Guy Martin at Grand Vefour. Photo Michel Langlot

Earlier this summer I investigated the culinary universe of Guy Martin, one of the most recognizable names of high gastronomy in Paris.

Chef of the irrepressibly romantic and stellar Grand Véfour by the garden of Palais Royal, the Guy Martin signature also appears on a number of other culinary offerings in Paris: the polished Sensing, the evocative Cristal Room Bacarrat, the cooking workshop Atelier Guy Martin, and the self-service sandwichie Miyou.

I lunched at all of these for the purposes of an article that will appear in France Revisited’s Food & Drink section in September. It isn’t that I’ve gone gaga over Guy—though I have indeed come to appreciate the smooth consistency of the man’s gastronomic reach—rather I wanted to examine his various signature offerings to see if I could find in this culinary branding some essential piece to the real Guy Martin.

Guy Martin is one of a handful of name-brand chefs that I could have selected for such an investigation, so before working on the final article I want to explain here why I chose him and introduce readers to various chefs encountered along the way who work within his universe.

Grand Vefour, interior

Selecting Guy Martin involved a combination of memory, editorial choice, and journalistic opportunism.

Memory. I’d eaten at Grand Véfour twice before this year, once about 15 years ago and once about 10 years ago. (Guy Martin has ruled the ovens there since 1993.) The sense of elegance and romance of those meals have stayed with me even though my dinner companions have been forgotten, or at least their elegance and romance have.

I don’t know why those two dining experiences have stayed with me in a way that other fine dining experiences have not. Perhaps it was simply the jewel-box setting of the late 18th-early 19th century—now timeless—restaurant that anchors the northern end of the garden of the Palais Royal. I can’t judge Le Grand Véfour critically now for what it was 10 years ago (it currently has 2 Michelin stars if that means anything to you), and 10 years ago I knew far less about gastronomy than I do now, so I’ll simply conclude that I remembered Le Grand Véfour because something about being there felt special.

Christian David, maitre d at Grand Vefour. Photo GLK

Editorial choice. Last year I contacted gastronomic portraitist Fabien Nègre about the possibility of my translating for readers of France Revisited one or more of his “Portaits de chef” appearing on the French site Restos.com. When he and Alain Newman, creator of Restos.com, agreed, I selected Guy Martin because of the vague memory of those long-ago meals. Fabien’s portrait, translated by me, can be read here.

Journalistic opportunism. Months later the chef learned of the text on this site in English and, though his contact with Fabien, invited the two of us to lunch. (More on that lunch in the upcoming article.) With that meal under my belt, I set on a series of lunchtime investigations to get to know Guy Martin’s other culinary businesses in Paris.

I ate at two of those—Sensing and Atelier Guy Martin—at a press lunch with a group of food bloggers. For the two others—Miyou and Cristal Room Baccarat—Fabien and I went on our own. I was invited to all of these by the establishments themselves. My intent in getting acquainted with these establishments was, as I’ve said, to gain a sense of the essential Guy Martin, not simply to take the critical snapshot for the purposes of a restaurant review.

The chefs. Enough has and will be said on this site about Guy Martin himself. For now I’d like to introduce you to other chefs, working under the Guy Martin banner, whom I interviewed along the way.

Remi Van Peteghem at Sensing. Photo GLK.

Sensing: Rémi Van Peteghem

Sensing is a peaceable and polished restaurant in the Montparnasse Quarter, it’s cuisine straightforward and refined. Since chefs tend to resemble their restaurants the way dogs resemble their owners, it was no surprise—nevertheless quite refreshing—to find that Rémi Van Peteghem, the 32-year-old chef of Sensing, came across as humble and gracious when he met with us after the meal.

If the strength (some say limitation) of French cuisine is its use of fresh seasonal products that reveal a taste of their essence, as well as of the earth, the sun, and the sea from they come, and that polished French cuisine is the culinary equivalent of the French garden—the graceful and geometric taming of nature—then Mr. Van Petegham’s work is a brilliant exemple of what such cooking is all about. His verbal and culinary articulation of polished French cuisine is clear, coolly passionate, and sincere. It’s like a pastel drawing that’s warm and skilled yet unpretentious. The same can be said for Sensing’s décor which aims for comfort rather than thrill. The atmosphere is all yours to create with your tablemates.

Decor and dish at Sensing. Photo GLK.

