As confinement plods on into mid-May and our stay-at-home resolve gets severely weathered, we’re becoming either increasingly grateful or teeth-clenchingly resentful of where it is we’re stuck for the duration. ‘Jackpot! You’re in Paris!’, you might think. But don’t forget that as abundant as the city’s charms are, life here generally comes with a tiny shoebox-sized home to lay your head in. It isn’t all chic addresses, brasseries and coffee on a terrace every day you know. There’s also a distinct lack of green space, and what little postage stamps there are, are closed for the forseeable future. Plus in France our confinement rules are stricter than many, so forgive us Parisian residents for not waking up each morning filled with the joys of spring for being cooped up in the City of Lights during a global pandemic. Still, there are the fresh croissants…
That all aside, and despite the 21m² digs I find myself confined in (complete with annoying neighbours, dingy courtyard view and no outside space) I must count my blessings to at least be nestled within the 18th, even before I moved here my favourite arrondissement of Paris. I might be towards the rougher part of it, but happily contained within my allowed 1km radius (never before have I felt quite like a tethered goat) is a big chunk of the hallowed district of Montmartre, and you bet your ass I’m taking fully advantage of it during my pitiful hour of day release (of course entirely necessary and I’m more than happy to toe the line, plus all the stairs work those buns like nothing else).
Montmartre is such an integral part of Paris that it’s often a stand-alone reason to come, though in many people’s minds it doesn’t extend much further than Sacré-Coeur, Place de Tertre and their surrounds. Partly true, though in reality it’s a lot bigger than you might expect (officially established by the City of Paris in 1995) with Rues Clignancourt, Custine and Caulincourt, and Boulevards Barbès and Clichy nicely fencing it off (see hokey picture of my portable paper map, right).
Though as is the case with the wider city itself, it is all too easy to lazily distill it and call it to mind as just a paint-by-numbers sum of its greatest hits and most famous sites. Well it is this, that elevated part of the Paris that was the centre of the Belle Epoque and all of the colour and artistry that went with it, a humble hill where penniless painters found their fame and endless cabarets and nightclubs provided the music. Many tourists head up to the Place de Tertre, take a selfie on the steps of the basilica, and think they’ve done it.
I started this blog with the intention of drawing attention away from the more obvious tourist traps, to try and set fire to that wretched list of things in Paris to do (and Instagram about – ugh the plague) that leads you to believe you’ve really seen the city. Waxing lyrical about one of the top three famous parts seems a complete about-turn from my perspective, but although sky-high property rates have kicked out the penniless painters, this remains one of the best places in the city where you needn’t spend a dime to fully appreciate the magic of Paris.
Strolling along the undulating, wiggly streets makes a wonderful difference to the wide and noisy boulevards elsewhere, and there simply isn’t a part of the city better for strolling around without having pay extortionate entrance fees and queue with a thousand other culture seekers. Most of what there is to see presents itself on the outside, and there are days’ worth of sights to see for free, including (amongst others) the ‘I love You’ wall, Clos Montmartre vineyard, the two cemeteries Saint-Vincent and Montmartre, and the crowning glory of Sacré-Coeur. And the point is that you really don’t need to have an intention to see anything, just walking around the streets and absorbing the unique spirit of the place is as uplifting for the soul as any part of Paris.
It’s certainly keeping my spirits up at this crazy difficult time. Bon courage tout le monde, and see you on the other side!
(We’ll delve properly into the history of the area and various stops along the way in future posts, I hope you’ll join me!)
As French as Camembert right? You’d certainly think so given the citizens’ love affair with the curved and puffy pillow. But hold the phones mes amis! The croissant is, in reality, about as French as the Yorkshire pudding, and nothing but an ex-pat pastry if you will, having set up home in France after moving in from Austria in the 18th century. And as if to rub un peu de sel into the wound, legend has it that the person responsible for its introduction is none other than disgraced queen Marie-Antoinette. It’s a bit like finding out your favourite childhood toy was made by Miss Trunchbull or something.
