Grenoble - Capital of the Alps

Mountains around Grenoble

We left Paris on a rare bright sunny day, bound for Grenoble in Southeast France. Just three hours from Paris by TGV, Grenoble sits on a vast plain at the confluence of the Isère and Drac rivers. Only 214 meters (702 ft.) above sea level, Grenoble is the flatest city in France. That might sound like a dubious distinction, but in the case of Grenoble, it provides a perfect viewing site for the majestic peaks of the French Alps which surround the city. The writer Stendahl, talking about his hometown, said that at the end of every street in Grenoble, there is a mountain.  It was already dark when we arrived so that view would have to wait. 

A short walk from the train station took us to the Royal Hotel. The rooms there are small and minimally appointed, but that fact was offset by the cleanliness of the hotel and the genuine friendliness of the staff. The next morning, after a good breakfast in the hotel dining room, JR went off to the university and I set out to explore Grenoble. I began with a walk through the old town, planning to wend my way toward the river. Grenoble, in spite of the surrounding mountains, does not get much snow, but today was an exception The snow was falling fast and the sky was grey and low. Stendahl’s mountains at the end of every street were nowhere to be seen. Signs posted along the main streets reminded citizens that “snow removal is the responsibility of all.”  That collective all did not seem to translate, however,  into the individual I. Not a snow shovel was to be seen and the sidewalks became increasingly slippery and snow-filled. This was not a day for a walk. It was, on the other hand,  a perfect day for a museum, and Grenoble happens to have one of the best.

The Grenoble Museum of Art was founded in 1798, but it is housed in a modern, light-filled building that was constructed 20 years ago.  There was so much to see that I spent the entire day there. I began with a great temporary exhibit of modern sculpture by the Italian artist Giuseppe Penone and then wandered slowly through the ages beginning with Egyptian antiquities and ending with the museum's renowned collection of 20th-century art. In between, I took time out for lunch at the museum's restaurant, Le 5. The restaurant was completely booked, but I was able to get a seat at a big communal table.  The food was great and my lunch companions were friendly and talkative.

Our first day in Grenoble ended with a wonderful dinner at the home of a mathematician friend who at one time thought of becoming a chef. He chose mathematics, he says, because it was easier!

The next morning, I set out early to explore the city in earnest.  Most people begin a tour of Grenoble with a cable car ride up to the Bastille, a medieval fortress built above the city. The cars are bubble shaped and on a clear day provide a great view of the river, the town and the surrounding mountains. As I gazed up at the Bastille from below, its ramparts were just visible below the clouds. I decided to leave the the cable car ride for another visit.

The old town is located where 2,000 years ago Grenoble came into existence as the Gallic village of Cularo. Remnants of these early settlers can be found in the town's archeology museum. In today's old town, there are remnants of the town walls and small cobblestone streets lined with medieval and renaissance dwellings. More modern 19th-century buildings are grouped around airy squares and parks. The parks were all in winter repose, but having just walked through Grenoble's covered market, where colorful fruits and vegetables were heaped high, it was not difficult to imagine the gardens filled with similarly bright flowers on a sunny summer day. 

The history of Grenoble is told through a series of exhibits at the Musée de l'ancien évêché. Housed in the splendid rooms of the old palace of the local bishop, the museum traces the history of the region from paleolithic times to the present day. While there, a museum guard  also gave me a good tip for a restaurant for lunch, La tavola calda, a nearby family owned restaurant.  Eating Italian in the home of fondues and gratins may seem odd, but, in fact, Grenoble has a large Italian population and dozens of Italian restaurants. La tavola calda turned out to be a place where no one, except me, entered without kissing and being kissed by the pizza chef, who was installed in front of his wood-burning oven in the middle of the restaurant. On the advice of two regulars sitting next to me, I ordered pasta and was not disappointed.  Contact established, my seat mates and I talked about everything from architecture, to Fox New's Paris "No-Go Zones," to the rebirth of Detroit.  At the end of the meal, they introduced me to the chef, the waitress and the woman whose father started the restaurant. I'm pretty sure if I went back again, I would be welcomed with kisses.

