HUNGRY GERALD

HG loves smoked salmon. New York Novy. Smoky Scottish. Lush Norwegian. Irish (best of all). Paris and London are made for salmon nuts like HG. Quick trip to the supermarket (Carrefour in Paris and M & S in London) and one has a very nice array of (modestly priced) smoked salmon to choose from. And, best of all, there are very good prepared blini, creme fraiche and dilled mustard at hand for feasting. HG’s technique: Warm blini. Melt butter. Pour butter on blini. Layer of smoked salmon (Ireland’s best) on top. A bit of creme fraiche. A wee bit of mustard. Ice cold Russian vodka. A sigh of pleasure. HG has never favored the lox and bagel combo. The cream cheese and bulky bagel dulls the salmon ecstasy. A bialy has its points but blini top them all. After all, even though they came to a bad end, the Czars knew something about smoked fish (and caviar) supping.

Says HG: If you want great at-home dining lease an apartment in a less than posh neighborhood. Expensive clothing stores (Prada, Gucci, etc., etc. ) have pushed out the mom-and-pop bakers, butchers, cheese, etc. shops. In Paris’ 9th and 18th the little guys reign supreme and a baguette, fromage, a roast chicken with roast potatoes are always footsteps away.

London’s takeaway soup and sandwich shops are super good, super cheap. HG likes EAT in particular. Very good pho and hoisin duck soups. When counterman adds some extra chili, London damp disappears from the bones. Tea with scones, clotted cream and marmalade is a London blessing. In American terms, good French wine is very cheap. Britain’s Oddbins wine chain is what US needs.

Parisians have become obsessed with the American hamburger but, alas, they never seem to get it right. Besides scarf tying, Parisians (male and female) are expert in walking very fast while eating a baguette sandwich and talking on cell phone between bites. An American would choke.

Yes, HG is shrinking (vertically) but the French and English are surely getting taller. Very fat people are exported to the USA. One can still eat well in a modest Parisian bistro for a small price. A comparable London meal will cause the credit card to sizzle.

Canned baked beans (and tinned mushrooms!) are part of a proper English breakfast. Everyone must have a minor perversion.

Tourist or native, one is always met with courtesy in London and Paris.

An HG opinion: Paris movie audiences are hip, quiet and polite. Makes movie going a delight.

Posted too rapidly. No plain chicken broth for ailing HG. Resourceful BSK garnered some marmite (very strong consomme).  Beat two eggs into the boiling marmite.  Added some mini elbow macaroni.  Comfort food that was truly comforting.  HG is fortunate to have BSK.

HG and BSK are spending their last days in Paris in a blizzard of Kleenex and a cacaphony of coughs. This didn’t prevent HG from visiting Welper the venerable, independently owned brasserie on busy Place de Clichy. There was a rumor that Wepler had gone downhill.  Couldn’t prove it by HG’s lunch of oysters and bulots.  Splendid.  Very dignified waiter,  HG pointed out that some of the bulot shells were empty.  Obviously, the sea snails had left their shells and were out looking for romance.  The ambassadorial waiter took care of the situation by bringing HG a virtual deluge of bulots and a big pot of fresh mayonnaise.  Typical of Paris–a classy and generous gesture.  BSK felt well enough to see True Grit.  Fun.  But the film didn’t have the usual Coen Brothers edge of irony.  Walking back to the loft HG was struck by the cold bug.  HG and BSK hope they shake off the nastiness before chunneling to London Saturday.

Serious rain today. That meant the perfect time for a long visit to HG and BSK’s favorite Paris museum, Les Arts Decoratifs. It is a beautiful museum, occupying a lyrical wing of the Louvre. Very well organized. Starting on the ninth floor you descend the history of design and decor. All of the eras–from the Renaissance through the 20’s’ 30′, 40’s’ 50’s into the present. Great art deco and art nouveau sections. The museum is encyclopedic without being dull. Always an interesting special exhibition. This time the show was of 100 posters by the extraordinary Polish graphic artist Michal Batory. He is in the great tradition of Polish poster art, a tradition he combines with French surrealism. The result is gripping.