Fast forward a few centuries, and our magic carpet of baking discovery arrives in Vienna in any case, in the 13th century. Here we meet the kipferl, the grandaddy of our precious croissant, a similar curved bread enjoyed throughout the country for breakfast or with coffee. Here the gentle townsfolk enjoyed their simple treat for a few centuries more until a certain young daughter of an Austrian Empress scored a match with French King Louis XVI. Much as I panic buy Marmite when I’m back in the UK, Marie-Antoinette was keen to keep her beloved home comforts close, and thus shipped them over the French court where they were greeted with open mouths and tweaked over the next century until the croissant as we know it came to be.
A favourite of the Romans and Greeks way back when, simple onion soup has been around for donkey’s years due the humble ingredient’s widespread availability, cheap price and restorative and nutritional powers (put those goji berries down!). Originally a chunk of bread was used as a type of absorbent submarine onto which the broth was poured, as with most soups in days of yore (this is where the word ‘soup’ comes from, referring to the ‘sop’ or piece of bread soaked in the liquid). Its promotion to cheese raft status is highly debated so we won’t enter into that, but simply bow down to the person whose ingenuity elevated a humble soup to a quite legendary culinary experience. Merci beaucoup stranger.
A staple of French cooking throughout the centuries, it’s perhaps America we can thank for its enduring popularity today on the world stage, being championed in the 1960s as part of a wider culture celebrating Gallic cuisine. A stalwart on brasserie blackboards throughout the land at this time of year, you’ll have no trouble finding it, but for even the wobbliest of cooks amongst us it’s a breeze to make, and though it technically takes a while on the hob, chef input is happily minimal. Recipe interpretation is as widespread as the soup’s appeal, and much freestyling is encouraged. I’ll give you the basics and you can let your inner Escoffier do all the rest.
Sliced regular yellow/Spanish onions enjoy a long caramelisation (like 45 minutes) followed by the addition of a liquid, be it a good beef, chicken or vegetable stock (or even a spoonful of marmite if you’re me) or for the purists out there (and Raymond Blanc) plain old water. An optional alcoholic element is next in the pan, choose from white wine, cider, Cognac, port, Madeira, Calvados or whatever your booze cabinet dictates. Use flour to thicken, or not, and leave to bubble away whilst you slice the baguette and prepare the cheese rafts (toasted beforehand to make them sturdier). The traditional cheese choice is Gruyère but Emmental works just as well, or even a dog-end of Cheddar or Comté could be put to good use.
The final steps are as divisive as the rest, and the simplest is probably to place pre-grilled or baked cheese rafts on top of a full bowl and leave it at that. The renegades take it one step further by placing the toasts on top and covering the whole thing in grated cheese with reckless abandon, then baking bowl and all in the oven until bubbly and delicious. Though this option includes a 30 minute wait staring at said delicious bowl of soup before it cools down enough for your mouth to enjoy it. In Lyon they go off piste further and get a blender and egg yolks involved, choosing it specifically as an after-pub crawl snack. I’ll leave you and your googling skills to find the recipe that suits you and your own particular culinary persuasions.
So far, what with bushfires, strikes and general planetary malaise, 2020 hasn’t exactly given us the best start. But in the cooling embers of January, we have the perfect excuse to wipe the last few weeks off the whiteboard, slap those bad habits round the chops once more, and begin again in the vain hope of turning our fortunes around.
Yes, Chinese New Year is upon us again (officially Saturday 25th January though festivities continue until 8th February) this year bowing to the first animal of the zodiac, the rat. Our rodent friend might not be the most obvious of celebratory mascots, but in fact signifies the beginning of a new day, and wealth and prosperity (and couldn’t we all do with a big dollop of all of that). As a resident of Paris and a huge fan of Roland Rat as a child (
Celebrated by billions worldwide, the festivities in Paris naturally centre in the 13th arrondissement
Settled first by Vietnamese immigrants fleeing the war in the late 70s and forming a triangle bordered by avenues d’Ivry and Choissy, the area isn’t the prettiest part of town (see above) with distinctly un-Chinese architecture. But never fear, you’ll find plenty of colour in bowls of pho, displays of exotic fruit and veg, and plenty of shops selling lucky paw-waving cats and tea paraphernalia. Add your own colour to various pop hits at ‘Karaoke Laservision’ (I’m so intrigued), green-up the shoebox with a couple of sprigs of bamboo, or brighten up your crockery collection with some beautiful Chinese bowls.