Big department stores line the main streets, but the old town is full of small artisan shops.  During the 18th and 19th centuries, Grenoble was famous for its high-end leather gloves which were sold the world over. Less-expensive imports signaled the decline of the industry, but there are still one or two luxury glove makers in Grenoble. The glove store was closed when I went by, but I did buy a hat at a small shop nearby. (A new company, FST Handwear, is trying to revive the glove industry in Grenoble by giving a new look to classic Grenoble gloves. Their products are available online.)

On Saturday with the sky over Grenoble still grey and heavy, we decided that if the sun would not come to us, we would go to the sun. With borrowed snowshoes, we piled into a friend's car and headed toward the ski resort of Chamrousse, one of many ski resorts near Grenoble. As we twisted and turned up the mountainous road, the snow became heavy on the trees and the fog became denser. Hope began to wane, but then, like magic, we drove through the clouds into an enchanted world of crystal blue skies, brilliant sunshine and and new, pure-white snow sparkling like diamonds. 

We parked the car, put on our snowshoes and started up the trail at a place called Bachat Bouloud at 1,735 meters of altitude (6,000 ft.). Jackets, sweaters, hats and gloves came off as we climbed to our destination, 400 meters (1,300 ft.) up the mountain. The trail begins in a pine forest that eventually gives way to open slopes with, on most days, a bird's eye view of Grenoble in the valley below.  Today, however, Grenoble was lost under a lake of snow-white clouds, which, rather than diminishing the view, only added to its mystical quality. We climbed to a pass where we could see two mountain ranges; spread our coats on the snow; and dined on fresh baguette, comté cheese and fruit.  After a little nap in the sun, we headed back down and ended the day with a beer on the terrace of a mountain cafe.

After a great four-day visit, we left the next day on a morning where the sun did make some brief appearances. Finally I was lucky enough to get Stendhal's view of the mountains from Grenoble. 

To see more photos, click here.

A bientôt,

Geraldine

Photos by Geraldine Calisti Kaylor

Nice - A French/Italian Interlude

After two months of almost constant grey skies, the sun was shining brightly on our last day in Paris. We were headed for Pisa, via Nice where JR was attending a math conference. If the weather held, we would have a beautiful flight. As if to compensate us for all the rainy days, the skies stayed clear and about an hour or so out of Paris, a shimmering mass appeared on the horizon. Then, below our eyes, the snow-covered jagged peaks of the French Alps took shape and rose above the surrounding landscape almost as high, it seemed, as the sky itself. As the plane came in for a landing at the Nice airport a short time later, we had an unparalleled view of the entire Côte d'Azur.

Nice is a perfect transition between the bright lights of Paris and the small-town, medieval atmosphere of Pisa, where we will be for the next two months. Although much smaller than Paris, Nice is still a big and bustling city. And it offers some things that Paris does not: the Mediterranean Sea, the mountains of the Pre-Alps, blue skies and warm sunshine. The town also has a real Italian feel - not surprising since Nice was part of Italy until 1860 - and on the streets you hear lots of people speaking Italian. 

Traveling with us was a good friend from Paris, Adrian Leeds, who was looking for and found an apartment to buy in Vieux Nice, the oldest part of the city. While JR was hard at work pushing back the frontiers of mathematics, Adrian and I trekked up and down hundreds of steep stone stairs (no elevators in old Nice) looking at apartments that ranged from awful to okay. Then on the third day, we found the one that was the diamond in the rough - a great view, a balcony, big windows and high ceilings. To read more, (or to rent the apartment when the renovations are finished) go to Adrian's site here.

With the apartment taken care of, Adrian and I had time to enjoy Nice's Carnaval, an 18-day long party that fills the streets with floats, flowers, confetti and lots of happy people. We ate lunch on the touristy, but beautiful and sunny Cours Saleya, a salade niçoise for Adrian and soccca for me. (Socca is a flavorful chick-pea flour crepe that's made in a pizza oven and served with olive oil and lots of pepper. My favorite socca in Nice is at the Socca d'Or on rue Bonaparte near the Port.) On her last day in town, Adrian and I celebrated at La Petite Mason, a great restaurant just around the corner from her new apartment.

