Cafe, LMCafe), clubs (Le Esclave, The Cage) and sauna (H Club) draw gays from throughout the region. Mostly though, province is more about relaxing than a pulsing nightlife–and you may be surprised to find that there are huge number of gay and specifically gay friendly hotels, bed and breakfast properties, country houses and villas–many quite luxurious–scattered throughout the region. The organization Gay Provence is an excellent source for Provence accommodation, restaurants, and information; they are very eager to offer advice and assistance and maintain an comprehensive and informative website. Spring, early summer and Autumn are the best times to visit Provence–it is warm but not so crowded. If you want to see the world famous Avignon Arts Festival though, you will have to brave the July heat and crowds–and book everything well in advance.
A Quick Jaunt from Paris
Only an hour northwest of Paris, and easily accessible by train, the charming city of Rouen is perfectly located for a weekend trip from Paris. This medieval town, where Jeanne d’Arc was burned at the stake, has much to offer–historic architecture, an impressive cathedral, a good art museum, great Norman food, and pleasant inexpensive hotels. And Rouen also boasts a lively and friendly gay scene, including two very busy lesbian bars. Reserve a room at the the gay-owned La Vieux Carre, which also has a very pleasnt restaurant. It’s very reasonably priced, centrally located and oozing with half-timbered charm. Exploring this small city is effort free–you can easily visit all the main sites on foot. While the Cathedral Notre Dame–made even more famous by Monet’s paintings–is the most impressive building in town, other nearby monuments worth seeing are the flamboyantly Gothic Palais du Justice, The Eglise St.-Ouen, the Horloge medieval clock tower, and the streets of ancient half-timbered houses. A visit to the pleasant Musée des Beaux-Arts makes a restful change from the crowds at the Paris museums. Too much culture? Rouen offers an astonishing range of shopping for its size–from incredible chocolates and pastries to handmade luxury items, and branches of the famous Paris design houses such as Hermes. In the evening, gay life beckons. The XXL has a bar on the ground floor, a small disco below, and frequent theme parties–often a decidedly sexual theme. A casual, friendly atmosphere pervades, thanks to the efforts of gregarious owner Stephane. Just down the street, Blues offers a huge cocktail menu, and a laid-back lounge atmosphere. The lesbian scene is particularly lively (because of the link to gender bending heroine Jeanne d’ Arc?) with two busy bars. LeMiss Marple–named for the famous fictional detective–andL’Insolite are both filled with friendly and attractive women.
sidebar: A Luxury Weekend in Paris
The Marais is funky, fun, and tres gay, but perhaps you dream of that chic, ultra-luxurious, and very romantic Paris you’ve seen in so many movies. Could it get any more glamorous than a weekend at the Four Seasons George V Hotel? This historic property, with huge rooms, stunning decor, staff rushing to accommodate your every whim, and every amenity you can think of, is one of the world’s great hotels. See Robbie Williams check out as the Rolling Stones check in—the hotel routinely caters to celebrities and presidents—yet Director of Marketing Jean-Pierre Soutric is enthusiastic about welcoming and accommodating gay guests. The concierge can even direct you to the current gay hotspots. It couldn’t be more luxurious and romantic, but of course all this comes at quite a price (do inquire about the many discounts and packages on offer). Still, you’ll be the envy of your friends back home. The Hyatt Regency Paris Madeleine is smaller luxury hotel, with a cool, contemporary look, stylishly comfortable rooms, friendly staff, and a relaxed atmosphere. It will appeal to artistic types (it’s Pavarotti’s hotel of choice) and again, gay guests are enthusiastically welcomed. Now, put on your best Paris suit (or pick up a stylish yet reasonably priced new one from local menswear designer Melchior) and head out for a deluxe meal at one of Paris’ famed restaurants. Try the chic, contemporaryMaison Blanche, with its stunning city views or the George V’s own 3 star Le Cinq. However, whether you opt for luxury hotels or a pension in the Marais, Michelin star restaurants or cozy bistros, an evening stroll through Paris with a special friend is as romantic as any movie, and costs nothing at all.
XXL 25 rue de la Savonnerie, 15:00-4:00, +33/2 3588-8400
Blues 15 rue Saint Etienne des Tonneliers, +33/2 3588-8400
LeMiss Marple 35 rue de la Tour de beurre, 18:00-2:00, +33/2 3588-4732
L’Insolite 58 rue d’Amiens, 19:00-2:00, +33/2 3588-8400
RESOURCES
Maison de la France (www.franceguide.com) The French tourist offices are an invaluable resources. Before you go, make use of the website to explore options and request information. Upon arrival, local offices can provide information, maps, assistance and often excellent walking tours.
Gay Provence (www.gay-provence.org) Providing booking for gay friendly accommodation throughout Provence as well as information on bars, clubs and restaurants.
By Clay Doyle {Published in a slightly different form in Out & About, June 2004}
A week of meals (mostly) and lazy sightseeing in the City of Lights with my friend Randy.
18 June
My traditional first meal in Paris: Brasserie Balzar, with the now-traditional steak tartare and frites. I remember it very unclearly, as I was tired and jet-lagged and not even a good meal in Paris could really wake me up. Randy had lamp chops. After lunch and a long walk, we went back to the Hotel Sevigné to nap, and only rose at about 9 to head off to the Open Café for several large beers and people-watching.