Sensing, 19 rue Bréa, 6th arrondissement. Metro Vavin or Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Tel. 01 43 27 08 80. Closed Sunday. Lunch menus: 2 courses, 25€, 3 courses 35€. The more expressive 55€ lunch menu and 75€ dinner menu includes drinks. Tasting menu of 95 euros (140 euros with wine pairing). Count 65-75€ à la carte + drinks.

Cristal Room Baccarat: David Angelot

David Angelot at Cristal Room Baccarat. Photo GLK.

Housed in a late-19th-century mansion that is now headquarters of the crystal-maker Baccarat, Cristal Room hit the gastro-touristic news big time when it opened several years ago. As a showplace (the building also houses the Baccarat showroom and museum), the restaurant gained a reputation as being more remarkable for the value of its Philippe Stark décor than the value of its cuisine.

Now a new chef has taken the reins beneath Guy Martin’s signature. In March 2010 Mr Martin, who “orchestrates” (Baccarat’s word) the kitchen here, appointed David Angelot as onsite, more or less independent chef. In a brief conversation after lunch, Mr. Angelot came across as ambitious and confident, a study contrasts with the first impression of modesty and serenity given by Mr. Van Peteghem at Sensing. It’s as though Guy Martin had meditated on the décor of each dining room then selected the personality that best corresponded to it, and the preparations followed in line with both the personality and the décor.

Cristal Room Baccarat

At the top of an eye-catching stairwell, Crital Room’s décor presents a unified mix of historical chic, designer kitsch, and Baccarat show-pieces: gilt-framed brick walls, noble portrait medallions, crystal chandeliers, pale pink couches, prominent stemware and candleholders.

Echoing this from the kitchen, Mr. Angelot’s cuisine is handsome, showy, and frank. The culinary playing fields on which trendiness and gastronomy attempt to coexist are heavily mined, and service will inevitably suffer from lack of traction, but Mr. Angelot and the staff do a good job of trying to find the balance between the two.

Case in point is the appetizer below which may look like some kind of sea creature but it was actually an entertaining appetizer that was a delight to dissect and eat. It’s called tranche d’aubergine snackée, (snacked slice of eggplant), in which the eggplant is a base for dried tomatoes, squid, tapenade, parmesan compote, tomato sorbet, and a bourage flower. It was wonderfully modern, tasty, and kitsch, like a fancy, edible hat, and while it isn’t the type of appetizer for which one earns stars, it was in deliciously in keeping with both the showiness of the dining room.

If you allow yourself to get into the spirit of the place and don’t take it all too seriously, a meal here won’t be flawless but it will be part of a very romantic day, especially if you’re staying a fine hotel within walking distance.

Cristal Room Baccarat, 11 place des Etats-Unis, 16th arrondissement. Metro Boissière or Iéna. Tel 01 40 22 11 10. Closed Sunday. Priced about the same as Sensing, slightly more à la carte.

Miyou: Thierry Molinengo

Thierry Molinengo

Thierry Molinengo’s talents shouldn’t be reduced to those on display at Miyou, but that’s where I met him when I went for lunch at this sandwich shop/lunch/snack-room in the upscale Bon Marché department store. Mr. Molinengo was there that afternoon trying out various recipes for Miyou. He invited me to try an apricot dessert wrap that was in test phase—and for the sake of Miyou I gladly agreed that it was probably better with strawberries. He was also working on a salmon millefeuille whose colors, he said, he hadn’t yet gotten right. In any case, it was clear that Mr. Molinengo was not simply here to see that the smoked salmon was fresh.

Mr. Moleningo appears to be a kind of roving right-hand man to Guy Martin. In addition to testing recipes and keeping an eye on Miyou, he can be found sous-cheffing at Grand Véfour or giving cooking classes to English-speaking groups at Atelier Guy Martin. It’s rather reassuring to know that someone of Mr. Molinegno’s stature spends time in the kitchen at Mr. Martin’s department store eatery.

Calling itself a luxury sandwich shop, Miyou opened on the second floor of the main building of the Bon Marché department stores in March 2010. Miyou prides itself on offering great freshness and a mix of savors, whether in salads, soups, and sandwiches (baguettes, wraps, and clubs) pre-prepared throughout the day or in burgers and hot dishes made to order.

Self-service sandwich-salad display and seating at Miyou.

