A day in Paris- 7e, 17e and 8e

I'm heading out of town tomorrow for the last business trip for awhile- it's been a crazy 2 months. Today I was hoping to get a good long bike ride in since it will be a week before I can ride again, but I'm just starting to get over a cold which had already sidelined me this week, and it seemed like riding for several hours in 50 degree rain was not a good idea. So instead, Rolf and I went exploring in Paris. It seems natural that one would, while living here, do a lot of this, but when you get into the day-to-day work/eat/sleep/work out/life junk mode, it doesn't seem to happen.

Walking across the Pont de l'Alma towards the Left Bank; from the 16e to the 7e.

Musee du Quai de Branly

The first stop was a museum which specializes in native cultures the non-Western world. We first saw the permanent exhibits, organized by area (Oceania, Asia, Africa, the Americas), and then a temporary exhibit on things inspired by Jazz over the last century.

Musee du Quai de Branly; the Jazz exhibit.

(Rolf: I thought the best part of the exhibit was Guitar Drag, a 14-minute film of a guy (in Texas, of course) dragging a plugged-in and full-volume electric guitar behind his pickup truck on- and off-road. To get the full effect, turn it up REAL loud.)

We spent several hours there, so then it was time for lunch. Since we were already in the 7e, we went to the amazing Spanish food purveyor and wine bar Bellota-Bellota, which serves small plates (tapas like) of amazing food.

They hand cut the Serano ham (the diagonal things are hams) but slice the chorizo and other sausage with a traditional meat slicer.

Rolf is a happy man. And who wouldn't be?

For dessert, the best canele in Paris, right around the corner.

Here's the neighborhood in the 7e.

So we headed towards Les Invalides, to get the Metro to our next destination, and ran into the festival of bikes!

It seemed mostly geared towards getting non-cyclists or barely-cyclists more interested in cycling, rather than catering to hard core cyclists.

Totally funky folding bike- do they carry these at Trophy?

And for real.


These are all electric bikes. Ok, whatever.

Ok, at least these I recognize...


The exhibit of historic bikes.


And bikes of the future?

And the best we could figure here was a lesson on how to ride in the city (dos and don'ts).

(Rolf: The little triangle on the front of the red rider says: "Danger! Angle Mort!" Gets the point across.)

So after checking out the Fete du Velo, we then took the Metro to the 17e.

Rue Poncelet, great market shopping every day.

We were on the edge of the 17e, so shortly we were in the 8e.

St. Alexandre Nevski, a very cool church in the Russian neighborhood. Unfortunately we couldn't get inside.


You never know what you'll find on the streets of Paris. A Chinese Pagoda?

One of the entrances to Parc de Monceau


Our next destination, the Musee Nissam de Camondo. This is a 19th century mansion in which the former owner did the whole house up in 18th century French style, by getting wall panels, furniture, everything as antiques. For example, there are several rugs from the Louvre, from when the Louvre was a palace, not a museum itself.

The front of the actual residence from the inner courtyard.

As far as mansions go, it was pretty nice. A good size, a nice gardens, not too out of control like Versailles or Schoenbrunn. I could live there...

Finally, we walked through Parc de Monceau to the Metro to go home.

The Monceau Metro stop still has all of its Art Nouveau splendor.

Now it's time to pack...

European Capitals Haircut Tour Stop 2: Vienna

Schnitzel!

As far as I know, before spending 4 days there last month, I'd spent only 3 days some 25 years ago in Vienna. Any memories of the city itself from that brief visit have been overwhelmed by the single image of my sister, then still in high school and as far as I knew a mild-mannered and wholesome midwestern girl, ralphing into a hand sink outside the WC of a bar where she'd been drinking thirst-quenching weissebiers on an empty stomach (sorry, sis-- maybe you don't want to let the kids read this one).

Though there was no chance of a repeat performance this time, I was still eagerly looking forward to the trip, since I spent time in Austria while growing up and was curious to see what it would feel like to go back. Karen mined my intimate knowledge of Austrian culture only once before we departed, asking how long it would be once we arrived in Vienna before we heard a waltz. Funny girl.