19 June
In the morning, we lazed, then wandered: my favourite thing to do on a nice day in Paris. Lunch at Willi’s Wine Bar is always a treat, and we were both hungry enough at about 1.30 to set off towards the restaurant. It took awhile to get there on foot, and I was worried we were too late, but they were happy to seat us. We did end up the last lunchers by about 20 minutes, so my fears weren’t misplaced. I ordered a “giraffe” (500 ml carafe) of Touraine sauvignon blanc, which sounded refreshing, and was—very cool and nicely acidic. I had a lunch of cold meats. I started with super-tasty beef carpaccio, and followed that with vitello tonnatta, which was cooked veal, of course, but was arranged on the plate exactly like the carpaccio. I hadn’t had it in ages, and really enjoyed the sauce of puréed tuna. Randy ordered something with crab for a starter, and followed with the vitello tonatta as well. He thought it very odd, indeed, but tasty. For dessert, I felt compelled, as I often do, to order le specialité du collège de Cambridge (crème brulée—it’s an in joke at Willi’s,
where a patron once claimed that crème brulée was invented in a dining hall at Cambridge). Randy had the always-delicious chocolate terrine. I wanted to pick up the year’s Pudlo guide (my favourite French restaurant book, available in a Paris and a France edition), so we headed off towards the Louvre and visited the mall, rather than the musée. Then Randy napped and I made our dinner reservations for the week. After that, we wandered the Marais. We shopped at the excellent gay bookstore les Mots à la Bouche, and snacked on cold cuts & cheese with a nice Chinon at our favourite Marais wine bar, the AOC Café.
20 June
Our activity for the day was the Musée d’Orsay. I was expecting a crowd, but it was calm. There was a huge retrospective of some mediocre Dutch painter named Jongkind, and smaller ones of a Polish symbolist hack and a very odd glassblower. Most disappointing. The permanent collection is always good for a few hours, though, and I got to show Randy my favourite bad painting, a huge 1890s canvas entitled “The School of Plato.” I’ve always called it by the more appropriate title “Jesus and the Nelly Apostles.” It’s a hoot! After that, we walked back to the Marais via the Café Les Deux Palais, where Randy had a salade Perigourdine with paté and duck breast, and I had a croque madame on Poilâne bread. Les Deux Palais looks very unpromising, situated in prime tourist country and sporting a big sign offering “American Coffee.” But it’s the unofficial canteen of the Ministry of Justice, and they’re demanding customers. The place is really quite good. After lunch, we both had a long rest.
Few good Paris restaurants, aside from the big brasseries, are open on Sundays. Who knew Le Table d’Aligre was one of them? Apparently not many people, because it was very quiet. This was our first real dinner of the trip, and I was looking forward to it. Randy was jonesing for foie gras, so he ordered a ballotine of foie gras surrounded by a mixture of smoked duck breast and onion confit. It had all the usual accompaniments, but Randy was reluctant to use the cracked pepper and fleur de sel, because he liked it so much plain. I encouraged him to try them. Meanwhile, I was enjoying an asparagus dish and a half-bottle of lovely Cheverny. For seconds, I had a rascasse (the main fish in boulliabaise, and quite rare outside the Mediterranean) and Randy had confit of pork cheeks, which he’d never encountered before. He made an entire meal of cold meats (much as I had done the previous day at Willi’s), but he liked it fine. We shared a carafe of a rich, red St-Joseph from the upper Rhône Valley. For dessert, Randy chose a clafoutis au cerises and I a rhubarb tarte. Then we set off into the night and walked home.
21 June
Rouen
My friend and business partner, Clay Doyle, suggested that Randy and I make a day trip to Rouen, where neither of us had ever been. It was raining on and off when we arrived (one hour and five minutes by train from the Gare St-Lazare). We left the train station and made purposefully for the Cathedral, since I was convinced from long experience that the tourist office would be across the street from the cathedral. I was right, of course, and wanted to get directions for lunch. I forgot to ask, though, and went back about an hour later as our lunch window was nearing its end. In the meantime, we wandered, and visited the St-Maclou church. Clay also gave us a lunch –the restaurant Le Vieux Carrée was great! Our lunch there was our big meal of the day. We both started with an asparagus gratin, very eggy, with fennel seeds on top. The fennel was a nice touch. After that, I had a pissaladière tarte with caramelized onions, anchovies and olives. This being Normandy and not Provence, there was a custard base to the tarte as well, which I wasn’t expecting. It was very tasty anyway. Randy had a skate wing, which he liked a lot. By mid-meal, we were the only people in the place (we’d arrived for lunch just a bit before 2, and they were quite busy), so I was a bit relieved when an odd gay couple (probably drawn there by a recent article by Clay in Out and About, I imagined) stopped for coffee. They were followed by some young straight French kids in love.
For dessert we both had a very good rhubarb tarte, and I bought a couple jars of jam to take home. After lunch, we returned to the very impressive cathedral to look inside (it was closed til 2 pm), then made our way back to the train station. With a few minutes to kill before the train, we sat down at a café and had Kir Normandes, which (no surprise) involve cider. Quite odd.
We got back to Paris to find the metro unusually busy, and every third passenger seemed to be carrying a musical instrument. We both wanted to rest, but a bad band was making a racket by the Metro entrance. I discovered in my guidebook that it was the solstice tradition of the Fête de la Musique, when anybody could set up and play late into the night. We got enthusiastic, and went down to the Metro entrance to hear what was by now a much better band. Apparently the etiquette of the evening involved no one group monopolizing a good spot. I got the bright idea to go to the Trocadero, because I thought it would be a happening, young music scene. The trains were by now truly mobbed, and there were lots of policemen in the Metro keeping order. We never got to Trocadero, because I found a discarded program for the evening’s more organized events, and thought an alternative-rock bill at place Denfert-Rochereau sounded good. So we made our way there, and stood around in a big, fun crowd (I fell in love three times), but the music was uninspired. When the last act turned out to be bad, mass-market American punk à la Green Day (but worse), we split. We set off towards home. I suggested we come up from the subway at St-Michel, and walk home from there, hoping to hit on a fun scene on the way. There was an odd little band at Place St-Michel doing a sort of klezmer-ska-Camper Van Beethoven thing that was ragged but fun. When they quit, we wandered toward home, and ran into a huge throng of gays on rue des Archives. The DJ playing standard gay dance music didn’t seem at all in the spirit of the evening, so (with much pushing and shoving) we moved on. At our doorstep, and disappointed by the Fête de la Musique, we heard something fun coming from the Metro entrance. There was a band standing around, waiting for a loud horn group to finish up. They looked like teens from the neighborhood, mostly Jewish kids, with an incredibly cute, baby-faced lead guitarist who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Then they started to play–the Pink Panther theme, also in a klezmer-ska-Camper Van Beethoven vein, but much better than the kids at St-Michel, and with a big dose of Django Reinhart added. They were brilliant. They drew a fun, cute, mixed crowd, and encouraged audience participation. Gentle moshing ensued. We were very, very happy. I tried several times to photograph the angelically beautiful guitarist with my cellphone, but it was too dark, and the photos all came out crappy.