Modern-day travelers love Nice for its mild climate, its beaches, the wide sweep of the Baie des Anges (the Bay of Angels), and the long Promenade des Anglais, where you can walk for miles along the sea. It seems the area has always been attractive to people, since what are thought to be the oldest human settlements in Europe are located near Nice at Terra Amata. The Greeks came to the area around 350B.C. and gave the town the name Nikaia, the forerunner of its modern name, after Nike, the goddess of victory. When the Romans arrived in the beginning of the 1st century, they built Cemenelum in the protective hills high above the sea in the area of Nice now known as Cimiez. 

Once on my own, that's where I headed to see the extensive Gallo-Roman ruins and the Cimiez-Cemenelum Archeological Museum, located in the Jardins de Cimiez. The park, fragrant with olive, pine and cypress trees, is also home to a beautiful 17th century Genoese villa that houses the Matisse Museum. Matisse spent the last 40 years of his life in Nice and the museum has a good collection of his works. Within sight of the museum is the elegant Hotel Regina, where Matisse lived, and the cemetery of the Franciscan Monastery of Cimiez, where the artist is buried.

On Saturday, the last day of our stay in Nice and also coincidentally my birthday, JR and I took the train to Menton for lunch at Mirazur, a restaurant with a spectacular view and food to match. (In 2009, Chef Mauro Colagreco's Mirazur made the S.Pelligrino 50 Best Restaurants in the World List.)

After meeting the chef, who gave us a tour of the kitchen, we said our goodbyes, walked along the sea, found a cozy niche among the rocks, and sat in the sun.

Next stop - Pisa.

To see more photos, click here.

A presto,

Geraldine

Photos by Geraldine Calisti Kaylor

Nice
France

NO END TO PARIS

Paris 2011

There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it….Paris was always worth it.   

                                                                                           Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

There may be no end to Paris, but the end of our stay here is in sight. The time passed quickly and there were so many things I wanted to write about that will have to wait until next time. I'm in good company though. Hemingway didn't begin writing The Moveable Feast - a book about his year in Paris in the 1920s - until 1957. 

I'm always sad to leave Paris, but never sorry to leave behind the grey Paris winter. In his opening lines of The Moveable Feast, Hemingway describes it this way: 

Then there was the bad weather. It would come in one day when the fall was over. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain and the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe.

Ahead of us is Pisa, but on the way we'll be stopping for a week in Nice, where the sun shines 300 days a year. JR will be at a conference, but I'll have plenty to do. I'm going to tag along with a friend who is looking for an apartment to buy in Nice's Old Town. It's the beginning of Carnival so there'll be lots of festivities and, if the weather cooperates, I'm also planning to take the wonderful "Train des Pignes" up into the mountains. We have reservations for Saturday lunch at Mirazur, a restaurant in nearby Menton that a recent New York Times article said is "worth a plane trip."  I'm feeling better already.  

It's been a great two months in Paris and like Hemingway, we're planning our return. In the meantime, here are some visual souvenirs of our stay. Click here to see the photos. 

A bientôt,

Geraldine

Paris
France

DROUOT, A DAY AT THE AUCTION

At some point in my childhood, my father became enamored of antiques and began searching for bargains at local auction houses. Without my mother's compliance, he set about transforming our house. Soon, our suitable, kid-worn living room couch and chairs disappeared, replaced by a suite of "French Provincial" furniture, whose main attribute was that it made the floor seem comfortable. Side tables with delicate spindly legs, which tipped over at the slightest provocation, completed the ensemble.