Turns out we didn't have to wait even that long. Getting on the Austrian Airlines flight at Charles de Gaulle, we were greeted by videos of breathtaking Austrian landscapes on the video monitors and the Blue Danube Waltz playing on the audio system. I was about to comment that all we were missing was the von Trapp family in dirndls and lederhosen, when a woman in a dirndl took the empty seat next to Karen. Close enough-- let's go!

As seats of major, and often opposing, European empires, Vienna and Paris share an abundance of grandeur, yet to me they have very different vibes. Vienna feels a little more North American, oddly, with wider boulevards given to car traffic now, and a more centralized sense of business district, whereas Paris feels more intimate (or just chaotic?) and bustles more. Maybe it's just that Vienna is more open, but I've spent weeks just walking around Paris; not sure I could do that in Vienna and stay as interested. Still, Vienna is a beautiful city: lots of green spaces, interesting fountains, spectacularly ornate Austrian Baroque churches, and the intricate and interesting hanging metalwork signs that scream Austria to me.

One of many green spaces in central Vienna
Taking a schwitz at the Hofburg; "How's the golf game?"
Inside Franziskirche

The workman's comp office?

And it wasn't at all difficult to fill several days there. A trip to the excellent MAK (Österreichisches Museum fuer angewandte Kunst/Austrian Museum of Applied Arts) was definitely a highlight. Halls filled with furnishings and decorative arts (chairs, lace, rugs, metal work, advertising graphics, eg) through several centuries highlighted evolution and contrast of design. The basement has study rooms with even more objects. I spent 4 h there, about double my normal museum attention span.

Hall of chairs at the MAK (from the MAK website)

As far as I know, I've no Austrian blood, but the resemblance with the sculptures on the bridge outside the MAK is disturbing.

Similarly, the collection of ancient instruments at the Hofburg was fascinating for the window onto musical technology it provided. It's hard to imagine that there was once was vigorous exploration and innovation around what have since become highly standardized classical musical instruments, with competition for both musicians and music to help establish their legitimacy. Cellos with 27 strings, horns of all shapes and sizes, even guitars with 2 necks-- turns out Jimmy Page was 200 years behind the curve.

And she's buying the stairway to heaven... (photo from the museum website; ours were blurry)

We also watched the morning exercises of the world-famous Lipizzaner horses at the Spanish Riding School, toured the Hapsburgs' modest hunting lodge, Schönbrunn, visited Freud's apartment/office, and took in a disappointing concert of Mozart's Requiem in the visually stunning Karlskirche. Though the Requiem is a wonderful piece of music, I was a little surprised by the fascination with Mozart in Vienna-- his image and name are everywhere. It makes sense that Mozart is a phenomenon in Salzburg, where he was born and is the favorite son, but Vienna has been home to so many great composers (eg, Beethoven, Brahms, Haydn, Mahler, Schubert, and Strauss), that the focus on Mozart seems odd and a little off-putting. We wanted to go to Vienna's superb opera, but without planning ahead, the only options were SRO. Not such a big deal if it's a regular opera, but we were there for Wagner's Ring cycle. Forget the issue of standing-- I'm just not sure I could handle 5 h of Wagner in one go.

Lipizzaners in action (OK, it's really the Wiener Ponny Caroussel. Paris may have mechanical carousels all over the city, but Vienna's got the real thing.)

Key info at the bottom: Beginn 17.30 Uhr, Ende 22.15 Uhr. Woof.
No respect for the dead: Funny Girl crackin' wise at the Requiem.

Eating in Vienna for me was part exploration. I had two very good modern-cuisine meals (elegantly simple food (orechietti with lentils and arugla; braised lamb with favas) at Zum Finsteren Stern, and excellent fish at Hansen), good traditional fare at casual spots (pig's knuckles and knödles at Ofenloch, wurst at Kanzleramt), and for the first time the traditional viennese taflespitz (boiled beef served in a crystal clear and very flavorful broth, with vegetables, potatoes, creamed spinach, horseradish-and-apple condiment: excellent).

But I was also in search of the foods I remember from my youth: the breads, the dark and not very sweet chocolate tortes with hazelnut and coffee-flavored fillings, and most of all, the amazing Wiener schnitzel our neighbor in the apartment upstairs made. The hotel breakfast provided a lot of familiar flavors: the long salt- and caraway seed-covered rolls, the Austrian ham and mild cheese (yes, ham and cheese isn't just a French thing), and dynamite yogurt from Salzburg, which I brought back and am using as the starter for my weekly yogurts here. The chocolate cakes were a bust-- frillier and less intense than I remember, maybe it's a Vienna vs Salzburg thing, or maybe just 30+ years of false memories.