22 June
In the day, we went to Montmartre and to the Catacombs. Heights to depths. It was a concept.
Montmartre was as dull as I remembered. The basilica of Sacre-Coeur is astonishingly ugly, and historically associated with the right wing of French politics. The neighbourhood is full of t-shirt shops and pushy street vendors. The views are spectacular, though, and the funicular is fun.
After our trip to the top of the hill, we headed back to place Denfert-Rochereau, and the Catacombs. The caverns full of human bones arranged in layers like a fancy paté are very impressive, and the tour is very popular with boisterous American kids. It’s a jarring combination.
Both Randy and I were especially looking forward to our dinner at le Villaret. I’ve been there many times, and i has never disappointed—and once again, it didn’t. We were the first to arrive (always embarrassing), but a French couple followed almost immediately, which was nice. I ordered us two glasses of Banyuls for aperitifs. I still think it’s an odd aperitif (I drink it with dessert, since it’s the only wine I know that goes beautifully with chocolate), but what do I know? For wine, I ordered a positively cheap white Burgundy from Pernand Vergellesse (Clay and I drank some when we were there, and liked it a lot). It was brilliant–exactly what a white Burgundy should be, with buttery and tannic flavours above the fruit.
For the amuse-bouche, they served a little cold asparagus cream soup, ideal for the warm weather. For the first course, I had a delicious terrine of pigeon with a confit of onions and balsamic vinegar, and a rocket salad. Randy had a salad of langoustine tails. Since I couldn’t taste his (I have a potentially-fatal shellfish allergy), I forget the details. So does he. During the first course, the surrounding tables filled up. To my left was a very odd couple indeed–a Frenchman of about 50 with an American girl of about 24 (Randy says “no way, she was 35.”) He manages the Gipsy Kings (!) and she works for the record company. He was obviously trying to seduce her (in a businesslike way, just to keep his hand in, cuz he’s French) while she kept talking about her recent wedding. To my right was a party of four Americans from Boston, who were grateful that I could translate the entire menu for them. I couldn’t talk any of them into ordering lamb’s tongue, but they enjoyed themselves hugely, nonetheless.
For the main course, I ordered the dos de lieu jaune, which I remembered as being a tasty fish. It was very richly flavoured, and sat on a lovely leek purée. Randy had a dish that was mostly mushrooms, asparagus and artichokes, with a bit of mackerel. It was perfect warm-weather food. For dessert, Randy had a sort of milk-chocolate soup with a cookie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. I had a sablé cookie on top of a layer of very good raspberries and whipped cream, with a spoonful of rhubarb sorbet. We walked home in a fine mood through intermittent light rain.
23 June
In the day, we went to the Louvre to see “The Raft of the Medusa,” and a few other highlights. Then we shopped—it was the season for les Soldes—the big summer sales.
Dinner was at Le C’Amelot (on the rue Amelot, on the border between the 3rd and 11th arrondissements. This is the new place we tried in Paris on this trip, based on very favorable reviews both in the New York Times (by Jacqueline Friedrich, who wrote the wonderful Wine and Food Guide to the Loire Valley) and in le Pudlo de Paris 2004. What tipped me in its favor was the fact that they serve a set meal, with choices only for dessert. I knew Randy agreed with me that lack of choice is a luxury, so I reserved a table.
We’d walked by the restaurant the night before, coming home from Le Villaret. It was super-cute, and looked tiny and rustic. They had the wine list posted in the window, and I noticed absinthe listed among the aperitifs. Of course, I had to have it, so when we arrived the next evening I ordered two. They came in proper, tall, parfait-shaped absinthe glasses, with proper, flat, antique, slotted absinthe spoons, sugar cubes, and a miniature pitcher of water. I instructed Randy in the ceremony, and we drank what tasted like slightly watered-down Ouzo. Sadly, a little crock of delicious, garlicky sausissons secs in olive oil arrived as an amuse-bouche, and clashed violently with the absinthe. They were, of course, swept off the table when our soup course arrived, so we missed out on enjoying them.
Our wine choices included my usual suspects of Loire Valley and Burgundy whites, so I asked for a recommendation and got a white St-Joseph, which was a bit pricey but really, really good. It was especially nice in contrast to the Pernand Vergellesse of the previous evening, because it was equally fruity while much less tannic, so the flavours were vastly different.
Our first course was a cold tomato soup with a curry cream quenelle. That could go either way but it was brilliant. The soup itself was just tomato-y enough, the quenelle was just curry-y enough, and the tiny croutons were just crunchy enough. Very refreshing on a warm and humid (and incredibly windy!) day. We got two bowls, each containing a quenelle, scattered croutons and a dusting of finely chopped chives. Then a big footed bowl of soup arrived—that sort of French bowl with the lions on the side–so we got a generous course of soup, both in quantity and in time.
That was followed by a couple slices of roasted monkfish on a bed of fennel remoulade with a simple sauce of some meaty jus and some mild acid (I forgot to look at the menu again as we left). It was a perfect smallish portion of beautifully melded flavours.
The main course was a Pintade de Bresse with roasted potatoes and girolle mushrooms. The entire pre-dessert menu was ideal for showing off the virtues of a really appropriate white wine, so I’m glad I asked for advice. By this time the very specific absinthe buzz had kicked in, and we were plastered–but in a good way.