Our vocabulary changed too. A couch was now a divan; light fixtures became chandeliers and sconces; the bureau a commode; and the cabinet that held our dishes in the dining room a credenza. Our mantle, previously a repository for keys and stray items, began to fill up with a collection of vases (now pronounced vāzs) made of what my father assured us was authentic Venetian glass. If she had embraced our new, elevated vocabulary, my mother would have called these vases, ramasse-poussière. Instead, somewhat irreverently and much to my father's annoyance, she called his prized collection "nothing but a bunch of goddamn dust collectors." 

I thought of all this recently when I visited the Drouot auction house at the Hôtel Drouot in Paris, the firm's headquarters since 1852. Drouot has four auction locations in the city, 100 auctioneers, 70 independent auction firms, and 21 exposition halls, where 3,000 auctions are held every year. According to its website, "Drouot is the oldest public auction house in the world, a crossroads of the art market, an inexhaustible reservoir of paintings, furniture and art objects of every epoch and price…a magical and ephemeral museum open to all."

Drouot is also a place to see and be seen by le tout Paris. Experienced art and antique dealers, mink-clad matrons and hip young designers stand elbow to elbow with hopeful, first-time bargain hunters and grey-haired retirees. When bidding starts, everyone has a chance. If your bid is the highest, the auctioneer's gavel will slam down, the word adjugé will ring out, and you will be the proud owner of one of the innumerable items sold at Drouot each year. It could be a famous painting for a million euros or a 10-euro box of uncatalogued bibelots and bric-a-brac. 

A novice to auctions might find Drouot a bit intimating. There are experts in the halls who bid with just a raised eyebrow while other bids come in, fast and furiously, over the telephone and the internet. The competition can be fierce and all the discussion, of course, is conducted in French. 

You don't have to buy anything, however, to have a good time. Drouot does have a museum-like quality and there's great people watching. On sale days, all the auction rooms are alive with the sing-song of bids, the buzz of conversation and the sometimes satisfied, sometimes disappointed sighs of the bidders. And a day at Drouot obviously brings back memories. Over and over again, people point to any one of hundreds and hundreds of objects on display and exclaim: "Mamie had one of those."

I saw lots of divans, chandeliers and Venetian vases that my father would have loved. On the other hand, I know exactly what my mother would have said.



For more photos, click here.

A bientôt,

Geraldine

Paris
France

LOCKS OF LOVE IN PARIS

As Valentine's Day approaches, locksmiths in Paris may see an increase in business as lovers of all ages seek out the perfect Love Lock. What better day than February 14 for lovers to attach their locks, a symbol of their eternal love, to the bridges of Paris? The preferred bridges are the Pont des Arts, which crosses the Seine near the Louvre, and the Pont de l'Archevêché behind Notre Dame. An endearing romantic custom or an eyesore, as I see it, love locks now cover bridges all over the world.

We first saw them a few years ago in Florence on the Ponte Vecchio, a romantic bridge that needs no embellishment. There, the railing around the bust of Benvenuto Cellini  - who, as luck or love would have it, died on February 14, 1571 in Florence - practically sagged under the weight of the locks. Florence has since banned the practice, but love, accustomed to obstacles, continues to win out and the locks seem as numerous as ever.

On a recent Sunday, we watched as a couple of a certain age glided on roller blades on to the Pont des Arts. Colorfully dressed and sporting bracelets of small bells, they jingled their way to the middle of the bridge, bent down and attached a small brass lock. Then they stood up, kissed and together threw the key to the lock into the Seine. Thus, their love is sealed forever - unless they part before then or until the City of Paris comes and removes the lock. 

The history of love locks is somewhat obscure. Everything from a Pagan custom to an Italian novel have been put forth as the origin of the practice. Whatever the truth, cities all over the world are debating about leaving or removing the locks. Paris, the City of Love, but also the city of order and beauty, is in a particularly difficult  position. 

In the beginning of May 2010, Paris City Hall announced that although they found the phenomenon of love locks "pleasant, likable and spontaneous," eventually the locks would have to be removed to preserve national heritage. Then on May 13, pedestrians crossing the Pont des Arts found that all but a handful of the approximately 2,000 locks adorning the bridge had been removed sometime during the night. According to City officials, "the municipal services did not intervene."* The mystery of who was responsible for removing the locks has not been solved, but no matter, the removal just provided a clean slate for a whole new group of lovers. Once again, locks on the bridge are declaring the eternal love of couples such as Laurent and Agnes, Meredith and Drew, and Shelly and Franz.