We had better luck with the schnitzel at Schweizerhaus, thanks to a recommendation from the woman who cut my hair (I've decided I'm going to try to get my hair cut in a different European capital each month for as long as I can make it work: April was Paris, May was Vienna, June will be … ?). When I told her about Irene's amazing schnitzel and the many mushy, greasy restaurant versions I've endured in the 30 years since, she replied, “Ja, es ist immer so.” Though made of pork, rather than veal, the schnitzel at Schweizerhaus was thin, breaded and fried with aplomb, and served alongside plenty of good beer in a busy beer garden on a gorgeous May evening. The Ultimate Schnitzel or not, it was a damn fine meal. And bonus points for also having a credible version of ćevapčići on the menu.

Our waiter asked for clarification twice when we ordered 2 schnitzels and a big plate of ćevapčići for the 2 of us. Yeah, that's a lot of food. But I was taking no chances, because I've seen what happens when you drink beer in Vienna on an empty stomach. Right, sis?

Beer, good.
Schweizerhaus is actually better known for its pig knuckles, which are sold by the kilo. These are neither pig nor knuckles, but pans of calf's feet aren't common sightings everywhere.
Tafelspitz at Plachutta near Versailles, umm, Schönbrunn.

Eating Fancy: Dury

In the picture above, can you identify the 2 features that definitively identify this as a restaurant of grand ambition?

It's not necessarily the fancy paper napkin wrapper on the table, or the carefully pressed table cloth, the flowers, or even the chic black slate “placemat.” In my experience, the best way to tell you're in a serious dining establishment in France is by the bread, or more specifically, by the bread accouterments. In this picture, the bread has its own proper place to sit, and it has friends.

In most restaurants in France, bread comes to the table in a basket, and when pieces leave the basket, they spend whatever time they're not being eaten on the table top itself, not on a bread plate, and definitely not on the edge of the dinner plate. And usually, the bread is eaten naked. Umm, for clarity, the bread is naked, not the eater, at least in the places I've eaten. The bread gets no olive oil or fancy spreads, and definitely no butter.

Since I'm a bread-for-bread's-sake kind of guy, that generally suits me just fine. If you've got flavorful, crusty, chewy, webby bread, why distract from its wonder? One of the most memorable meals I've ever eaten was simply a perfectly cooked piece of perfect pizza dough, right out of the wood oven, all puffy and lightly charred, the ultimate balance of crisp and chew, yeast and smoke. It needed nothing. I've always thought of butter for bread as akin to ketchup-- something you put on food that either needs flavor added, or worse, needs flavors covered up.

At least that's been the case until recently. The thing about butter in France is that it's really, really good. As a native son of America's Dairy Land, the startling inferiority of American butter is painful to acknowledge, but there's no avoiding that truth. At home, it takes us about a year to go through a pound of butter. It gets used a tablespoon at a time in pancake batter, to finish risotto, or swirled into a sauce just before serving. In France, we've (a handy euphemism for I've) eaten a pound and a half of butter in just 3 months. I put it in and on everything. The butter from the supermarket is very good, and so far I've avoided buying any of the artisanal butters from the fromageries. I have this premonition of sitting naked on the kitchen floor at 4:00 in the morning, spoon in hand, with a big bowl of softened lightly salted butter, big smile on my face-- it's not a dignified future.

So it's kind of a shame that you have to Eat Fancy to get butter with your restaurant bread in France, but that's the way it is. Neither the butter(s-- unsalted and salted, an even more addictive combination) nor the bread at this particular Eat Fancy establishment, the Michelin-starred l'Aubergade in Dury, disappointed.

I had occasion to eat there a couple of weeks ago while Karen was globetrotting. I had worked my way down through a host of decreasingly impractical potential cycling scenarios-- starting with spending a week in Italy or Provence with a friend, then riding 4 days to Bordeaux, then 3 days into the Loire or Burgundy-- ending up with a 2-day out and back 150 mile ride for dinner. The criteria for a destination were simple: it needed to be 70-85 miles away, with a good but affordable restaurant, open on Wed, and an affordable hotel within walking/easy public transit distance from the restaurant.