For dessert, I had a mi-cuit chocolate soufflé cake thing, and Randy had peach slices with milk/mint sorbet. Mine was excellent but his was better. Our walk home revealed just how buzzed we both were.
24 Juin
A day of shopping–Randy went hog-wild at my favourite men’s clothing store in Paris, Melchior. The clothes there are beautiful, but designed for a longer, leaner silhouette than mine—so I shop there vicariously. I a bit wild at Celio (Spain’s answer to The Gap) Then, lunch in Belleville at le Baratin. Clay, Randy and I had been in Paris last May for an open artists studio weekend in Belleville, and we’d been smitten with this little bar. The place has been written up as the pick of the 20th in the new Pudlo guide! I started with one of the specials: a whole small rouget, simply prepared. It was very nice. I followed that with poitrine de porc with mashed potatoes, then charentais melon in a light vanilla syrup. Everything was simple and delicious. Randy started with especially good sautéed chicken livers on a salad, then lamb shoulder with curry and rice, and finally a clafoutis au cerise again. For wine I chose a cinsault vin gris from “the Valley of Paradise”–slightly, pleasantly sour and a tiny bit pettillante. After lunch we popped into a show of photos of the restored Giotto frescoes in Asissi ,with lots of useful explanation. The Italians seem to have done a great job. And, apart from a nice little concert at the Sainte-Chappelle, that was Paris. A good time was had by all.
I had promised to accompany my friend Randy on his first trip to Europe in late spring 2003, which I arranged for us to spend mostly in Paris, where we would meet up with several friends. I spent the winter in Los Angeles, tending to the rather grueling task of closing and packing my West Hollywood studio/gallery/living space. This task finally complete, I was suddenly hospitalized with attack of pancreatitis–surely one of the most painful ailments ever devised. The attack was the side effect of a medication I had been prescribed–with over inflated warning labels on everything from hot coffee to plastic bags, I admit I didn’t pay much attention to “caution: may be fatal” stamped on the bottle. After all, it says the same thing on a pack of cigarettes. Perhaps if it had said “caution: may lead to an immediate and exceedingly painful shut down of your digestive system causing you to spend eight days in the hospital on hallucinatory intravenous pain killers while you are allowed absolutely nothing to eat or drink, not even water” I would have requested something else. In any case, with the medication discontinued, after ten days the doctor shook my hand, pronounced me cured, and sent on my way. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but as plans had previously been made, I decided that I could just as well convalesce in Paris as Los Angeles. Thus, a bit oddly, begins yet another Clay Doyle in Paris travelogue…
18 May 2003 Paris
Late Sunday in my little room in the nicely renovated Hotel de Sevigne. New bathrooms, new paint, new furniture. Nothing fancy, but great value for the money, plus breakfast in the room! Arrived Friday after an uneventful trip from Amsterdam on the Thalys. Went out shortly after our arrival to take Randy for a walk through the Marais, across the Ille de Cite, around the exterior of Notre Dame, and finally to our dinner reservation at Balzar. A very fun dinner (even if the food is perhaps not as perfect as it once was, it’s still pretty darn good and the atmosphere of the place is just great). I had the poulet roti, with escargot to start and a fresh strawberry tart for dessert. Randy had escargot, lamb chops and the profiteroles. Lillet aperitifs and a half bottle of red wine. Two amusing Nederlanders at the next table. They had dinner, then coffee, then cognac, then another cognac and a beer and the waiter brought them the check before they asked for it and one of them read him the riot act— “We are not Americans,” he said! I thought I’d crack up. after that, our check did not come until I requested it. A nice stroll back to the hotel along the Seine.
Saturday was a very busy day. We walked to the Luxembourg garden. We went looking at a bunch of expensive galleries around the Rue de Seine in the sixth. Stopped at the usual shops around St. Sulpice. Wanted to go in the church but they were having first communion ceremonies all day. Lots of children in white robes. We did stop into St. Germain des Pres and I lit a candle to Santa Rita for my pancreas. Then took randy to Bertillion for an ice cream cone and we had some coffee in the Marais. It showered off and on all day, alternating with some sun. I bought a rain hat at Muji. We rested at the hotel and then went to the concert a bit after seven. Found it without any trouble. It was nearby, around the Bastille, but I usually seem to get lost over there. Really nice small venue—Cafe de la Danse. the concert was the Go Betweens, an Australian singer/songwriter duo/band that Randy really likes. They were fun. The opening act was Tim Keegan, a gay folky sort of singer/songwriter. He had this one really nice sad song—“Jamie’s going snowboarding”—about being abandoned by/driving away a boyfriend. After the show we had dinner at Au Gamin de Paris. Friendly, as I remember it. We shared a livery terrine to start (it was huge) and I had some lamb slices and Randy had a steak. We had a very rich super chocolatey tart for dessert. After dinner we walked around and I showed Randy where some to the gay bars were. We almost went into the Full Metal, and we would have gone into the Cox but the music was so bad, we just went to the Open Cafe. It was a bit too cold to sit outside so we crowded inside and I had a Perrier. It was after one when we got back to the hotel—my longest, most active day since the hospital. Today (Sunday) I was a bit tired, and my leg muscles were a bit sore from all the walking. None-the-less in the morning we went to the Picasso Museum and wandered all around its three floors. It wasn’t very crowded—I don’t think most tourists go in for Picasso. We had a baguette at Au Petit Fer a Cheval. It was pouring down rain. I spent most of the afternoon resting in my room. around five I went out for a walk—I went out to find the Place Aligre and the restaurant I like there (la table d’ Aligre) and I noted down the the phone number then stopped at a little Moroccan cafe nearby for a ‘the de menthe’ and a little pastry. It was raining when I left so I took the Metro back —two lines, though only one stop on each. Spent the evening resting—Randy and I had talked about going to dinner at nine, but when he hadn’t come by by 10:30 I went out on my own to get something to eat. Turns out he was in his room from eight on…not sure why he didn’t call sooner anyway I was already at Petit Fer a Cheval having a cheap entrecote and a glass of red wine, alone. Truth be told I like having the time alone, though if I knew Randy was in the hotel I would have taken him along to dinner. I thought he was out chatting up French boys!