There’s naturally much competition for lunchtime and snacktime attention in this area, notably from the luxury grocery store and purveyor of freshly prepared food at the Grand Epicerie, in the building next door, as well as in the cafés and bakeries in the area. So Miyou cannot stand out on the basis of sandwiches and luxury mineral water alone. Nevertheless, the freshness and lightness of the offerings, the airy setting, and the amiable presence of manager Antoun Khater ensures an easy-going lunch or mid-afternoon snack stop for those looking to rest their weary shopping feet.

The more basic sandwiches here are priced only slightly higher than what one would find in a local bakery. When one adds a salad or dessert and something to drink the cost is in keeping with lunch at a local café, about 18€.

Miyou, 3rd level of the Bon Marché department store, 24 rue de Sèvres, 7th arrondissement. Metro Sèvres Babylone. Open 11am-7pm. Closed Sun. Wifi connection.

Atelier Guy Martin
The photo below was taken on the day I joined a dozen food bloggers for a lunchtime cooking class at the cooking workshop Atelier Guy Martin. Since I was one of the chefs of the day (I cut an onion and a tomato, stirred a sauces, and filled a soufflé cup), I’m proud to stand alongside the real chefs of the Atelier, left to right, Louis Tocheport, head pastry chef; Laurent Mosset, sous-chef of the Atelier; Antony Courteille, executive chef of the Atelier.

Chefs at Atelier Guy Martin. Photo T. Perois.

Atelier Guy Martin, 35 rue Miromesnil, 8th arrondissement. Metro Miromesnil. Tel. 01 42 66 33 33.

So how do these five establishes—Grand Véfour, Sensing, Cristal Room Baccarat, Miyou, and Atelier Guy Martin—fit together? What’s their essence? Give me another month to digest these investigations and stay tuned for the full article in September.

In a moment of veteran-like panic, I had a flashback to one year ago when a clogged water main broke and my upstairs neighbors failed to realize that their toilet was flushing into my WC. (When I up to tell them about it they said, “We don’t have a problem. See,” they showed me, “the toilet flushes just fine.”)

I now sat up in my moment of panic… and realized that I was in a hotel room. I was staying in a cozy little family-run hotel in a peaceable village near the D-Day Landing Beaches in Normandy. The water, I saw, was entering through the lintel above the bathroom door, undoubtedly from the shower of the traveler upstairs.

I checked to see that my bag, clothes, and shoes were safe and dry. They were, and so was the bed.

Some problems are actually better experienced when on the road than at home.

I nodded off to the sound of a slowing drizzle, another hour’s sleep before meeting with travelers to tell them war stories.

There were various other Fourth of July parties in Paris, of course, but I didn’t get invited to any of them either. I could have gone to the Franco-American Fourth of July ceremony at Lafayette’s tomb, but I’d been there last year (if you missed the article I wrote about that last year you can read it by clicking here or watch my audio slide-show of the event by clicking here.)

Still, I was feeling a bit red-white-and-bluish (not to be confused with the colors of the French flag which is blue, white, and red) today, so I accepted an invitation to Cupcake Camp.

Cupcake Camp was organized in Bistrot Vivienne, an otherwise pleasant bistro in the 2nd arrondissement that had been cleared of its pleasantness for the occasion, by Cat Beurnier, a cupcake baker who operates Sugar Daze, and Bryan Pirolli, a master’s student and part-time cook (photo left).

I’d hoped to learn more about Cat and Bryan during Cupcake Camp but they were quite the busy camp leaders since the bistro was a-swarm with people trying to make the best out of the 10-euro entrance fee which allowed for all the cupcakes you can eat plus one drink.

From the looks of things this afternoon it appears that if you give a couple hundred Americans (and assorted French friends) a choice of any beverage with their cupcake the majority will pick Diet Coke—or Coke Light as it’s called in France where no one will ever admit that she’s on a diet but where everyone wants to feel light.

“Proceeds from the event,” to quote Cat and Bryan’s press release, “will support a group spearheaded by friends of Cupcake Camp Paris, Rebuilding Haiti Now.” I’m not sure what the group actually does but I must say that only Americans are capable of using cupcakes to raise funds for earthquake victims, just one more thing we can be proud of.

The press release also states that “Cupcake Camp is a tradition that hails from California, created by Ariel Waldman” and that “the cupcake can be considered the US’ defining culinary contribution to the world.”

