I'm just going to warn you now, this post is long. Very long. So long, in fact, that I considered cutting in two, using one half to talk about my day from an eating perspective and one from the site-seeing perspective. But, when I thought about it, I decided that the two were so perfectly intertwined today that doing so would be shame, and that I would unweave the beautiful web I spun around Paris yesterday, doing my last full day there an unforgivable injustice. So skim if you like, or don't. I'll have pictures up in a day or two so those may help if you aren't up for, or interested in, the whole thing. Here we go....
In stark opposition to my previous two days, the only meal I ate formally sitting down yesterday was breakfast, in my hotel. The rest of the day was spent on foot, starting at 9:30 am and ending at 8:30 pm, getting my hands and face right into whatever I was eating and doing all day. And it was without a doubt my best day yet.
I began with a walk to l'Arc de Triomphe, from the top of which I think is the best view in the city. Go wait in line for the Eiffel Tower if you like, I'll stay right here, staring down the Chaps Elysee and happily enjoying the lack of crowd. I also bought a four-pack of AA batteries here, which came in handy as I drained them all throughout the day.
Next, I set out to walk the Champs Elysee, hopefully to scout it out for a different point of view some day. Along the way , I spotted a Peugeot dealer, with a gorgeous array of sports cars inside. The best vehicle on display, though, was of the two-wheeled variety: a carbon Peugeot bike, the mode of transportation that, in my opinion, the company should stick to making.
Soon after, I spied the mint green exterior of what could only be Laduree, Paris's most famous of bakeries for macarons. I bolted across the Champs and barged inside. The display was overwhelming, and the task of choosing what to get was daunting, made possibly only by the fact that I knew I was here for macarons and macarons only. I finally settled on the box of 6, which still set me back 8 euro. My choices were this: vanilla, coffee, praline, chestnut, fig and date, and soft salted caramel. It was not yet 11 pm, so once outside I decided to try just one and save the rest for later. Vanilla it was, and let's just say I was glad to be sitting down already when I took a bite.
The lower half of the Champs was covered in both sides by a Christmas market, composed of easily over 100 white tents set up selling all kinds of food from crepes to kebabs to caviar and every trinket or collectible known to man. I quickly stopped for a
vin chaud before cruising down one side and then back up the other, stopping to ogle nearly every item, but especially the edible ones, on display. After making it back up to the top, I decided that my original dining plans would have to be adjusted, because lunch was happening here. Despite the absurd selection, I knew what I must have: poulet provencal. Cooking in a stupendously large cauldron wide and deep enough to bath in (and don't think I wouldn't have), the rouge of this chick and potato mash called out to me the moment I saw it. As it was heaped in hearty amounts into my Styrofoam container, I knew I was in for treat. I set up shop at a tall table and dug in, instantly transported to the French countryside. Magnifique! A quick stop down the block for one oyster shooter, and I was on my way.
After another walk through much of the heart of the city, I found myself at the Cluny museum, as suggested by my uncle (thanks Ron), which is a former abbey and now hosts the pieces one stolen from or now replaced at many cathedrals and churches in France. It also gave the story of the development of many religious art forms in France, my favorite of which was the altar pieces, which I have always been attracted to and awed by.
After the museum, I set up shop in a park outside to indulge in my remaining macarons. One after another I popped them into my mouth and delighted at the soft and almondy goodness. Yet again, I was happy to be seated. The intense, almost red velvet, hue of the fig and date macaron was almost sensual, but the soft salted caramel took the cookie in my opinion. Next up, time for more walking, of course. As a side note, I did not use the Metro once yesterday.
Making my way out of the Latin Quarter, I spent a long time just meandering the
3rd arrondisment, also known as Le Marais. I had a destination in mind, but decided that if I should find it by chance, I would pop in. If not, something equally good would come up. I walked from store to store, sampling free wine and chocolates here and there, spotting incredible displays like a chocolate store that makes chocolate neckties, and just drinking in the charm that can only be found in a place when you explore it with no destination in mind. At 4:15, I caved and stopped at a place called La Suzette for the obligatory Nutella crepe. As the dough as spread out and began to sizzle in front of me, the Pavlov effect kicked in and I could feel myself salivating. Yum. Do get one.