19 May 2003 Paris
Resting in my room before dinner. It’s seven in the evening and I’m a bit tired. Took Randy on a tour of the monuments, so walking all day. We took the Metro to the Arc d’ Triumph and then walked back down the Champs d’Elysee…well you have to see it once! Stopped at the FNAC record store and listened to some French pop albums. Continued on through the parks by the Grand Palais…there was a big exposition about trains, all along the park, to look at…then to the Place d’ la Concorde. Then a short walk up to the Madeleine. There was a mass in progress, so we went to a little cafe on the square and had French Onion soup…a cliché I know but it was good…and sat there a while. It was all rainy during our walk, but not so rainy that it was really unpleasant. Went in the church, then walked through the Tuileries then got to the Louvre just at 3pm when they reduce the price. There’s a fabulous new secret entrance at the Porte de Lions, sort of at the end of the Sully wing under the Italian galleries…no crowds at all just two automatic ticket machines and no human ticket sellers…and just as we got there the ticket machines malfunctioned…so we had to go in through the shopping mall and buy our tickets under the pyramid which was much more crowded. Randy liked the Roman and Greek sculptures…I also took him to see the Caravagios and the Leonardos that are not the mona lisa. And we looked at the Davids and Delacroix and Gericaults. And the Italian renaissance sculptures. But we just did that one wing, rested in the cafe and saw that the sky had cleared and the sun was out. so we walked back…me to the hotel and Randy to the Open Cafe. I just need to rest before going to dinner at 9 at La Villeret!
***
The trip to Paris has been very good for my health—long walks to get my strength back and lots of good food to get my weight up to something more reasonable. I’m very glad that I made the trip. I was so worried about it; I felt terribly weak and unsteady even up to the day I left LA. Really, the only reason I didn’t cancel was that I felt so guilty about sending Randy on his own after I promised I’d be there to take care of everything! I just couldn’t abandon him (and Logan as well, though I don’t worry about Logan taking care of himself in Paris or anywhere)! So I crossed my fingers and hoped that my pancreas would not explode somewhere over the icy North Atlantic! And, I guess it goes to show that having some responsibility is a good thing—I feel I have recovered much more quickly in Paris than I would have in LA. And of course, I’ve been having a great time here.
***
Just a quick description of our fabulous dinner at La Villeret. Arrived at nine and left at midnight! Amuse bouche: a tiny cup of spinach soup. Starters: sweetbreads and white asparagus for me and fricassee of chicken and girolle mushrooms for Randy—both delicious. Plats: I had calf’s liver; I’d been craving it and it was perfectly cooked. Randy had a St. Pierre; he really liked it, I still can’t recall this fish’s English name. We finished dinner and still had a half bottle of Nuits St. George 2000 Burgundy (delicious) left so I ordered cheese for us—lots of runny smelly soft cheeses, and goats cheeses, please help yourself! Then we had desserts! For me a soup with strawberries and Randy had a chocolate mousse sort of thing. Then a cup of verbena. Then, fortunately, the nice walk back to the hotel. Everything was really good, and Randy was really impressed. 145 Euros, so not super cheap, but still an excellent value.
21 May 2003 Paris
Tuesday was a rather efficient day! In the morning went shopping with Randy in the Marais and bought a birthday present for a friend in the states, plus found a cute gift box to put it in. Then we took the Metro out to the Trocadero and the Tour Eiffel. Not really much of a line to go up into the Tour (Paris just doesn’t seem so full of tourists) but Randy wasn’t in the mood. We had some mediocre salads at a mediocre bistro and then went back to the hotel. I rested for an hour and then went out to mail the birthday gift. Found a big padded envelope to put it in at the stationers near the hotel, then took it to the post office at the end of the street. All very easy. Then I went wandering around hoping to find a wireless network I could use to check my email. Well, it couldn’t be more convenient! there is one in the range of the Open Cafe, so could sit there and have a tea and check email and stuff, while I check out the boys passing by! I went back this morning for coffee, and to send some replies.
Dinner at 8:30 at La Table d’ Aligre. We were the only American rufuses there of course. Randy said, after we were seated, “He knew who you were!” and I said “Of course. We are the only party of Americans.” OIC!
Dinner was pleasant, and reasonably bargainy. I had the most trouble translating the menu there for some reason. Actually felt like I rather made a fool of myself trying to communicate with the very friendly staff, but oh well. The walls were covered with some very interesting watercolors…mostly of banal american locations (airports, motels, etc) but very nicely done and interesting. They were for sale for 550 Euros, not a bad price but too much for me. The women who painted them happened to be dining in the restaurant and the waiter pointed her out. Anyway, I had the house made foie gras to start and randy had salt cod in a sabayon over rice. I had a special of fried pork medallion in a good mustard sauce with mashed potatoes and Randy had fried rabbit with some big wide hand cut pasta. For dessert there was a fantastic looking vanilla soufflé, but we neglected to notice that it had to be ordered early in the meal (naturally) so randy had this crispy pastry envelope filled with incredibly rich dark chocolate and I had this soft biscuit filled with (I’m not sure what actually) and raspberry sauce.
Today Mr. Logan arrived. We went to meet him in his hotel and Brian and his sister and his niece had arrived too. Logan suggested we all go to Polidor for lunch, so we did and I had lentil cream soup and hachis parmantier. Then we all walked over a visited Notre Dame. Brian and family went back to the hotel and Logan and Randy and I sat at the AOC cafe. I’m resting now but soon will be having another gorgy dinner at Balzar! Brian’s’ sister (Michelle) and niece (Lauren) seem very nice. The weather is still chilly and overcast, though there was not any actual rain today.