I know nothing about Ariel Waldman and won’t bother Googling the name because as far as I could tell Cupcake Camp Paris was simply an occasion to bake and eat cupcakes with proceeds going to charity. It didn’t feel like something that would “hail” from anywhere, let alone California, or need to be “created,” let alone by someone named Ariel Waldman!

Nevertheless, today’s Cupcake Camp was a rousing success to judge by the donations/entrance fees, the crowds, the general good cheer, and the quantity of cupcakes and Coke Light consumed.

Still, I’m a bit concerned about that “defining culinary contribution to the world” line. I only tried three cupcakes of the 30 or so varieties that I saw in the boxes, and there may have been many more that I didn’t see, so I can’t judge overall quality from my small sampling; I nevertheless came away with a vision of a dozen young women baking through the night while getting slaphappy on sugar and going heavy on the icing. Some things just weren’t meant to define us abroad.

Even as out-of-the-loop as I am regarding American baking trends, I have naturally been aware for a number of years now of the cupcake fad back home. When in the U.S. I can’t visit anyone with children under 25 without being offered a cupcake. At one party in New Jersey last year, ostensibly a Thanksgiving gathering, the oohs and ahs came not with the presentation of the turkey but with that of the cupcakes. A half-dozen tweens and teens stood around the dessert table waiting to see whose creations the guests would choose, each one smudging the icing of the competition so that hers would stand out as the prettiest. They were so disappointed when I didn’t pick one that I nearly felt unpatriotic for going for the pumpkin pie.

Oddly enough, going to Cupcake Camp on the Fourth of July didn’t make me feel any more patriotic. In fact, I was surprised to see how little effort was made to make the connection between our “defining culinary contribution” and Independence Day.

Entries to the “Most Patriotic Cupcake” competition (above) were so scant that I wondered if Cupcake Camp founder Ariel Waldman might have disallowed the combination of red, white, and blue icing in the camp rules. Either that or blue icing is hard to come by in Paris and no one realized that blueberry season has just begun.

Anyway, as you can see from the photos above, the entries to the various competitions did look quite good, and I’m sure there were some true winners among them.

The judges also looked quite good, as you can see below.

On the right is travel writer Heather Stimmler-Hall. Click here to read an interview with her on France Revisited following the release of her book “Naughty Paris: A Ladies Guide to a Sexy City.”

In the middle is Synie Georgulas, a professional baker, owner of the bakery-tea room Synie’s Cupcakes, whom I’ll be interviewing later this month in further explorations into cupcakes.

On the left is Lindsey Tramuta, whose cupcake credentials include her musings on the blog Lost In Cheeseland.

I should note that the photo above was taking prior to the start of their judging duties, which may explain why they look so happy to be there.

Just kidding, Cat. It was a great event, just lacked a bit of Fourth of July spirit.

Speaking of cats: the Fourth of July, also known as July 4, is also my cat’s birthday. He’s now 11. Happy birthday, Moumoon!

Massai Mara, 19th arrondissement, Paris

Cameroonian cuisine is inspired by both the sea and the land, and Massaï Mara widens the palate to the cuisines of African neighbors, some of which will be familiar to those who know Creole cooking.

Not knowing where to start I was happy to try the chef’s assortment as an appetizer: beef samosa, crayfish and banana beignets, shrimp acras (fritters), plantain bananas.

Plaintains, firmer and more starch-like than the fruity bananas we mostly consume, often accompanies dishes in central Africa, as well as in South America and the West Indies.

As main course there are brochettes (beef or prawns) and fish (e.g. tilapia), but I went for unfamiliar Cameroonian territory with beef ndolé. Ndolé is a long-simmered dish with a spinach-like leaf and a peanut-based sauce. It’s served here with golden-brown plaintains and rice. Shrip ndolé or beef and shrimp ndolé are also available.

The food was pleasant, I especially enjoyed the variety of appetizers, but what would lead me to return is the warm atmosphere of Massaï Mara, a gathering place for the Cameroonian (and wider central African) community in Paris, led by the bright and joyful smile of owner Alice Abeng.