If 70s tower block chic doesn’t light your fireworks, head over to the Chinatown at Belleville (where the 10th, 11th, 19th and 20th arrondissements meet) settled since the 1860s with residents mostly hailing from the eastern Zhejiang province in China, though a great many other nationalities have chosen this spot as their home too, including Armenian, Algerian, Tunisian, Greek and Vietnamese. It would be rude (and nigh on impossible) to leave without stuffing your face, and you’ll be utterly spoiled for choice with restaurants at every two paces. Satisfy your inner Ken Hom at a gourmet version of the famous Tang Frères retail chain, or stock up on noodles and nam pla at sister supermarket Paristore, not forgetting to purchase a cute animal bowl to put your culinary creations in.
The final chopstick in the Chinatown trio is the much smaller Chinese community found at Arts and Métiers in the Marais (3rd arrondissement), occupying just a couple of streets (head for rue au Marie). Originally settled in the 1900s making it the oldest in the city, Chinese workers came over from the Zhejiang province and set up leather and porcelain workshops, particularly during the interwar years, though it’s the restaurant scene that dominates today.
Now back in Granny Flat with renovations beginning in earnest (like a tiny patch of wall being sanded at a time to avoid toxic plumes of dust, this is no Grand Designs) I certainly feel like I have an amazing sixth year of blog in me, and my list of simple Parisian delights to discover stubbornly refuses to get any shorter. I hope you’ll join me of course, and if you want to hear a little bit more about me and what this whole blog thing is, check out 
Apologies for the recycled post friends, these are testing times… But for those singing ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ alone into French radio silence, this might help you out….
This year though, my education intensifies as I’ll be spending only my second Noël in my adopted homeland (thanks for the strikes to mark the occasion SNCF, RATP et al). Mostly, I’m not going to lie, I’m looking forward to the good food, Champagne and feasting, not to mention the best French lesson a person could have, spending Christmas Eve as I am (the Queen ‘turkey’ on France’s December calendar) around a table with 25 talkative Frenchies. English will be as rare during that meal as a flaming Christmas pudding, bread sauce and paper hats.
There are some that exist of course, we’re not talking full-on Scrooge here. One of the most well-known and best loved is the tinkling classic 
If you witnessed the scenes at Les Halles on Black Friday (I certainly did not, and glad to see that 
Now let’s get it out of the way. I’m not a religious person per se though I do possess a healthy sense of spiritual curiosity and respect for tradition, and especially at this time of year I love ducking into one of the city’s churches to have a wander around, light a candle or reminisce about carolling in the school Christmas concert as a young pup. There’s nothing more welcoming than a religious building, and when it comes to Paris, its churches are buildings like any other – old as the hills and chock-full of history. So religious or quite the opposite, you’d do well to head inside to appreciate the tranquil beauty, and give all the plastic tat in the shopping centre a wide berth whilst you’re at it.
As we discovered 
The first stone of the current structure was laid in 1532 and a lengthy construction followed until it was finally consecrated in 1637. Next, proof that dodgy builders are not a modern phenomenon, two chapels were built in 1655 that nearly brought the whole thing tumbling down, and coupled with significant damage sustained in the French Revolution and then a fire in 1844, the church arrived at the mid point of the 19th century in a sorry state and in need of serious repairs.
Head inside for some quiet contemplation by all means, but take in some of its most famous charms too, including the beautiful Chapel of the Virgin (pictured above), France’s biggest pipe organ, its huge vaulted ceilings and a plaque commemorating Mozart’s mother, who was buried here in 1778. In a nod to the food heritage associated with the area, don’t miss either the Chapel des Charcutiers (Chapel of the Butchers) dedicated to the tradesmen of the quartier. I’ve never seen pork butchery depicted in a stained glass window before, and I bet you haven’t either. Food takes on a more philanthropic guise at this time of year as it’s the site of a soup kitchen serving 32,000 meals each year between December 1st and March 31st.