A sardonic sidelight for any of us with long experience in public relations and advertising. One of Batory’s poster clients is a major theatrical group. New management came in. They fired Batory and turned poster design over to their ad agency. So, even one of the world’s greatest poster artists can get tossed when there is a change in bosses. HG and BSK pondered this truism over a rump steak and wine at the museum’s cafe (a showcase of modern design). Dinner tonight Chez HG and BSK. Irish smoked salmon and a wide variety of salads (cucumber, carrot, mesclun, etc). BSK has been sniffling all day so True Grit is postponed until tomorrow.

Lots and lots of walking today. Started in the Montparnasse neighborhood where HG and BSK walked to the Musee and Atelier Zadkine. Ossip Zadkine was a cubist sculptor and painter whose works mark many Paris public areas (adjacent to Cafe Deux Magots and in the Luxembourg Gardens). HG met Zadkine during one of his U.S. visits in the 1950’s. A lovely man. The museum, studio and sculpture garden are small but beautifully organized. Zadkine’s work holds up — it is strong Cubism, rhythmic and powerful.

HG was sorry to ever see only one work–a painting– by Zadkine’s wife, Valentine Prax. HG was gifted with a beautiful drawing by Prax in 1952. As fresh today as it was almost 60 years ago. Zadkine and Prax are very celebrated in Paris but virtually unknown in the United States. A pity.

After viewing the Zadkines (and the Prax), HG and BSK strolled around the Luxembourg Gardens where forsythia was in bloom. Watched the boules players, the kids on ponies and the other sights of this most exquisite and civilized park. HG and BSK retraced their first visit to Paris footsteps of 46 years ago along the Boulevard St. Germain to Rue Du Bac. Lots of street music along the way. An exuberant, young (not very good) brass ensemble outside the Luxembourg gate and a very good Dixieland group of oldsters outside the St. Germain church. A cliche: Where did the years go? Back to the loft and a chilled bottle of very good Sancerre. Much red wine, pate de campagne, fresh baguettes await at dinner Chez HG and BSK. Hemingway called Paris “a moveable feast.” Surely it is a feast for all of the senses.

The Yiddish word is “haimish.” It means homey, down home, warm, friendly, relax-you’re- with- family. “Haimish” is the apt description of La Boule Rouge, the Tunisian-Jewish couscous restaurant where HG and BSK dined last night. “Dined” is wrong. “Gorged” is more like it. Even Miss Moderation BSK overate. The meal started with the table covered with salads and an unsweetened cake of cheese and hard boiled eggs. Then came a platter of perfect couscous; a caldron of robust broth with carrots, zucchini, turnips, sweet potatoes; a super-big portion of lamb shoulder with chickpeas; black beans in an an unusual, addictive Middle Eastern sauce; pinto beans in another tasty sauce. Bowls of pungent, but not too blazing harissa. The wine was Tavel. The meal ended with mint tea and honeyed, pistachio pastries. BSK staggered and moaned. “I ate the whole thing. I’m going to die.” BSK survived and had some croissants, English marmalade and Greek yogurt for breakfast. The stomach (as Woody Allen commented about the heart), is a very resilient organ.

Friday (Day Seven) started with heavy rain which continued on and off. Not to worry. Hats and raincoats. Unfurled umbrellas. HG and BSK were off to the far reaches of the posh 16th to see the great Monet show at the Musee Marmottan. (A wonderful walk through elegant little parks and squares surrounded by the opulent apartment dwellings of the very rich). All of the museum’s 137 Monets were on display plus works of his pals and mentors—Renoir, Morisot, etc. A startling show. Yes, there were water lilies. But, there were wonderful portraits, caricatures and the full range of his paintings of the pond and garden at Giverny. Flowers. Weeping willows. The Japanese bridge.

Back to Montmartre to Cave des Abbesses for oysters and wine. On the carte tonight at Chez HG and BSK is Italian bufala mozzarellla. Piquillo peppers. Jambon Persille. Jambon blanc. Salad of poached eggs, lardons, lettuce and white anchovies. Palmiers. Creme brulee. Camembert. Pinot Noir. Oh, well. C’est la vie.