Alice Abeng, owner of Massai Mara, and Victor Sosso, chef. Photo GLK

Cameroon was a German colony from 1884 to 1919 and a mostly French (partly British) territory after WWI, French Cameroun (with a u) became independent in 1960, and British Cameroon in 1961, leading to the birth of the Republic of Cameroon, now with a population of about 20 million. Its 20th-century ties with France mean that the Cameroon community in Paris well established. Encounter the community and the cuisine at Massaï Mara.

Massaï Mara, 66 rue Armand Carrel, 19th arrondissement, Paris. Tel. 01 42 08 00 65. Metro Jaurès. www.massaimara.fr. Closed Saturday lunch and Sunday. Open late. Massaï Mara often has live African music on Thursday, when there’s an all-you-can-eat buffet.

See where Massaï Mara is in Paris by clicking here.

See where the Republic of Cameroon is in Africa by clicking here.

I usually answer “Whenever you can make it.” But the real answer is June, those long days of spring-to-summer when Paris is at its most vibrant, when you can still get a seat in a café of a village square in Provence, when you can still get a last-minute hotel room in Biarritz, when the tennis at Roland Garros is on TV (or better yet when you’re actually attending matches), when Normandy celebrates D-Day and the Liberation, before the biking routes of the Loire Valley get crowded, before traffic along the Riviera comes to a complete stop, when the Burgundy vineyards are in flower…

In a word: NOW!

Though few others noticed the award, it has nevertheless allowed me ever since to call myself—and better yet to have others call me—an award-winning travel writer.

But 1996 was a long time ago and that Fielding book had a short shelf life, so for a while there being referred to as an award-winning writer felt like I was trying to get mileage from winning honorary mention in a 9th-grade essay contest.

Imagine then my pride and relief when last year I received a second award for travel writing, making me not only a double award-winning writer but a recent award-winning writer.

I am therefore proud, relieved, and honored to show you my new award for travel writing: the New Jersey Native Garden Award.

My first award referred to my work as “informative and entertaining,” which may seem to have more gravity than the “charming and delightful” of this second award. Nevertheless these new adjectives are a welcome addition to my resume.

This latest award refers to the Arbor Day piece that I posted on this page one year ago. You can read it by clicking here.

In reading it you will discover all the hope and pleasure that went into my planting a sprig of silky dogwood last April. The certificate announcing the award was accompanied by a letter from Ginger Young, president of the West Trenton Garden Club, in which she wrote, “I hope the Silky Dogwood is doing well… Mine is about 4’ high now.”

Well, it turns out my sprig was gone before the award arrived.

I’m pretty sure the guy on the lawnmower seen over my shoulder in the photo below was to blame. He claimed he never saw it, which sounds like evidence to me.

That picture was taken yesterday, Arbor Day 2010. Like last year at this time I was in West Trenton, New Jersey visiting family and it was a beautiful spring day. This year I wanted to honor the day while also doing something to halt erosion of the lake on my brother’s property. So, having planted 10 junipers along water’s edge earlier in the week, I planted 10 more yesterday.

While shoveling holes I may or may not have cut the wire to that lamp post beside me in the picture. I can’t tell because no one seems to know where the switch is anymore.

I don’t expect to receive an award for this year’s Arbor Day piece, however I do expect the junipers, at least some of them, to last longer than the silky dogwood. And what does a juniper need with recognition as long as it has a place to grow.

Links:
Arbor Day
West Trenton Garden Club
The Garden Club of New Jersey
The National Garden Clubs, Inc. Nuture the Earth, Plant Natives, Plant Organically Project

Yesterday, then, I went with three Brazilian friends to Omar’s. Chez Omar (address below) has plenty of choices on the menu but we didn’t even pretend to consider anything but the couscous and its vegetables and broth, accompanied by beef, lamb, chicken, sausage, or, in the case of the vegetarian in our group, nothing.

Though there’s nothing extraordinary about the dishes or décor or service, Chez Omar is always crowded. It’s both a restaurant and a scene. Chez Omar is easy-going, relatively inexpensive (nevertheless overpriced), amiably orchestrated by Omar, and it/he occasionally hosts recognizable faces and often attracts people with clean shirt and nice shoes.

None of the latter was at my table, especially after Ana’s high heel broke on the sidewalk and some sauce splashed onto Humberto’s shirt, and then some more. Erica simply looks like she should be famous. Perhaps that, along with good timing, was why, after a 10-minute wait, we had the luxury of a corner table where no one could overhear our accents except for the waiter and Omar when he came to say hello.

