Paris, part three

Last night, right before leaving Paris on the fast train, I let myself be tempted. I tasted the nuts of Old Jack. My tongue painted slow circles on the substantially sized flattened spheres, tenderly tracing surface cracks and clearly defined edges in the process. The outside had a hint of ruggedness to it and betrayed only little of the explosive tenderness I was about to receive. So much pleasure in a dimly lit room!

The day had started more conventionally. I had met with collaborators at the Pasteur Institute. We explained to each other what we had been doing between sending emails to each other, and discussed how our efforts might be turned into a publication. The meeting went well, and it was quick. By one in the afternoon I was off to do sightseeing in a city that I haven’t properly visited in eleven years.

Right away, I took the metro down to the Arc de Triomphe and ambled down the Champs Élysées. It was a very cold day, but Paris is a city that will always warm my heart. When I see the Eiffel Tower, and it’s widely visible, a true landmark, my heart skips a beat and I start bopping down the street instead of walking. Eventually, I got to the Grand and Petit Palais. These have only recently been restored to and, in all likelihood, beyond their original splendor. All I remember from last time were heavy equipment, tall wooden fences and curiosity-tickling impenetrable plastic foil all the way up to the roof. Now, major art exhibitions are staged here in the most appropriate settings.

I also spent time in the Tuileries and around the Louvre. Just about then, the sun decided to play its games with me. For only a few seconds and seemingly out of nowhere it would paint the glorious architecture in a light that makes winter so great for traveling. It was frustrating because I would hardly ever be at the right place at the right time in order to capture the splendor with my camera, but chasing the elusive rays kept me warm at least.

By way of the two islands in the Seine, I got to the Marais and the Quartier Latin, two very relaxed neighborhoods right and left of the river that charm with their narrow cobbled streets, cafés, and quirky boutiques. I was frozen by now and looking for a place to have tea and cake. The day was nearing its end, and I knew I’d miss the sunset I had originally wanted to capture from Montmartre. But it was cold and the desire for cake stronger.

That’s when La Jacobine opened her doors for me, a small cozy salon de the inside an unassuming alley. The tea was six euros a pot and the cake eight fifty a piece, but who’s counting when you’re in Paris for the first time in a few years. I had my issues with the tea, though. If you charge an arm and a leg you’d better brew it right. Don’t just put the leaves into the hot water. Take them out when the tea is done. How do I know who many minutes have passed? How do I know how long this particular tea takes? And why do I have to ask for a little saucer to remove the leaves and prevent them from turning the concoction thick, dark and bitter? In any case, the chocolate cake was simply divine.

Warmed up and sweetened, I continued my stroll. I noticed the number of street markets and the quality of the produce. I seem to have completely forgotten about this. Carrots are orange and have lush green leaves. Apples are big, firm, and exist in a hundred regional varieties. A significant portion of the species on offer were unknown to me. This is the EU’s Common Agricultural Policy in action, the result of Germans’ paying high taxes and the French’s subsidizing their farmers. The most beautiful looking greens mankind has ever beheld, next to fresh, prime meat, poultry, and treasures of the seas.

Maybe it was from one of those markets that Old Jack’s nuts, introduced in the first paragraph, had come from. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, I wasn’t talking about some pink sort of naughtiness but noix de St. Jacques, the adductor muscles of St. James’ scallops, a huge bivalve mollusc from France’s northern shores. I treated myself to this delicacy in a restaurant near the Gare du Nord when my train to London was still an hour and a half off. It was truly delightful.

Shellfish is usually banned from my plate and palate because of its gummi-like chewiness. Only once before, at a tapas bar in Barcelonta, have I been satisfied with octopus. That was an eye-opening experience because it told me what such things can taste like if they’re fresh and prepared with care and love. Tonight was no difference. The noix had been grilled for a few instants and its slightly charred exterior hid a soft heart much like a good steak or magrait de canard does. The meal came with rice, slivers of carrot and a sauce that looked creamy and rich but was delicate and unimposing and left the meat the uncontested king of the plate. Enjoying the last little morsels, I almost missed my train.