City Hall has not called me yet, but I have a great idea. Paris should commission a large, hollow, translucent statue - a copy of Venus de Milo or if that offends artistic sensibilities, a huge lock, a heart, a key? The French love debate so a public discussion on the matter could be launched. Then the City could convene a commission of artists and intellectuals to study the matter and select the winning form. If I'm asked to be on the committee, I'll suggest that the Hommage à l'amour, as I'm calling it, be placed in the sculpture garden on the Quai St. Bernard with its unparalleled view of Notre Dame. 

When hopeful lovers placed their love locks among thousands of others on a Paris bridge, they would know that at some point, the city would remove them, recycle some and put a randomly-chosen few into the statue.  I think it would meet with general acceptance because even the most ardent lover knows that you need to be lucky to survive in love.

To see more photos, click here.

A bientôt,

Geraldine

Photos by Geraldine Calisti Kaylor
*The Telegraph
  May 13, 2010

NEW YEAR'S DAY IN PARIS

Like the Grinch who stole Christmas, I crept downstairs on Christmas morning and removed the holiday wreath from our front door. We planned to be in Paris for New Year's Day and the first leg of our journey was by car from Ann Arbor to the East Coast. 

We drove south through Michigan in the dark of early morning and turned east on Route 80, where for the next 500 miles there would be no major towns. In Ohio, the pale grey dawn revealed an almost deserted highway passing through seemingly endless farmland. Until the 1850s, this area was known as the Great Black Swamp, a place of endemic malaria and impenetrable marshes. By late morning, we were in the Appalachian Mountains of Pennsylvania. Four hundred million years ago, these mountains were the  highest on earth - much taller than the present-day Himalayas. Today their highest point on Route 80 is 2,250 feet (686 meters). 

We passed into New Jersey at the Delaware Water Gap on the border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey. Here, when the Appalachians were at  their highest, water that eventually would become today's Delaware River, began its inexorable task of cutting a passage through the towering mountains. The end of our trip, like the beginning, was shrouded in darkness, but an hour later, we were gathered around the family table for Christmas dinner - the beginning of a festive week with family and friends.

On New Year's Eve, we boarded a US Airways flight for Paris. At midnight Paris time, flight attendants attired in holiday hats, wished us Bonne Année a Paris and we toasted in the New Year. 

We arrived at deGaulle Airport to the good news that in honor of the New Year, all trains to Paris were free of charge. The bad news was that there was an action sociale (a strike)  in progress, which meant that trains would run only every 20 minutes;  would go only as far as Paris' northern station and not center city; and were running 15-20 minutes late. Still, it was a nice gesture. 

The weather was grey, damp and cold. A persistent fog obscured the distant views of Paris and until the train entered its underground passage, we were left to contend with the sight of graffiti-scarred railway sidings and nearby neglected buildings. 

Paris, therefore, looked all the more stunning when we stepped out of the metro an hour later. And its deserted streets seemed to be ours alone. Presumedly, Parisians had partied hard the night before and were still in bed at this early hour. We found a bakery and headed to our apartment for coffee and our first pain au chocolat. By afternoon, Paris was humming again and we walked about and bought some groceries.

Because the best way to overcome jet lag is to enter into the local rhythm, we arranged to meet a friend in the early evening to take in an extraordinary exhibit at the Grand Palais celebrating the 125th anniversary of the Italian jewelry company Bulgari. With our eyes still dazzled by rubies, emeralds and diamonds as big as the Ritz, we stepped out of the museum and on to an equally sparkling Champs-Elysées. The four hundred trees that line the avenue  were lit by a million twinkling holiday lights and a Christmas market lined the  famous street. Presiding over it all was La Grande Roue, a 200-foot-high illuminated Ferris Wheel.