Lucky for me, as I dug into my crepe, only half conscious of the road ahead, I found myself right at my semi-destination:
Musee Carnavalet. Also suggested by Uncle Ron, I think this may have been my favorite museum yet. A true hidden treasure of the city in which I encountered few other Americans and sparse crowds, this building packs a mighty punch and contains much more than you would expect from the outside. For the next hour and half, I walked through a story book, discovering the history of Paris from Paleolithic times up through the 1900's. Set in paintings of the city's development and collections of furniture and fixings from important palaces from every time period, the museum is possibly the best way to learn how Paris got to where it is today.
Upon leaving, I had a few dinner plans in mind, and spent the next 30 minutes ambling about the area and debating all my options. I was torn in so many different directions that I once again arrived somewhere I had never intended to but am thankful to whatever God there is for bringing me to. As it turns out, he must be a Jewish one, because where do you think I wound up? The Jewish Quarter, of course! Once again, my plans were out the window once more, and deliberations began anew as I tried to decide where to go. The famous L'As du Falafel was closed (it was Shabbat after all) but that was not a problem. It was just one less place to choose. Finally, after some serious running back and forth, literally, I settled on the first place to catch my eye:
Sasha Finkelsztajn. As I stood there, holding back a tear and trying to figure out what I should eat, another miracle took place: my dead camera came back to life! I immediately jumped out of line and started snapping pictures of everything. The food, the sign, the door, the street, the place across the street. All of it. Finally, though, it was time to eat.
To get to the point, dinner was a pastrami sandwich. But not just any pastrami sandwich. This salted beef was sandwiched between two halves of an onion and poppy roll, smothered in a baba ganoush-esqe puree, a paprika puree, and adorned with onion, tomato, and sliced kosher pickle. Oy gevalt! As much I have raved about the food in Paris, I found the winner. If you are ever in town, you are going. I'm sorry, but you have no choice.
I left that heavenly kosher deli/Jewish bakery/godly oasis thinking life could not get better. I was in such a mood that I decided I would walk home.
And that is no short stroll, mind you, even if you go direct, which I did not. But, along the way, I opened up the final stroke of genius: an apple strudel. As I sunk my teeth in for the first bite, I was literally stopped in my tracks and let out such a groan that the woman in front of me stopped to turn and look at the lunatic behind her. I could only smile. As I walked back through the star-lit (and yes, it was, as this was the first and only clear day of the trip) Parisian night, taste of Jewish baking still on my tongue, I could only think, "When will I be here next?"
Rarely on a ski trip are we so fortunate as to get fresh snow from day one. Usually, we seem to get one good dumping towards the end of the trip. This, time, however, it snowed for the first two days and nights. One of the greatest aspects of Big Sky, Montana is that it is near essentially nothing. While most ski resorts in Colorado are in driving range of Denver, or most in Utah of Salt Lake City, Big Sky is about as remote as it gets. For the powder obsessed, "no lift lines" are words to die for. There are no friends on a powder day.
The rest of the trip went much of the same way. Two more days of downhill on our still-deserted mountain, followed by one more day of cross country out in West Yellowstone on Friday, where we once again flogged ourselves for hours as we explored one of the nation's most prized national parks. After a 16 km ski, we had built up quite the appetite. While burgers and pulled pork did the job of satiating or hunger pangs, the highlight of the day was undoubtedly this:
The Lone Peak Brewery sampler. A beer rack built of two sawed-off skis, the sampler consists of 10 4 oz. samples of the beer currently on tap at the brewery, which brews all of its own, well, brews on site. From left to right you have: 1) Nordic Blonde 2) Headplant Pale Ale 3) Hellroaring ESB 4) Lone Peak IPA 5) Buck Snort Porter 6) Hippy Highway Oatmeal Stout 7) Swiftwater Pilsner 8) Wit's End Belgian White Ale 9) Steep n' Deep Winter Ale 10) Bourbon Barrel Stout.
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