What with a new ‘lockdown’ to contend with, a major house move recently completed and a special milestone birthday fast approaching, it’s accurate to say I find myself in a period of deep reflection. Extremely happy reflection I might add, my contented philosophising gratefully pushing modern day worries and stresses into second place. But not that second place is such a bad thing (though try telling that to the girl I beat to the crown of Fordingbridge Carnival Princess in 1991) and the perfect place to illustrate this is the magnificent church of Saint Sulpice, the second largest in Paris and the perfect place for indulging that mood of profound pondering.
A Roman Catholic church nestled in the Latin Quarter in the 6th, it’s slightly smaller than our beloved Notre-Dame though considerably younger, the construction of the current building beginning in 1646. Dedicated to Sulpitius the Pious, a 7th-century bishop and do-gooder of the highest order, progression was plagued with money issues and subsequent delays, not to mention serious structural issues with the original bell tower threatening to crush the entire construction below it before it was removed, and it wasn’t eventually finished until 1870.
Stand outside and gaze at the front façade, and you’ll have a chance to mull over the imperfection of life thanks to its mismatched towers, inspired by London’s Saint Paul’s Cathedral. This was not a deliberate design feature, but the French revolution got in the way of finishing the work on the south tower, and well, they just never got round to fixing it match the other one. Whilst enjoying the air take a stroll around the nearby fountain, built in the 19th century by the same chap who designed Napoleon’s tomb, and intended to celebrate religious eloquence through its four famous sculpted bishops.
Churches aren’t just places of religious reverence though, and harbour all manner of delights if you’re looking to fill that gaping hole left by Paris’ shuttered museums. Just by the entrance you’ll see two halves of an enormous shell serving as holy fonts, a gift from the Venetian republic, with bases sculpted by Jean-Baptiste Pigalle (yes he of red-light district fame). Peer into the Chapel of Holy Angels on the right and you’ll find a trio of Eugene Delacroix murals colouring the walls and ceiling, painted decades after his most famous work, Liberty Leading the People, currently housed in the Louvre.
Cast your gaze up high in the main body of the church to marvel at the great organ (re)built by Aristide Cavaillé-Coll in 1862, the most famous organ builder of his time, responsible too for those at Sacré-Coeur, Notre-Dame, Saint-Denis Basilica and l’église de la Madeleine. Talk about cornering the market. Big names can be counted amongst the church’s historical guests too, with Baudelaire and the Marquis de Sade being baptised here, Victor Hugo tying the knot, and the funeral of Jacques Chirac taking place in 2019.
Perhaps the most famous artefact is the gnomon (left), which Dan Brown would have you to believe marks the Paris Meridian and is known as the Rose Line (nope, and non). In reality the structure was designed in the 18th century to use the sun to calculate the exact date of Easter and tell the precise time to ring the bells. There’s no point looking for Tom Hanks’ fingerprints in the vicinity either; requests to use the church as a filming location for The Da Vinci Code were denied and what you see in the film is merely CGI trickery.
Worthy of a blockbuster film plot was the fire that broke out on 17th March 2019, amazingly just one month earlier than the blaze that nearly razed its sibling church. Arson was identified as the cause, and luckily only a door, bas relief, stained glass window and staircase were lost. Happily though these days all the drama seems to be happening outside the church doors, so if like me the much lengthened and loosened tether of the most recent lockdown finds you wandering the streets in this neighbourhood, duck inside for some restorative culture and reflective rest. Mask obligatory, pious pondering optional.
Except for some notable examples (here’s looking at you Home Alone 2 – the Trump cameo erased from our collective minds of course) movie sequels tend to be inferior to the originals. But as far as I’m concerned, Lockdown 2: Winter is Coming has been a great improvement on the first instalment. A far more relaxed affair this time around, I’ve been lucky enough to escape Paris entirely for the second confinement, heading out east to Meaux chez the new beau to enjoy a much less frenetic, and less rabbit hutch-y way of living. Once the rules have been loosened and I can return to the big smoke to explore more of her simple delights, I’ll share them with you, but for now I’ll take you on a brief tour of Meaux, a fine choice for a day trip when an attestation-free life beckons.
40km east-north-east of Paris and only 25 minutes on the train from Gare de l’Est (a mere €16 return), this historical city of 55,000 inhabitants is located in the Seine-et-Marne department, part of the wider Île-de-France region. It can trance its history back to pre-Roman Gaulish occupation by the Meldi tribe, when its occupants were known as the Meldois, as they are still are today. It was the former capital of the ancient region of Brie (roughly corresponding to the bounds of today’s Seine-et-Marne) and food production is still at its heart, with 60% of the region’s land used as farmland. 
Technically a city (the second largest in the department after Chelles), Meaux has a more rural, small town feel, but like its big sister Paris has history in spades. The central old city is where most of the sights are located, itself divided into the southern Market Quarter and northern Cathedral Quarter by a dramatic meander in the river Marne. A large portion of the old city walls remains, and within you’ll find the famous Gothic Saint-Étienne cathedral, in which you’ll find a shrine to Saint Fiacre, the patron saint of gardeners (that one’s for you, Mum). You’ll also find all of the statues on the outer walls without heads (pictured), a gruesome reminder of the French Revolution during which the city’s other ecclesiastical heavyweight, the Abbey of Saint Faro, was destroyed.
The covered market in the south quarter is responsible for my 2nd lockdown weight gain, with local producers peddling all manner of delicious things from the traditional fruit, veg, meat and fish fare to the famous Brie de Meaux and the regional wines and ciders. The city is also famous for its mustard (never before have I seen an individual consume mustard like the native Meldois that is the new beau) which comes in gorgeous pots and delicious flavours including green pepper and Cognac. (Dear family and friends this was what you were all getting for Christmas had I been planning on coming home in December.)
When I was young, I was told repeatedly not to play with my food. But that didn’t stop me from constructing elaborate sculptures out of fish fingers, mashed potato and peas, that at the time I thought were worthy of inclusion in whatever was the culinary equivalent of the Louvre.
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
pARIS: small capital 