The first day of our stay in Paris ended in the cozy 12th-century cave of the Equinox, a friendly neighborhood restaurant. As jazz music mixed and mingled with the melodious sound of French, we ate hot soup and boudin blanc and toasted our return to Paris. 

For more photos, click here.

A bientôt,

Geraldine

Photos by Geraldine Calisti Kaylor

Paris
France

A CHANCE ENCOUNTER WITH THE PRESIDENT

Spring came to Paris today with blue skies and warm sunshine. A friend and I decided to take in the new Turner exhibit at the Grand Palais. The Grand Palais, like all the national museums, is closed on Tuesdays, but for the Turner exhibit, it's open from 9 a.m. until 2 p.m. Not too many people know this yet so when we got there at noon, the museum was practically empty. Two hours was almost enough time to see everything and we stayed until the guards chased us out.

A short walk across the street took us to the Petit Palais, which is a free city museum. City museums, in contrast to national museums,  are open on Tuesdays and the Petit Palais is a great place to have lunch. The food is good, pretty reasonable and there's a wonderful outdoor eating area with a great view. We found a table in the sun and pretty soon it was warm enough to take off our coats. We lingered over coffee, talking until the sun sank behind the building.

Not wanting to take the metro on such a beautiful day, we decided to walk home. It's a spectacular walk - down the  Champs Elysées (which looked particularly festive since it's adorned with Russian and French flags for the state visit of Russian President Dmitry Medvedev) across the Place de la Concorde, through the Gardens of the Tuileries and on to the courtyard of the Louvre with its famous glass pyramid.

As we approached the Louvre, we noticed barricades, official-looking limousines and lots of policemen. The Louvre, being a national museum, is closed on Tuesdays, but when the Presidents of France and Russia come calling, the doors are always open. The crowd standing behind the barricades was surprisingly small so we joined them. The next thing we knew we were face to face with French President  Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife, Carla Bruni. We may not be on the same side of the political fence - Nicolas and I - but still it's not every day that one meets a president up close and personal. Speaking of up close and personal, there's been some sniping in French gossip magazines that Carla, the former supermodel, is not looking so good lately.  Let me be the first to tell you that it's not true - she looks great.

A few minutes later, Medvedev and his wife arrived in a big black limousine. They were officially greeted and the whole group walked into the Louvre to inaugurate the new exhibit Sainte Russie. We were not invited, but before he left, Nicolas gave us one final wave. We waved back,  turned and  walked on home. 

To see more photos, click here.

                                                                               A bientôt,

                                                                               Geraldine                                                        
                                                          






 Photos by Geraldine Calisti Kaylor

Paris
France

CREPES IN PARIS

Standing next to me in an overcrowded metro recently was a  young boy eating his after-school snack. As the train lurched to a stop, he bumped into me and in the process transferred some of the chocolate that covered his face on to my new Parisian coat. With a sheepish grin, the young gamin stuffed the last big morsel of crepe into his already full mouth, then tried to say: "Excusez-moi, Madame." His intent was clear, but the phrase was lost in a mouthful of French delight. It was difficult to be angry in the face of such pleasure and besides, chocolate accidents  are to be expected in France in February. It is, after all, crepe month -  le mois des crêpes.

The origins of the modern-day festivities are linked to the Christian observance of Candlemas, celebrated on February 2. Tradition has it that in 492 A.D. the Pope offered the Italian version of crepes (crespelle) to the faithful who had come to Rome to celebrate the holiday. The origin of crepes is lost in antiquity, but archaeologists have discovered perfectly-preserved Stone Age pancakes, and third-century Greek writer Athenaeus in The Deipnosophists gives a recipe for crepes very similar to modern versions.