We have to admit, those of us who live in Paris are incredibly spoiled (I’m turning my mind away from the crowds, dog mess, transport strikes and hellish commutes, naturally). Croissants and wine aside, such beauty and history surrounds us, and the most amazing thing is that it’s pretty much all still here since jammy Dame Paris has managed to preserve most of her treasured bounty over the years where countless other cities have sadly failed. And all of this in the face of centuries of foreign invaders, world wars and natural disasters, still threatening her very bones today, as was sharply called into focus in April with the 
One historical gem we have lost though (and the list is amazingly small) is the behemoth that was Les Halles, a huge iron, brick and glass market complex in central Paris finished in 1874 and razed in 1971, and immortalised in Zola’s Le Ventre de Paris (The Belly of Paris). Having outgrown the capital as the city grew around it and the way in which people shopped for food changed, the structure couldn’t withstand the tidal wave of progress, and was destroyed just before the preservationists found their strength and put a stop to the demolition of historic buildings in the name of boring functionality (the Musée d’Orsay, then Gare d’Orsay was amongst the first to be saved by this change in thinking).
Whilst the famous Les Halles was designed by the at-the-time chief architect of Paris and mate of 
And isn’t a market with a roof on it just what we need in these wet and wintry times? Head inside and you’ll find perhaps less vegetable urgency than in Zola’s day, but there are plenty of stalls and fresh produce galore to fill your belly just as full. The usual selection of fruit, veg, meat, fish and plants are lovingly displayed, though no need to dash off too quickly out in to the rain with that lonely cauliflower, take a load off and have a bite to eat or glass of wine while you’re at it at one of the cosy bistros dotted about. Heck, you can even get your shoes repaired whilst you’re tucking in, and don’t forget to search out the 
When your mind conjures images of Paris, this is where the fictional you will be strolling, with a belly full of croissant and a mind singularly occupied with choosing where to have your early evening apéro (and for film fans, it’s where Emilia Clarke’s character reads the letter at the end of Me Before You, said restaurant pictured). And Paris’ revolutionary-rich, bloodthirsty past won’t even be able to get a look in, as in this little slice of Paris, its history is unusually tame; except for being renamed Place Thoinville during the revolution in 1792-1814, and having its eastern edge destroyed by fire during fighting in the Paris Commune in 1871, that’s all the drama you get. Yes, for Paris that is remarkably subdued.
Henry IV’s second public square project after Place Royale (now 
For those of us without piggy banks the size of Texas, a stroll is a more budget-friendly option, though given the well-to-do location, you might want to do a few turns and then head elsewhere for a coffee and sticky bun. Or why not come prepared and spend an hour or so people watching with a flask of warming hot chocolate, or push the boat out and fill it with vin chaud? Once sated, head towards the western entrance back on to Pont Neuf, making sure you clock the two houses nearest the road which are the only two remaining originals. Then you can continue your stroll across Paris’ oldest bridge, being careful of course, not to fall in. Actually, maybe the vin chaud isn’t the best idea after all…
Over the years (if you’ve tuned in) you’ll have no doubt read a few posts on my blog about books (exhibits 
A brave tale of plucky resistance played out during WW2 and the library was responsible for providing books to 12,000 British and French troops. It refused to close its doors and stayed open during the conflict, albeit in a limited capacity, defying rules to exclude Jews from using the service, hand-delivering books to Jewish members who were forbidden to cross the threshold. Americans who fled Paris with library books in their possession wrote back, promising to return the books safely upon their return.
Post-war prosperity saw the library move to the Champs-Élysées in 1952 and in 1965 it moved again to its current premises in the 7th. And just like there are too many books in the world to read, there are simply too many notable names that have been indelibly printed on the pages of the library’s history to mention. Visiting writers, members and speakers over the years have included Samuel Beckett, Colette, Salman Rushdie and David Sedaris, amongst a thousand others. It’s probably easier to write a list of notable literary figures that haven’t in some way been involved over the years.
Continuing today in its chief mission to celebrate the written word and life of the mind, after several modern renovations, the library currently counts over 4,000 members (membership for an adult is €12 a month, much cheaper than bankrupting yourself at WHSmith, no?) able to enjoy its books (obviously) as well as reading rooms, work and conference spaces, and an impressive schedule of events and talks. Their twice weekly Evenings with an Author program attracts writers as famous and renowned as you can get, and is open and free to the public (with a suggested donation of €10), though no chatting at the back or I’ll throw the biggest and heaviest dictionary at you. Then you’ll learn a bit about the power of words…
pARIS: small capital 