And so it was that I packed my messenger bag with street clothes for dinner and some food for the ride and rode up into l'Enfer du Nord, the region of France that was so devastated by trench warfare in WWI. Many of the attractions around Dury are WWI battlefields. The routes up and back were beautiful, mostly on tiny local farm roads that wended through quiet villages. I had a tail wind both days (for which I will probably pay for the rest of my life), and even though I had a spring cold that left me without a voice for a couple of days just before venturing out, I was able to croak loudly enough to order my dinner.

Happy thing, too, since it was a good dinner. I ordered from the 4-course menu du marché, quite a bargain at 39 euros, and an even bigger bargain considering the meal could be considered as 7 courses, (mostly) shown in pictures below. That sets a high hurdle for my fast-approaching next cycling dinner, destination yet to be determined.

I just hope there'll be butter on the table.

My room for the night, at the Chambres d'hôtes, about 200 m from the restaurant
Amuse bouche: since it was rattled off at lightning speed, I don't really know for sure. Cream of some type of greens, with dried tiny dice of beet, croutons, and some tiny pieces of cured ham. Very good.
Mosaic of seared tuna and foie gras, with horseradish cream, balsamic reduction, and edible flowers. At least I hope they were edible...

Chicken scented with Szechuan peppercorns, served in a foam with wild asparagus and fava beans. I really wanted the fish (I never eat chicken out-- it's just usually not that interesting), but it came with a shellfish mousse, and since I already had a room for the night, I didn't need a trip to the Dury emergency room. The chicken was very good, actually, but the 3rd option, a mille feuille of cabbage and foie gras/veal smelled unbelievably good when it arrived at the neighboring table (and the friendly regulars who ordered it let me know that I was missing something special-- I almost thought they were going to give me a taste). Next time.

I didn't get pictures of the cheese plate (3 excellent French cheeses) or the pre-dessert, a shot-glass filled halfway with rice pudding, topped by maybe the best tablespoon of chocolate mousse I've ever eaten, with a perfect raspberry on top. The pictured real dessert is a praline and green tea concoction covered with chocolate, with a citrus cream and cherries. Maybe a bit much going on for me-- my dessert tastes are pretty simple, just give me a good fruit tart (or the bucket of that chocolate mousse).

The mignardises, or little sweets that come with coffee, which I didn't order-- afraid to ruin the good run of food. In the glass are home-made marshmallows of lemon (good), religieuse (which is a pastry here sold in either chocolate or coffee-- I think these were coffee-chocolate combo, also good) and strawberry (amazing). The little cookies were macaroons, a passion fruit gelee, crisp almond tuilles, miniature cannelle (I adore cannelle), and little intensely dark chocolate rice crispy-like treats. Yes, I ate them all, except I couldn't bring myself to finish all of the marshmallows. The regulars told me to take them with me, but I explained they wouldn't travel well on the bike and left them on their table, instead, so that they'd have extras to take home. Wished I'd had them earlier to barter for a taste of their main course.

A Good Giro

With just the final time trial left ahead, this year's Giro d'Italia has probably already been decided, with Denis Menchov holding a 20-second lead over Danilo Di Luca and more than a minute and a half on his next closest competitor. And while that doesn't leave a lot of drama for the 14.4-km time trial around the sites of Rome, I think this year's edition of the Giro has been one of the more (positively) memorable Grand Tours in recent history.

The 3-week stage races have too often been characterized by passive riding by the self-proclaimed contenders. Afraid to risk the very real spoils of their top-10 placings, there has been a lot of sitting in over the years, particularly when Mr Armstrong had a stranglehold on the Tour de France.

But this year's Giro was full of aggression and risk-taking. After losing the pink jersey to Menchov in the exciting time trial, Di Luca repeatedly and ferociously attacked Menchov on just about every climb. Stefano Garzelli, Ivan Basso, Carlos Sastre, and Franco Pellizotti, 4 of the next 5 places on the general classification (Mr Armstrong's teammate, Levi Leipheimer, is the 5th), have all taken their shots at moving up, sometimes succeeding in gaining time or the stage win, and sometimes cracking. Whatever the consequences for their compensation, it has made for exciting racing.

Hopefully we'll see that carry over to the Tour and the Vuelta.