Crepes, in various forms, can be found in almost all countries under many different names. In France, crepes are a speciality of the region of Brittany, where hearty dark buckwheat crepes - also known as galettes - are traditionally filled with ham and cheese, topped by an egg and accompanied by Breton cider. From the Paris region comes one of the country's most well-known desserts: Crêpes Suzette - very thin, light pancakes served flaming in a mixture of liqueurs, usually orange flavored. Crêpes Suzette are so famous, in fact, that their name needs no English translation - a Crêpe Suzette is a Crepe Suzette. (Click here to see British comedian Kenneth Williams sing the very funny Ma Crêpe Suzette - an English song composed entirely of French words.) 

Creperies in Paris first appeared in the streets surrounding the Gare Montparnasse - the station where the trains from Brittany arrive. It was there that I tasted my first crepe - not a flaming Crêpe Suzette, but rather a simple, jam-filled crepe, topped with sugar. Anatole France, the French author and poet, who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1921, could have been describing my first crepes (yes, I had more than one) when he wrote: 

"...sprinkled with sugar and eaten hot, they form an exquisite dish.  They have a golden hue and are tempting to eat. Thin and transparent like muslin, their edges are trimmed to resemble fine lace."  

Crepes make quick, inexpensive snacks that can be purchased from street vendors all over Paris. Their speciality seems to be crepes filled with Nutella, a chocolate hazelnut spread that European kids and adults love - in the same way that Americans love peanut butter.  Nutella is probably what the young man in the metro smeared on my coat.

For a more authentic and less messy lunch or dinner, here are three of my favorite creperies. They are all in or near our neighborhood in the Marais, but that will just give you another reason to visit this great part of Paris. At each restaurant, I had a crêpe complête - a buckwheat crepe filled with ham and gruyere cheese, topped with a sunny-side-up egg. In the interest of good journalism, I also sampled (okay ate entirely and then licked my fingers afterward) a simple lemon and sugar crepe, a butter and honey crepe, and a chocolate crepe with pears and vanilla ice cream.  Crepes are best accompanied by Breton cider so I had that too - but only one bowl at each place.

Crêperie Bretonne, near the Place de la Bastille, has great crepes.  Walk through the blue doors and you'll feel like you're in Brittany. If you have a good imagination, the sound of passing cars becomes the murmur of ocean waves. The decor is authentic Breton and so are the crepes - rich and flavorful and earthy. Prices are very reasonable and there is a good selection of ciders. The dessert crepes are so good that you'll have a hard time choosing, but chances are you'll love whatever you pick.

Breizh Cafe sits on a sunny corner in the heart of the Marais. The decor is simple, the staff is friendly and the crepes are authentically Breton. (The original Brezh Cafe is located by the sea in Cancale.) At Breizh Cafe, the crepe itself takes center stage with buckwheat crepes that are dark and strong tasting. The ingredients are very fresh and there is a good variety of ciders that you can buy by the bowl or in larger pitchers. Their dessert crepes, made from a lighter wheat flour, range from the traditional jam and sugar crepes to the delicious chocolate, pear and ice cream crepe, which I shared with a friend (honestly).

Crêperie Suzette has a lighter buckwheat batter than the other two, but the edges are nice and crispy; the fillings are fresh; and egg is perfectly cooked, meaning a yolk that runs deliciously over the ham and cheese with a white that is firm and moist. There is a lunchtime menu of 11 euros that includes a main dish crepe, a dessert crepe and coffee. It's a small, convivial place and is usually crowded, but there's an upstairs room with a little more elbow room.

If you want to try your hand at crepes at home, they are easy to make. For a good basic explanation and recipes, click here. Bon appetit!

For more photos, click here.            


(Travel Oyster and I were featured in a Paris newsletter last week.  Click here to read about us in Parler Paris Nouvellettre.)

                                           A bientôt,                                                                

                                              Geraldine

Crêperie Bretonne                         
67, rue de Charonne (11th)
Tél: 01 43 55 62 29
Briezh Cafe
109, rue Vieille du Temple (3rd)
Tél: 01 42 72 13 77                                 
Crêperie Suzette
4 Rue des Francs Bourgeois (4th)Tél: 01 42 72 46 16

                                                                     

                                                

Photos by Geraldine Calisti Kaylor

Paris
France