Paris from the dome of Sacre Coeur
Ah, Paris. City of joie de vivre, esprit de corps, and that certain je ne sais quoi. After I won David's competition, and secured my two free Eurostar tickets, David asked if I'd write a post or two reporting back from my travels. So here I am. If you're one of those for whom holiday snaps and anecdotes produce instant narcolepsy, it's probably best you stop here.
Un peu d'un bargain
Okay, so for those still reading, this jaunt began in earnest when we (my wife, Wendy, and I) decided it was last-minute enough to try some last-minute hotel deals.
After plenty of surfing, we found what looked like an amazing deal on the Mr & Mrs Smith site: one of those hidden-gem boutique hotels, tucked away behind a garden wall in the hodge-podge of streets around Montmartre: Le Hotel Particuliere (of which more in Pt 2). It was advertised at €160 (about £140 these days), instead of the usual €390. Wow: you don't see bargains like that very often. We tapped the card details in at top speed before it went away.
Well, to cut a long story short, it turned out the price was a mistake, and we were asked to pay €90 more. I got very huffy, and consulted the Twitterverse:
Twitter, as ever, was swift and accurate with the answer: essentially, 'No.' Arse. Still fuming, I wrote a snotty email to Mr & Mrs Smith. Shortly after, the phone rang and a very nice lady from Mr & Mrs Smith told Wendy we could have the price as originally quoted. I suddenly felt a bit guilty for writing such a 'Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells' message. Still, it did the trick.
The names on the trains
With our two boys safely in the hands of their Granny (God bless Grannies), we wanted to make the most of our two days in France, so we got up ridiculously early and made the 6.40 train to London. By 9am we were in our 'Leisure Select' seats on the Eurostar.
Wendy settles in
I know I should have been relaxing, but that name, 'Leisure Select', got my copywriter brain going. It's actually First Class, although they don't call it that any more because they've made their Business Premier class the top level.
But 'Leisure Select' doesn't sound like First Class, does it? To me, it sounds more like a bus ticket or something: one of those rather basic products that's given a slightly aspirational-sounding name to make you (or, more often, the provider) feel better about it.
Naming aside, though, the seats were great. And two hours, 20 minutes later we were in Paris. (Only slightly longer than the journey from Dorking to St Pancras.)
Le Tour Eiffel from Montmartre
Montmartre isn't far from the Gare du Nord, so we walked it, and arrived among the steep, cobbled avenues and the endless flights of steps feeling happy but hungry. In Montmartre, you can't throw a pain au chocolat without hitting a charming little bistro, so we went into the first one we stopped outside: Le Progres, it was called.
A lunchtime surprise
We squeezed either side of a tiny table just inside the door, and soon enough were presented with two great-looking plates: chicken and chips for Wendy, which of course sounds better as poulet au frites, and a huge slice of roast salmon for me.
Alongside this splendid bit of fish were two odd-looking discs that I took for mushrooms. I love my food, and am always keen to try something new, so popped one of these peculiar-looking things into my mouth.
It was not a mushroom.
Whatever it was, it was the most disgusting thing I have ever eaten. It was like chewing on a slice of ripe, aged dog turd. At least, that was the first image that came to mind as my tastebuds howled in protest and searched desperately for the exit.
Eventually I swallowed the damn thing, my vision started to clear, and over Wendy's shoulder I saw three middle-aged French women convulsed with laughter at my tortured expressions. One was even reduced to holding her napkin over her eyes, to soak up the tears. Every time they started to calm down, one of them would glance over at me, and they'd be in hysterics again.
I have a theory these jolly femmes go regularly to Le Progres, to watch idiot Englishmen like me eat whole slices of what I now know to be Andouille: boiled and roasted tripe sausage.
The English waiter explained what it was, and that 'it's not very popular with foreigners.' Indeed. Still, it was an excuse for another beer to wash it all down. And the rest of the food was fantastic.
It was also nice to reflect that I could honestly claim to have made three local women very happy within less than two hours of arriving.
There's more to tell, but you'll have to wait (with bated breath, no doubt) while I get some work done. Look out for Part 2, kids! << Update: Part Two is now up here.
Sorry, but I actually can’t stop laughing too!
Posted by: Loïc | 25 November 2009 at 07:02 PM
Mike, we went there almost every day we were in Paris! My god that brings back memories...
Posted by: Thom Wong | 21 December 2009 at 05:36 PM
Good lord. On this side of the pond, Andouille is a wonderful spicy sausage from where a bunch of French-Canadians landed in the southern US after getting forcefully evicted from the Maritime provinces.
Posted by: Justin | 31 December 2009 at 01:52 AM