A stroll in the sun. Brief. Weather instantly reversed to pleasant violet-tinged gray. HG and BSK attended to late morning business and then off to late lunch at Chez Grenouille. Fabulous food. A gratin of escargots. Usually, ordering escargots is an excuse to convey a lot of butter and garlic to the mouth. Not at Grenouille. A score of escargots (no shells) in a reduced and fragrant wine sauce, covered with a chiffonade of herbs. Eggs with butter and cream baked briefly in a red cocotte. Slices of wild duck (rare) on a bed of tiny green lentils. The specialty of the house (possibly the best in Paris); Tete de Veau. Not an American favorite (but much loved by HG), this dish is a composite of all the tasty bits in a cow’s head –tongue, brains, cheeks, etc. At Grenouille, these perfectly cooked elements are combined with morels and enhanced by sauce gribiche. There was a big bowl of roast potatoes (flavored with flakes of Maldon sea salt) on the table. For dessert: A gently baked round of camembert with shavings of black truffle. The wine: St. Amour from the Beaujolais region. Perfect.

Movie night at the comfiest cinema in Paris—Pathe Wepler. Saw Clint Eastwood’s “Hereafter.” Flawed but remarkable movie making. Very memorable tsunami scenes. Bedtime snack of Irish smoked salmon, creme fraiche and Sancerre. Just another day at the office, Paris style.

Pompidou Centre today. Picasso, Giacometti, Arp, Brancusi, Leger, Braque, Matisse, Balthus, Bonnard, Gris, Chagall, Dufy, Dubuffet and all the other French greats and semi-greats (okay, many were born in Spain, Russia, etc.). Also, a new Rothko acquisition. Some thoughts: French art ran out of steam after Picasso and the Americans took over. Pompidou is wonderful. Beautifully lit and displayed and organized. But, compared to MOMA it is provincial. Balthus’s “Alice” remains shockingly pornographic. Laurens and Duchamp-Villon (not displayed very much in USA) give HG great pleasure.

Annoying dinner mishap. Arrived at Cave Beauvau, much touted wine bar, and found out they were not serving dinner. A mixup. Off to Le Vaudeville for briny oysters, Muscadet, a huge slice of cod with truffled potatoes. The best herring in Paris with warm potato salad. Favorite dessert (you’ll never guess): Ile Flottante. So, HG and BSK demolished hunger pangs in style.

Paris excels in everything but plumbing. However, HG and BSK have lucked out with their Montmartre loft rental. A shower with great water pressure and an abundance of hot water. Other sanitary appliances are also first rate. This is not a Paris common place occurrence. So, after blazing showers, perusing recent e-mail, peeking into the Herald Tribune, HG and BSK went off on a long meandering walk of window shopping and architecture admiring culminating at their arrival at Chez Grenouille., a cozy bistro on Rue Blanche in the 9th Arondissement.

Reports on Chez Grenouille. a.k.a. The Frog, from the Paris critics were good but left HG and BSK unprepared for a knock your socks off, prize winner of a lunch. HG experienced cooking that had the lustiness of bistro cuisine and the creativity of Michelin-starred restaurants. BSK started with a bowl of scrambled eggs (BSK called them softly shirred eggs) infused with black truffle juice and topped with shavings of black truffle. BSK followed that with a roulade of suckling pig interwoven with slices of foie gras. BSK ended with espreso and a biscuit. HG started with a slice of tete de veau (head cheese) that transcended the genre. This can often be a rubbery, vinegary concoction. Not at Chez Grenouille.. This was a voluptuous concoction of delicious chunks of ham and pork bound together with a tasty forcemeat. This delight was followed by a plate of sweetbreads and morels in a flavorful (not heavy) cream sauce. On the table was excellent bread and a big bowl of roast potatoes (there seemed to be a modest hint of duck fat) with crisp skins and tender interiors. HG finished with baba a rhum (a generous snifter of extra rum was provided to give it an extra bang) served with a mini-mountain of whipped cream). HG and BSK’s wine choice was a remarkable Cotes du Rhone.

The meal was then walked off. BSK did some shopping for grandkids. HG read the London Review of Books while sipping a chilled framboise eau de vie at Lux Bar. Then off to Pathe Wepler to see Black Swan. Ms. Portman looks like a sure Oscar winner. Back to the loft for some Tavel and a light snack before bed time.

Hey! This is life. Someone’s got to live it. Might as well be HG and BSK.