24 May 2003 Paris
Saturday late afternoon, raining, a good time to catch up my journal. Balzar Wednesday night—I had white asparagus and then the steak tartare. And one profiterole stolen from Michael Logan. It was all quite delicious. We finished dinner at ten, so everyone decided we should go to the Tour Eiffel. We took the metro over and there were hardly any people there. The Africans selling cheap souvenirs practically outnumbered the tourists. Well the weather was iffy and it was late, and it turned out that the top level was not open—perhaps because of the weather. So we went up to the second level and had a view. Then we took taxi’s back to our respective hotels. So speedy!
Thursday was a bit of a lazy day. I took Randy over to the St. Chapelle, but it was closed because of a strike. So we met Logan et al at the Samaritaine Department store because I wanted to take them up to the Panorama. It was closed too—not sure why. But we had some hot chocolate at the roof terrace cafe so we did get a view of the city after all. Then we strolled through the courtyards of the Louvre, and we sat in the garden of the Palais Royale (while michelle and Lauren and Brian went to find a sculpture) by the fountain (very pleasant, and we imagined some lounging boys to be our dates). Then the six of us went to lunch at Willi’s. It was a very fine lunch. I had slices of quail and vegetables in a rich, red “barbecue” sauce—but I think I should have had the tempura prawns—the ladies had them and they looked fantastic. I had a bit of Randy’s foie gras too, which was excellent. I had a fish—the rascasse—on Logan’s recommendation, it was quite good. Actually the table was 4 rascasse and 2 lamb chops. I can’t quite remember what I had for dessert—but I’m sure it was some kind of strawberry thing; I’ve been eating a lot of strawberries, they are really excellent. Some coffee and then we got up and strolled our separate ways. Logan and Randy and I met later at the Open Cafe and sat there during happy hour (6-8).
In the evening Randy, Logan and I decided to go to this “Spectacle” at Notre Dame (actually it was Logan’s idea in a rare lapse of judgment). It began at nine and mercifully lasted only one hour as it was torturously dull. It was basically a novena to the BVM, with a slide show and recorded music. It was sort of like being invited over to the Virgin Mary’s house to see her travel pictures! “and here we are in Egypt…”
Fleeing that, we went to the AOC cafe and had little snacks. Then back to the Open Cafe to meet Brian. Brian was complaining because while he was there alone guys tried to pick him up. Why is this a problem? Anyway there is a super sweetypie waiter there—of course all the waiters there are cute, but Kevin is the cutest of them all. He was there when we were there earlier and very sweet, but the poor thing seemed totally worn out by the time we returned at 11:30 at night.
Friday we went to Versailles on the RER. Takes about 45 minutes. Then we walked and walked. It was a very nice day for it, warm and sunny. we strolled through the huge gardens, the Grand and Petit Trianons and then out to Marie Antoinette’s little faux farm (Logan really wanted to see it). Everyone rebelled on the walk out to the little farm—they sat down and refused to go on. I managed it though—very pleased with my energy level. After that we took the “mini-train” to a cafe and had a spot of a late lunch, then back to the chateau. We sort of dashed through it lingering only to look at the chapel and the hall of mirrors. Well how much flocked wallpaper and mediocre paintings can you stand? Brian and Michelle kept losing their tickets—so there is a family resemblance. Took the train back and had a very brief rest and then dinner (again) at La Villerette. The girls didn’t come and Brian was in a frenzy because of some problems at work, but the food was good anyway. I had some langoustines, and then a pigeon. Logan had the mushrooms and a rabbit (leg, saddle and liver). Randy had langoustine soup and “assorted” lamb—a sweetbread, a fabulous liver, a chop or two. Brian had the sweetbread/white asparagus that I had before and the Lamb. No cheese course, but we all had this “brownie” with chocolate mouse and white chocolate Ice cream. Then we walked back to our hotels.
***
The city does not seem too mobbed with tourists. There is not much of a crowd or lines anywhere. There are some Americans, lots of Brits and Australians. One sees American homosexuals at the Open Cafe—quite a lot really. But it’s nice the city is not mobbed. And it seems very relaxed—especially compared to the war frenzy and the orange alerts of the US. Security here actually seems lighter than it has anytime since September 11—everything functioning normally (except for the occasional strike) and no teen soldiers with Uzi’s at the Gare du Nord!
***
Today (Saturday) rainy again. Didn’t do too much. Logan and Randy went record shopping at FNAC, I went to a cafe. We had a little lunch and toured the St. Chapelle to see the windows then had some Bertillion ice cream. We are supposed to go to a party at Peter’s friends’ place this evening.
29 May 2003 (Hemelsvaart) Aboard the Thalys to Amsterdam
As always, I tend to lose track of my journal as a trip goes on; I’ll try to recap (briefly) the past week.
Saturday night we went to the party at Peter’s friends’ apartment in the third. It was a really nice flat, very large with 3 bedrooms and two and half bathrooms! Lots of people there too; silly gay-sians, lots of indolent expat Americans, and wacky young French girls. We got restaurant tips from a girl who used to be a chef. All the guests got very drunk. We arrived at 9:30 and were the first guests to leave at nearly one. Peter says the guests stayed until five in the morning. He says there are constantly guests, and a continuous party. I had the idea of going to a bar as it was Saturday night, but was very tired once we left the party.
(Totally missed the Eurovision song contest this year…I don’t even know who won! But Martin was going to tape it so we could watch it together later)
Sunday we had a very nice lunch at Bofinger (oysters and rack of lamb for me). Then we took the Metro out to the Bellevue neighborhood in the 20th arr. to check out the open ateliers weekend. There were 122 venues scattered over quite a large area—we saw perhaps 25 of them. The art was mostly pretty cheap—20 to 300 Euros, so that was nice. Much of it was very decorative—pretty little abstract paintings and figurative sculptures which did nothing for me. There was a fun squatters collective in a big cool abandoned factory that was fun, and these really great moody little landscape paintings painted on top of photographs. These were shown in this cool little wine bar (Le Baratin, at 3 Rue Jouye Rouve). We had only a glass of wine, but they had food as well that looked fabulous. This went on until 9pm (the art things in Paris seem to run from about 3 to 9 in the evening) then we went to the Open Cafe for a Sunday evening drink. Mr. Logan returned to his hotel and Randy and I had a falafel and then we went to the Full Metal bar, which had a nice mix of people. Still managed to be back in the hotel by 1:30.