Ham-n-Cheese

In the last months at my former job, a colleague of mine took it upon himself to teach me French, sending me one phrase a day to prepare me for my impending cultural odyssey. The carefully chosen phrases ranged from practical business (My name is Rolf-- I need a job) to social interactions (Yes, I would love to attend the all-night Jerry Lewis film festival with you) to cultural sensitivity and ambassadorship (We saved your butts in World War II). But the lessons started with a single word: jambon.

I suspect my tutor didn't realize just how appropriate a first word that was. The French love the pig (and really, what's not to like about the culinary bounty it provides?), and here ham falls almost into its own food group. It's not so much that there are so many varieties available, though there are plenty of regional variations as well as Italian and Spanish varieties available, but rather it's the sheer ubiquitousness of it that's so impressive. In the States, turkey has displaced the bologna, chipped beef, and olive loafs of my primary and secondary school lunches as the king of convenience meats (and that's not altogether a bad thing), but poultry barely merits mentioning here in comparison to ham.

And since French cheese is its own marvel, the combination shows up everywhere. Several years ago, some friends of ours visited France. When they returned, they spoke glowingly of Alsace and the Alps, but when we asked what they thought of Paris, they were strangely unimpressed. When we asked about the food, they said the only thing they ate in Paris was ham and cheese.

I'd always assumed that answer was an exaggeration, but after being here awhile, I realize that with a little bad luck, one could indeed unwittingly eat nothing but ham and cheese for several days. Croque monsieur? Ham-and-cheese with bechamel sauce (the McDonald's here even offer the Croque McDo). Quiche Lorraine? Ham and cheese in eggs and cream. There are 3 named salads on the menu of our local brasserie with no description; when I asked what each of them was, the answer was that each had lettuce, ham, and cheese, and the type of cheese differentiated them. And of course that sandwich or crepe or gallette you're eyeing at the market is most likely filled with ham and cheese.

Of course, there's plenty else on offer in the City of Light. Which is why said friends owe it to themselves to visit, again. I can promise that they won't have to eat ham-and-cheese while they're here, unless they want to. But I wonder how they'd feel about a week of squid?

Ridin' It Old School

As anybody who follows pro cycling knows, the Giro d'Italia ("Italy's Tour de France," for those who don't care anything for cycling, or just want to piss off the Italians) is roughly half-way through its 3-week run. We've already seen a team time trial, several days in the mountains, and though much of the world is watching just to see Lance Armstrong return to Grand Tour racing, Mr. Armstrong isn't really in this thing to win it, whereas the American team Columbia-Highroad has won an amazing 5 of 12 stages (a win in the team time trial, 2 by their young gun sprinter Mark Cavendish, and wins by 2 other riders).

Today's stage was an individual time trial (TT). Breathlessly called the "race of truth" by anglophone announcers around the world, riders in a TT cover a set course, alone, at intervals of 30-sec to several minutes-- drafting is forbidden, so no teammates (or adversaries) to shelter you, encourage you, or drag you to the last climb where you can show off your awesome power. It's just you going as hard as you can for anywhere from 25 min to an hour and a half, depending on the length.

Used to be that TTs were ridden on regular bikes, but since the 1989 Tour de France, when Greg Lemond won the final TT (and by just 8 seconds, the whole Tour shootin' match) using aero extensions on his handlebars, the individual TT has become one of the techiest events in cycling. Whereas climbing well is about power-to-weight ratios, TTing, where the rider faces the full brunt of air resistance at quite high speeds, is about power-to-drag. And so bikes, helmets, wheels, rider positions, and even clothing have all been optimized for this event to reduce wind resistance. As such, the races are quite the visual spectacle, something you might expect to see in a 1950s science fiction movie. The governing body of professional cycling, the UCI, is generally suspicious of technology and has issued rules that limit how aero the bike can be. Like any game of cat and mouse, the bike manufacturers constantly look for loopholes and work-arounds, to give their riders whatever small advantage they can, and to differentiate their bikes for marketing purposes.

TT stud Fabian Cancellara in full regalia

Now, I likes me a TT. Of all of the cycling disciplines, it's the event I'm relatively best at, because it rewards ability to pace onself, flexibility (to get into a low, wind-cheating position), attention to detail, and the ability to motivate yourself (and not get bored) without external input. So I always overperform in flat TTs (where position trumps power) relative to my raw strength/power.