Omar asked Erica, Ana, and Humberto, the three with black hair (actually any hair) at the table where they were from and, after they told him, he mentioned several famous Brazilians who had come to his restaurant.

As a joke, he then also asked me where I was from. I say “as a joke” because to him it was obvious that I was either North African or some French-North African mix. Not from my accent, mind you, but because North Africans in Paris often initially see me as kin, as at my neighborhood Tunisian restaurant. (He may also have figured only some French and/or North African would accompany three Brazilians to his restaurant.) After so many years in France a vague aura of North Africania is actually now also a part of my personal heritage.

French: Ana Jabur (in the middle in the photo above) is the chef at another well-known restaurant in eastern Paris, Hotel du Nord. Hotel du Nord is the former hotel by Canal Saint Martin that lent its name to the famous French film of the same name from 1938. It’s now a decent, classic yet mildly hip restaurant, café, and bar with an international clientele. There, Ana prepares classic, mildly hip French dishes. I’ll say no more about Ana’s talents there, however, because she’s leaving for the restaurant at the end of April to become chef of possibly hip and happening and currently hush-hush restaurant that will be opening in late May. More on that when it happens.

Last Friday I had late lunch Humberto and Erica at Hotel du Nord (address below), then Ana joined us when she finished in the kitchen. I asked Ana if she had any suggestions for what I could make for a dinner party the following day. (They were all polite enough not to notice that none of them was on the guest list.) Ana had a question first: Do you know how to cook? My response: It depends what you mean by cook. Her comment: I’ll keep it simple then.

This image above is of the recipes she dictated and explained to me on the paper table cover at the Hotel du Nord, spread on the traditional French tablecloth in my kitchen. I would make a velouté (a thick creamy vegetable soup), a leg of lamb and potato something-or-other, and sauce for the lamb. Together we decided that the best recipe for dessert was a bakery nearby. I got the tail end of the sauce wrong, which happens to be the most part of the important sauce, but served it nonetheless—at the very least it expressed leeks, onions, wine, and effort.

Royal: There were four of us, three French friends with clean shirts and nice shoes and me, with an Iron Chef apron that someone once gave me. I served a bottle of Joseph Perrier Cuvée Royale Brut 1999 Champagne with the hors d’oeuvres. Since one guest was reliably late and another reliably brought Champagne, when the former arrived I also opened the latter’s bottle, which we finished with the velouté.

With the lamb (or on the lamb, as the French would say) I served a confidential red wine called Royal Heritage. Royal Heritage is made by two sisters, Isabelle and Catherine Orliac, who are heirs to a vineyard in southwest France that once provided wine to the Court of Louis XVI. Their ancestor Jean Orliac received permission from the king to supply the Court with his wine in 1780, thus the date on the bottle. The contents were from the harvest of 2005. The wine comes from the little-known Côtes du Brulhois, 100 miles southeast of Bordeaux, 60 miles northwest of Toulouse.

The wine is available in only a handful of restaurants (see Orliac website below) and is otherwise obtained by “sponsoring” a vine. For 140 euros (currently $190) one “sponsors” the vine and, 18 months later, a bottle of its fermented fruit awaits you at the Orliac family’s Chateau la Bastide. You can then drive over to pick up your bottle with its wax-sealed cork and its handsome black box, or, more likely, have sent to you at additional cost. Your bottle will actually have the fruit of more than just your vine alone since the wine is a mix of four grapes: tannat, cabernet franc, merlot, and abouriou. The result is an excellent, hefty, full-bodied, dark fruity, mildly spicy wine that, as Isabelle Orliac had told me, goes well on lamb.

One hundred forty euros plus postage is quite pricey for a Côtes du Brulhois, albeit a big Côtes du Brulhois. Sponsors are in part paying for a piece of history, for the sense of exclusiveness (there are only 10 hectares / 25 acres of vines), and for the possibility to one day visit their vine. Sponsor six and you’re invited for lunch. I’m looking forward to one day visiting my own vine.

I must note, however, that am not an actual sponsor but rather a journalist who broke out a free bottle to impress his friends with his generosity. My friends in turn impressed me with their own generosity by telling me how accomplished I’ve become with French cuisine, without once mentioning the sauce. They also complimented me on my choice of Champagne, cheese, and dessert. It was indeed a rather good meal. Nevertheless I’m aware that the French like to compliment a foreigner’s appreciation of things French as a way of complimenting themselves and their own heritage, now partly mine.