Monday had a quick walk around and a coffee with Randy, and put him in his taxi to the airport. I took another cab to transfer my things to Mr. Logan’s room at the Agora St. Germain. I really liked the Sevigne though—nice people, comfortable room (except the pillow, too pouffy) great shower and an unbeatable location. Logan, Brian and I set out in the afternoon and stopped at Balzar for a lunch of steak tartare! Good but sort of bloating, and I’m afraid it was my idea. Then we went shopping in the St. Germain des Pres and visited St. Sulpice. Then we had a long afternoon rest before dinner. Went to Benoit for dinner, the five of us. It is a very festive restaurant, the staff is so nice. I had the balontine with smoked duck and foie gras stuffed inside, and then a roast duck. Logan had a slab of foie gras and the rest of them had the crab soup with the roué and croutons. The charolais beef was fantastic (Michelle shared hers) with equally fantastic scalloped potatoes. Logan had rougets, and we had a nice bottle of Charles Jougouet Chinon. There was the usual cornucopia of desserts: a plate of complimentary profiteroles; I had a lovely custard thing covered with fresh strawberries. There was a giant chocolate mousse. Then verbena and the plates of little cookies and truffles.
There was a very amusing table of stylish, cute young Americans sitting next to us. They were having a great time, smoking, talking, offering advice to us. There was one boy who was very cute and very gay and reminded me very much of Rufus Wainwright. Anyway I have decided that it’s only the most fun-spirited Americans who have come to Paris this year—the war, and the anti-French nonsense has weeded out all the undesirables perhaps; and that can only be a good thing!
Tuesday we went shopping with Brian in the Marais. I bought a few gifts, and we had a salad at Petit Fer a Cheval. Then Logan and I took the long metro ride out to the suburb of St. Denis to see the Cathedral. It is famous for being the very first high gothic cathedral and also as the burial place of (all) the French kings. Lots of groovy tombs and funerary monuments.
We had a pleasant dinner Tuesday at Le Amoges, one of the places the girl
at the party suggested. It is between the Bastille and Nation. It was a simple place, but the food was quite good. I had excellent sardines to start and then a really tasty skate wing (raie) for my plat. I don’t think I had ever had skate before, and it was delicious! I don’t quite remember my dessert.
Wednesday we went to the Louvre in the afternoon—after three for the discount and in through the secret entrance at the Porte de Lions. That really is a great way to get in…no crowds and you can go directly up from there to the long Italian gallery. We looked at that, and a bunch of the Egyptian collection.
I met Peter at the Open cafe for a drink and then he and I met Logan, Brian, Michelle and Lauren at Bofinger for our last dinner in Paris. I had foie gras and a rare steak, and floating Island. With six of us, it was a festive end to my two weeks in Paris.
Clay Doyle moved from Los Angeles to Amsterdam in 1998, intending to stay a year. He is still there. Here are some of the reasons why..
A is for Ambassade
The worst thing about living in Amsterdam is that I have no longer have a reason to stay at the Ambassade—one of my favorite small hotels anywhere. It’s made up of a row of 17th century canal houses and fairly oozes with charm. If the Ambassade is booked, try one of the many other small canal house hotels that dot the city center–a more romantic choice than the ubiquitous chains.
B is for Bicycle
You just have to ride a bicycle—it’s by far the quickest, easiest way around the city. It may look intimidating at first, but once on a bike you have the advantage as bicycles have the right-of-way. Rent one from Frederic Rent-a-Bike—their bikes don’t have any annoying logos that label you as a tourist.
C is for Canal
It’s all about the canals—they are the city’s greatest monument. Canals embody the history, planning, and character of Amsterdam—and they are beautiful. Rent a motorboat and see the city from the water; a cheesy rondvaart tour can be fun too, but choose a boat with an open-air deck.
D is for Darkrooms
Admit it, you want a little tryst with a local on your holiday, and what darkrooms lack in romance, they make up in efficiency. The Eagle has the nicest space, and the Web is the friendliest, but there are plenty to explore. Make sure you buy a drink upon entering a bar with a darkroom though–it’s considered the price of admission.
E is for English
A foreign country where everyone speaks English–It’s almost as if it were a holiday spot designed for Americans. And we’re not talking basics here–your new Dutch acquaintances will eagerly engage you in discussions of politics, culture, and travel. And they are far easier to understand than the English!
F is for Film Museum
Catch a great film in one of the three small, comfortable screening rooms at the Nederlands Film Museum. Every day brings something different—from American classics to French new wave to communist-era East European musicals. Many programs are in English. Located in the Vondelpark, the museum has a lively café as well.
G is for Gay Capital of Europe
Paris has more men, London more clubs, and Berlin has more sex, so why is Amsterdam Europe’s gay capitol? Perhaps it is the lack of ghettoization—you’ll find plenty of gays anywhere you go. And the compact city center makes bar-and-club hopping effortless—nothing is more than a 15 minute stroll away.
H is for homomonument (and gay rights)
The netherlands was the first country to erect a monument to gay victims of the holocaust and homosexual oppression. I like the monument, but I like even more The Netherlands commitment to respect and equal rights for gays, including most recently, full marriage rights for same-sex couples.
I is for Itinerary
The charm of Amsterdam is that there’s enough in the way of culture to keep you busy, but not so many sights that you feel compelled to run from place to place all day long. The Van Gogh museum and Rijksmuseum are must-see destinations; the Stadelijk (modern art) and the Amsterdam Historical Museum often have interesting temporary shows. Check out the Royal Palace and the several canal house museums–the Van Loon, the Willetholthuysen and the Amstelkring. Go to the Anne Frank house late in the day to miss the crowds. Feeling energetic? Climb to the top of the Westertoren for a superb view of the city.