But this flatland-TT-lover was totally grooving on the Giro TT today. It was brutally long, at 60.6 km, which on paper seemed to offer the potential for huge gains in overall time by the TT specialists. Indeed, Mr Armstrong had asserted that teammate Levi Leipheimer would be in the leader's pink jersey at the end of the day. But it was also very technical, with a lot of high-speed twisty corners, and had a lot of elevation changes, notably 2 substantial climbs (with substantial descents after them). It was roughly 90 minutes of full-on pain over a diverse terrain.

As such, the prominence of the equipment was downplayed. The funny thing about TT bikes is that while they're really good at going fast, they're only really good when going in roughly a straight line-- they're definitely not the bike you want to be on for an 80 kph winding descent. They're also relatively heavy thanks to the large airfoil-shaped tubes and deep-section rims. As such, equipment choices were all over the board: full Spaceman aero kit, road bikes fitted with aero extensions (with or without aero helmet), or full man-style, with no special aero equipment at all (except the skinsuit-- gotta wear the skinsuit). The stage was won by Denis Menchov, who would never be called a TT specialist, and the time gains predicted for specialists like team Astana's Levi Leipheimer didn't quite materialize. It was a great stage.

If the UCI really wants to limit the influence of technology on racing, it should encourage (not mandate, for once, please) courses like today's. The riders' all-around skill sets were definitely on display.

May showers

It rained today in Paris. And yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. And the forecast calls for rain through Tuesday. It's getting tiresome, but we've had such a great Spring here, it's hard to get too put out by it.

The shower in the bathroom, on the other hand, is another matter. Forgive me if we've already written about this, but the shower's been on my mind. In our (limited) experience, the quintessential French shower is a normal sized bathtub with a handheld shower head on a short leash (think kitchen sink sprayer) and with a 2.5-foot glass partition that serves as a feeble spray barrier. This was the set-up in our hotel when we came looking for apartments, in our hotel in Strasbourg, and in 14 of the 17 apartments we saw.

The alternative showers in the other 3 apartments were almost enough overcome the apartments' other faults, but we chose one of the 14. And even though we've pimped it out with a real shower curtain, I'm not a big fan. As someone who stands 6" taller than the average French male (and, perplexingly, seemingly only 7" taller than the average French female), the mount for our handheld shower just about reaches my belly button. And since the shower head tilts downward when in its cradle, hands-free hair washing requires contortion more commonly associated with prayer rugs or Twister. I can hardly reach into the rear pockets of my jerseys on the bike-- I'm just not flexible enough to bend that way first thing in the morning. Combined with unimpressive water pressure and an especially knuckleheaded ledge that slopes away from the tub toward the walls, so that water collects there like a moat and festers if you don't remove it all with sponge every morning, it's an underwhelming cleansing experience.

But just as I'd gotten used to its peculiarities, we spent most of a week in Vienna. Though the shower at the hotel used a similar head, it had a longer tether and a pole mount that allowed changing height and angle and even extended beyond the top of my head. Ability to stand upright, no fetid water pooling on the ledge? Sweet. Not to mention pressure enough to power-clean an elephant-- I ran it at about half-throttle to avoid injury. Coming back to Paris on Sunday was nice, and felt surprisingly like returning home, but that first shower was a real bummer.

For all of its failings as a shower, however, it turns out that our shower makes a darned good bike wash.

Literally 20 seconds into my ride, it started pouring and rained for the rest of the ride. At one point, when the wind kicked up, it was raining sideways and what was left of the blossom clusters on the trees at Longchamp were bouncing off my face. While I don't necessarily seek out that kind of weather, I like a good rainstorm if I'm already on the bike, especially if, like today, I have intervals to do-- if you're going to suffer, why not go all the way?

Anyway, the bike and I were filthy on returning to the apartment, so I rinsed what I could with the unused water bottle I'd brought with me (with all the dog poo on every paved surface in Paris, drinking from a bottle on a rainy day is too disgusting to contemplate), tried to get in the building and up the elevator without anybody else seeing and objecting, and then pulled the wheels off and cleaned everything in the shower. The handheld nozzle made cleaning the frame and wheels a breeze, and the low water pressure didn't threaten the seals or bearings. And now that the rain has stopped, for a while at least, the windy balcony is the perfect place to dry everything off.