Royal Heritage produced by 2 Soeurs en Aquitaine at Chateau la Bastide, 47270 Clermont Soubiran. Tel. 05 53 87 41 02. www.royal-heritage.eu. I’ll be revisiting my encounters with Isabelle Orliac on France Revisited in the coming month.

Hôtel du Nord. 102 quai de Jemmapes, 10th arrondissement. Tel. 01 40 40 78 78. www.hoteldunord.org. Metro Jacques Bonsergent.

Chez Omar. 47 rue de Bretagne, 3rd arrondissement. Tel. 01 42 72 36 26. Metro Temple, Arts-et-Métiers, or Filles du Calvaire. Credit cards not accepted.

For Earthlings, the March equinox means that spring has begin in the Northern Hemisphere and that autumn has begun in the Southern Hemisphere. For Christians following Western traditions and the Gregorian calendar, the March equinox is also related to Easter since Easter is celebrated on the first Sunday after the full moon occurring on or after the March equinox.

That’s why some churches, such as Saint Sulpice in Paris, have central, internal sundials of sorts designed to indicate the day of the equinox.

I was touring Saint Sulpice with a group of journalists today when at precisely 1 p.m. (i.e. noon Greenwich Mean Time), we gathered around the altar railing to watch the a spot of sun, coming from a hole in the window of the southern transept (above left in this photo), reach a marker in front of the altar.

(Saint Sulpice, you may recall, is the church that was fictionalized by Dan Brown in the “Da Vinci Code.”)

Saint Sulpice has transparent windows since narrative stained glass was passé when the church was built in the 17th century. The angle of that photo makes it appear that it was a bright out today, but it was in fact mostly cloudy in the early afternoon, though with occasional bursts of sunlight. We could nevertheless make out the oval spot of sun moving across the marker.

The photo below was taken about two minutes after the magic moment. You can make out the spot of sun now just above the marker. The line to either side of the marker is a meridian line.

If our group hadn’t been there (and we didn’t know about the event until we arrived for the tour) I don’t know if anyone would have witnessed the passage of the equinox at this spot this year. An odd thought, but upon leaving the church I could see that there are far more popular things to do in the Saint Sulpice quarter early on a Saturday afternoon. One of them is to queue to go into the Pierre Hermé chocolate and pastry shop across the intersection.

and allowing myself to be surprised by details without feeling that I had to learn or appreciate or buy anything in particular,…

a real neighborhood, with a locksmith-shoemaker…

and a restorer of old plumbing…

and shops that don’t scream “deposit your tourist money here!,”…

the kind of neighborhood where I’d go without lunch plans and instead check menus and decor as I walked around before settling on, say, a good Indian restaurant (Maharaja), or a bistro/wine bar (Oh Bigre), or something contemporary (La Family),…

or perhaps be tempted by the food shops to create a picnic…

and head past the little church (Sainte Marie des Batignolles) that I’d feel no tourist obligation to visit…

to the neighborhood park, where I might stroll the paths of the city’s most charming English-style garden…

then sit on a bench enjoying my picnic while observing various species of ducks and geese at play or at sleep and contemplating an ominous, pigeon-dropped statue of turkey vultures (or eagles?)…

before leaving the park to sit in a café, where I’d think, “Now this looks like a nice quarter to live in, how come I’ve never read about it?,”…

then I’d probably take the metro to Rome or Place de Clichy…

and visit the Batignolles quarter in the 17th arrondissement.

The Weatherman, March 3

I rarely go out for lunch in winter,
but today I joined a television weatherman
at a neighborhood restaurant that prides itself
in serving only the freshest of fresh food,
though it seemed a stretch for the waiter to call the scorpion fish fruity.

He recognized him, and I think the women at the next table did, too.
And afterwards someone stopped to say hello as we crossed the bridge.
What a beautiful day to be walking by the canal, she said.
It’s going to get cold again, he warned, maybe even snow next week.

I don’t have a TV to see him wave his hands before the map of France.
But I saw buds on the bush on my balcony today,
and the cat, too, noticed the morning sun on the kitchen table
finally reaching over the grey mansard across the street,
where the neighbors close their curtains a little later every day.