J is for De Jaren
De Jaren is everybody’s favorite grand café and why not—the terrace on the Amstel River is one of the prettiest spots in town. The tomato soup is fantastic, and though the service can be chaotic, the waiters are cute. Second best canal side cafe: Spanjer and van Twist.
K is for Keukenhof
It’s not hip or trendy, but what could be more Dutch than tulips, and the Keukenhof is THE place to see them. It is one of the most beautiful gardens anywhere. A short train ride from the city, the Keukenhof is open March through May only.
L is for the light in summer
The summer days are amazing. Daylight lasts late into the evening, ensuring plenty of time for exploring, strolling, and sitting in cafes. Then watch the sun set as you enjoy a magical late dinner outdoors. The canal side tables at the Belhamel are too romantic.
M is for marijuana (of course!)
Contrary to it’s well-publicized image as a drug mecca, there are probably more stoners in San Francisco than Amsterdam. But there’s something about getting high in a pleasant sidewalk café—it’s just so civilized. The Belmondo on the Nieuwmarkt, the Kandinsky and Dutch Flowers in the Negen Straatjes and the gay coffeeshop The Other Side are laid back and friendly choices. Best to avoid the tourist traps around central station and the Leidseplien.
N is for Negen Straatjes
This is my neighborhood, the “nine little streets” between the Singel and the Prinsengracht. This 17th century district is home to numerous interesting and unique shops and pleasant cafes. Treat yourself to a stylish wallet from designer Hester van Eigen, an erotic woodcut from local artist Eddy Varekamp or a new outfit from the gay boutique Nieuwe Kledding van de Keizer.
O is for Out all night
Dance with the circuit boys at Salvation or the revamped IT. Alternative boys flock to de Trut and locals love the COC and the Montmartre. Trendy boys pose at the Arc, the Soho and the Exit. Sleazy bars can be found on Warmoesstraat, and neighborhood places along the Amstel. Everyone seems to end up at the Cockring eventually and before you know it, it’s 5 am.
P is for the pace of life
New Yorkers may pride themselves on how busy they are, but Amsterdammers make time to enjoy life, and you should do the same—linger over a coffee, spend three hours at dinner, sit in the sun. Once the work day is over, the pace of life is leisurely and relaxed. Enjoy it—and don’t expect speedy service in shops or restaurants, it just doesn’t happen.
Q is for Queen’s Day
It’s Amsterdam’s most festive holiday—a 24 hour celebration in honor of the Queen’s birthday. The party starts the night of 29 April as revelers pack the bars (gay and straight) until the early morning hours. On Queensday, the 30th, the city becomes a giant flea market, a stage for myriad performances, and a citywide street party—cars, taxis and even trams are banned from the city center. The Vondelpark is devoted to children selling toys and performing; it’s charming and worth a morning visit. There are plenty of Gay parties too—gays throng the Westermarkt, the Amstel, and the Reguliersdwaarstraat, for performances, cruising, and of course, beer.
R is for Romance
Avoiding Amsterdam because you aren’t interested in a sex holiday? You’ve got the man of your dreams? Amsterdam is a great place to be in love. Stroll hand in hand down romantic canals, have a long, delicious dinner at Borderwijk, paddle through the canals together in a canal bike, give your significant other a kiss on a bridge—no one will mind.
S is for Schipol
Bright and calm, well designed and well organized, Amsterdam’s Schipol Airport takes some of the pain out of flying in these trying times. Plus, the a train station inside the airport makes getting to the center of town quick, effortless and cheap!
T is for Tourists
With a population of only 750,000 (even if well over ten percent are gay) visitors to the city make up a sizable portion of those out on the town, providing an interesting, international mix. Tourists are vital to the gay scene in Amsterdam, so do your part and visit!
U is for Utrechtsedwarstafel
This is one of my favorite restaurants for a splurge–owners Hans and Igor always dazzle my guests with some fabulous new creation. It’s one of a number of small uniquely Dutch restaurants where chef decides what you will eat, based on the availability of the market. More moderately priced versions of this concept can be enjoyed at my other favorites Balthazar’s Keuken and Helder.
V is for Vondelpark
What’s not to love? This beautiful and expansive city park is also Amsterdam’s favorite people watching spot. Rent some rollerblades or have a drink at the 30’s moderne Blauw Teehuis, or join the shirtless gayboys for an afternoon of sun on the lawn at the rose garden.
W is for the Weather
Nobody comes to Amsterdam for the weather—but really it’s not that bad. Spring and Fall are beautiful, the Summer is never too hot, and Winter’s not as cold as new york. Yes it’s rainy—it’s the locals’ number one topic of complaint–but the sunny days are glorious.
X is for x-rated
Amsterdam’s century old red-light district is the Disneyland of sleaze. Gaudy but totally non-threatening, lingerie-clad ladies sit in the red-lit windows of cute 16th century houses on some of the city’s oldest canals. The real show is watching the crowds of stoned and gawking tourists; grab a seat in in the window of the popular gay bar Casa Maria for a ringside view.
IJ is for IJ
IJ (say eye) is a letter unique to the Dutch language. A brief review of Dutch pronunciation (all those funny double vowels are easier than they look) will help in reading street signs, and your slight effort will endear you to the locals. Plus, you’ll be able to order a delicious rijstafel at Kantjil en de Tijger.
Z is for Zeedijk
One of the oldest streets in Amsterdam, the Zeedijk is the city’s newest “gay” street. Sometimes very low-key, sometimes very festive, the bars here–the Cock and Feathers, the Barderij, and especially the Queenshead are worth checking out. Finally, the Nieuwmarkt square, at the southern end of the Zeedijk, is a favorite for its outdoor cafes.
Article by Clay Doyle,
Photos by Clay Doyle and Michael Logan (except Queensday Photo by Patrik Noome)
{Published in Next Magazine, New York City, April 11, 2003}