So maybe it's not so bad, after all. Now if only I could find a use for that moat.

A week in review

You know things are rolling when there have been a lot of cool things to write about but no time to write. That's especially true when you're temporarily retired and theoretically have copious time to write. So I'll let pictures do most of the talking.

The last couple of weeks have finally been good weeks on the bike. I can't tell you how frustrating a winter it has been, but now that things are looking up, it feels great. To give an idea of the slow going, I averaged less than 6 h/month on the bike in Dec, Jan, and Feb, March saw an average of 3 h/week, and finally in April I got weeks of 3, 6, 9, and 15 h. The build came thanks in part to finally being healthy and working hard on stretching and rebuilding core strength, in part thanks to the visit of a friend (Sean) of a friend (Allen) from Philly, who came here for some business and biking, and in part thanks to randomly meeting a British ex-pat on the way back from the Longchamp Hamster Wheel who invited me to join a Sunday anglophone ride out of the city to the Chevreuse valley. As such, I can now update Karen's comment than one can't ride seriously in the city to say that there are escape and entry routes that allow for good riding from the apartment without having to take the train. Not many, mind you, but any is better than none. Anyway, both the roads and the company on the rides have been great, and I'm ready for a week off to try to recover. Feels fantastic to have to recover from hard riding, rather than being sick or hurt.

The 16e from Champ de Mars train station waiting for a train to the southern riding grounds

Chateau de la Madeleine in the Chevreuse: well worth the climb up

Rapeseed fields and wind farms in the south: just flat climbing here in the wind
Labbeville in the north
Taking blurry pictures in the Chevreuse
The blurry Chevreuse
Pre-ride breakfast
Walled hamlet in the south
Torfou, in the south
Counting stops on the way back from Pontoise, exhausted from all of that videography

In the middle of all of the riding we had dinner at Hidden Kitchen, an "underground restaurant" or supper club where the atmosphere is rather like a dinner party: a small number of people eats together at one dining table in an apartment for a suggested, though not optional, donation that covers the food and drink. There are number of these types of establishments around the US and now a couple in Paris. The night we were there, the 16 guests started the evening at 8:00 with an aperitif and worked our way through the menu below, finishing the petits fours about 5 hours later. The food was teriffic, imaginatively conceived and then executed with fresh ingredients and precise technique. It was decidedly not French food (the "hosts" are Americans from the Seattle area), being brighter with more layers of flavor and more playful, but it complements the French food here in the city very nicely. Definitely a fun evening, and with wine accompanying 7 of the 10 courses, the next day's early morning ride was a bit rough for awhile.

The 2nd course of the dinner really resonated with me, because I'd been waiting for good peas to make pea agnolotti. I'd originally been thinking minted pea filling, but the fava raviolo at Hidden Kitchen used chervil in the pea sauce, which was just an outstanding pairing. Never one to shy away from stealing a good idea, I did a pea-and-chervil filling, instead, evened out with an ad libbed substitute for mascarpone (a mixture of fromage blanc and blended cottage cheese). I sauced them in an intensely saffroned light cream sauce (infused chicken stock with saffron threads, reduced with a little cream and creme fraiche from my local fromagerie) and topped it off with a little sliced prosciutto and some chervil. I wish I'd made 3 times as much and frozen the agnolotti for lunches, because they were heavenly.

Biking in Paris

Well, it turns out you can't really do serious biking in Paris. The better alternative is to take the regional commuter train out as far as it goes, and then start from there. So that's what we did today to celebrate Socialist Labor Day.





I'm still trying to figure out my French cell phone, and thanks to my cycling gloves, I managed to hit the video setting by accident. So no pictures today, only strange short video clips. After an hour on the train, we ended up in some pretty spectacular countryside and did about 40 miles in wonderful rolling terrain. Lots of farmland punctuated by old villages, touting such features as 12th century churches and lots of stone buidings. We both found this one worthy of pictures:

Thanks to extensive planning by Rolf and an increasing sense of how things work here, we didn't get lost at all today. In the next to last town, we found an open bakery, so had goodies for the train ride back. Apple tart for me and coffee eclair for Rolf- prime recovery food...