Back in Paris

Almost Famous

Well, I arrived in Paris the other day in the pouring rain. It was over two hours in a cab to the apartment due to the weather and a visit from King Charles and Camilla. No-I was not at the state dinner at Versailles for a 150 people in the Hall des Glaces. I am certain my invitation was simply lost in the mail. My housekeeper was quite outraged about the whole event as she muttered all morning about how the taxpayers were on the hook for this ridiculous party. After the whole trash debacle this spring, I think I am in agreement with her regarding the bourgeois priorities of the French Government. That said, I am not above wishing I was a fly on the wall at the grand fête.

This trip is a quick one of three weeks. I wanted to get my bearings and get signed up for LCB—part two. I am going to take another stab at it with the Intermediate Cuisine course, starting again in January. Looks like I will be sharpening my knives and my wits for this second go round. In the meantime-lots of fun things going on here.

A couple of nights ago my new neighbors hosted a party at their apartment. While I was very excited to meet whoever else they had invited, I was completely undecided on what to wear. Was this a come-as-you-are type thing or a dress-to-the-nines soirée? Ultimately, I decided that when in Paris—dress up! A short dress and tall boots seemed just the thing, and boy was I glad. The crowd was a sophisticated mix of Parisians and Americans. Lots of designer types with French and English spoken in a jumble by everyone in bits and pieces—some English here, a little French there, a few hand gestures to illustrate a point. Everyone was trying to bridge the language gap and it was fun. Their apartment was beautifully appointed and the servers just kept sweeping the room with open bottles in hand, refilling everyone’s glasses before they were even half empty— I think in a bid to aid social lubrication and improve language skills. My kind of service!

On a side note, Paris is in the throes of fashion week(s) as we speak, and everyone is putting on the dog, whether they are invited to a show or not. It has made reservations for dinner impossible to get, uber and cabs scarce, and elevated expectations for everything. I have to say I don’t love it. It takes a little away from the local flavor and kind of homogenizes the experience. Everyone is everywhere and everything is so dramatic.

That said, there are some perks. For example, I had been dying to see the suites at the Cheval Blanc Hotel across the bridge, and because it is owned by Bernard Arnault, who also owns Louis Vuitton and a host of other brands, they were having a special event that showcased all their jewels, handmade trunks and couture dresses in the top two suites of the Cheval Blanc.

Wow! Just Wow! It left me speechless! Not only are the suites beautiful but they are on the eighth floor of the hotel with—I kid you not —360 degree views of Paris. You can see everything from the Eiffel Tower, to Notre Dame to Sacre Coeur. Pretty amazing. Not sure how much an overnight stay would set you back, but it might be worth it to check. Not to sound like a real estate agent, but they had four bedrooms apiece, each with a big living room, swimming pool and terrace. We could split it! Have our own soirée!

As an extra treat, I even got to try on this amazing couture gown that was worn by a French actress to this year’s Cannes Film Festival. In reality, I have absolutely nowhere to wear it, nor can I afford it, but I fell in love with it’s hand-beaded beauty anyway. Everything was very bespoke and I am not sure who was buying the very expensive items—there were quite a few lookers, but the displays were beautiful.

The disco Cocoon and and a very uncomfortable looking stainless steel sofa—form over function?

Les and I on the terrace of the suites—10th Floor of Cheval Blanc

A view of one of the suites from the upstairs hallway. Pretty cool!

As I was trying on the fancy couture dress, the LV hostesses were explaining all about the design of the hotel and the store by the very famous architect, Peter Marino. They spoke about him in reverent tones. He has apparently designed the last 14 stand alone Chanel stores all over the world, and, in addition, has been the architect and designer of several other luxury stores for Dior, LV and others. He is a visionary and so talented. There was a coffee table book in the suite and they proudly showed me his image and my eyes about popped out of my head! I was expecting an older gentleman in a sweater and maybe cashmere slacks—you know like out of the Hamptons or something. Couldn’t have been farther from the reality. Peter Marino looks like an escapée from a Village People tribute band!

Can you say fetish?

All black leather and biceps-not what I was excpecting!

After this stunning revelation regarding Peter’s persona, which I was still trying to reconcile with the refined, slightly feminine interiors of the Cheval Blanc, we exited the upstais suite and headed down the stairs—only to see said Mr. Marino at the bottom of the steps surrounded by his entourage. I was speechless, but my hostess ran down the stairs and flung herself into his arms as if they were the oldest of friends or like he had just come back from the war. She then attempted to introduce me, but I was so discombobulated that I introduced myself with a limp handshake and a faint “Enchanté”, not even remembering that he is American! I was too stunned by his attire which was an exact replica of what you see above. The man is 74 years old and a pillar of the architectural and design community! Funnily enough though, as if the universe wanted me to get over it, I have seen him literally three days in a row all over town. We must be soulmates.

As a final note on the excesses of Fashion Week, I had purchased something from an upscale store unrelated to anything fashion-y, but did not want to carry it back to the apartment and was told it would be delivered to me between 4 and 6pm. At 6:30pm the salewoman called me to say the driver was running late—could he deliver at 9pm. I said ok even though that seemed really late and I was going to have to let him in to the building at that hour because the door code that can be used for deliveries gets disabled after 7pm—I guess to prevent lurkers from getting in and doing —actually, I don’t know what—but you know—it’s a safety thing. When the porter finally arrived with my purchases and I had signed for them, I decided to practice a little French and visit with him about the lateness of the delivery. He shrugged and said—It is Fashion Week madame—I am working 24 hours a day delivering items. It was such a Devil Wears Prada moment. I could totally see Anne Hathaway and Glenn Close getting their packages delivered late at night to their swanky hotel before going out for another Fashion Week party. Even though I was in my pajamas and robe at the time—I kind of felt in with the gang. I could have been going to a big party too—if someone had invited me that is.

As I write this I am sitting at a café on Blvd. St Germain having a chablis and watching the crowds pass by—alone, before I find something to eat for dinner. I like the anonymity of Paris. It truly is a place where you can sit by yourself and just watch the world and think your thoughts and have your ideas and no one talks to you. Sometimes that is because they are ignoring you, but who cares. It’s nice to be able to be alone in plain sight.