My Trip to Paris: A Review

Like any typical heterosexual male the idea of engagement photos seemed as appealing to me as that of a fantasy football league might to most heterosexual women. Nevertheless, I am happily engaged to the latter, and in cliché fashion conceded to said photo shoot, and have never been so grateful for a decision.

It was a week before our European vacation, and our (French) photographer asked us: “Where will you be staying when you go to Paris?”

“We got a hotel in Nice, Airbnb in Paris.”

“Oh, you better make sure they have air conditioning,” she informed us. “Most Parisians don’t have A/C’s. The units are considered ‘unsightly.’”

Umm… seriously?

The forecast for our upcoming trip was to reach record highs in temperature. Not record highs for July or our particular dates. Record highs. It was going to be 109… degrees! The hottest two days in the history of Paris, on which we’d scheduled a walk to the Louvre, then down the Seine River, and up the gabillion steps of Sacre Couer, at the end of which I’d implicitly scheduled a good night’s sleep, which would be impossible without air conditioning.

I reviewed our booking on Airbnb, and sure enough there was no A/C. When I emailed our would-be host to confirm this preposterous notion she responded: “I have a great fan though.”

Good for you.

Our late cancellation was the happiest we’ve ever been to eat $240. We had a hideous air conditioner in our otherwise lovely, entirely red suede hotel room in Villa Opera Drouot in Montmartre. There was red everywhere. Red wallpaper, red blankets, even a 360 red velvet seat in the red lobby. But it was cool, literally. It was the greatest continental breakfast we’ve ever had in our lives, and we were happy.

The first thing I noticed upon arrival at the airport was the urinals. I’ve never seen bulls’ eyes of such small diameter. Do the French have better aim?

Second was the plethora of friendly assistants at the train station, all of them fluent in English, all eagerly awaiting the opportunity to help even the most dumbfounded of tourists, which pin-pointedly described us. Can you imagine such an experience with a New York MTA worker? They look at you like instead of “Excuse me,” you opened with a derogatory slur and are requesting they literally carry you on their back to your desired destination. Paris: 1. NYC: 0

Next we sat on the train, which was faster and cleaner than New York’s, though that goes without saying, as every train on the planet, I imagine including those of third world countries, is much cleaner than New York’s. Paris: 2. NYC: 0.

We sat next to college kids, two French and one British, who were making fun of American tourists’ stereotypical ideas of Paris being this “romantic town, where everyone just gets cheese and wine and a baguette and eats it all on the streets.” When we got off the train I swear to God all I kept seeing were locals walking along the sidewalk eating baguettes or sitting at outdoor restaurants drinking wine and smoking cigarettes.

Baguettes were everywhere. I saw old men walking along the street chewing away at them, sometimes plain, others with ham and/or cheese stuffed inside. I saw young girls with grocery bags full of baguettes, others with just the one long one they’d need for that evening, way too large to fit in the designer pocketbook held in their other arm. Older women, young men, apparently poor people, rich people, black, white and Hispanic people (just kidding, there’s no Hispanics in Europe) — it seemed everyone had a baguette. I digress.

We weren’t sure if the cliché college kid pontifications were for our benefit, but I chose not to respond, a) because we weren’t sure, b) engaging in philosophical debate with college kids makes as much sense as engaging in confrontation with the schizophrenic homeless guy on the 6 train, and c) I was so jetlagged that they probably could have spread brie cheese all over my face and put their cigarette butts out in the mush and I would have let it slide. Whoever can get more than a few hours sleep on those red eyes are as gifted in my mind as Michael Jordan or David Blaine. Finally, the kids’ insults were at “Americans,” which I don’t identify as anyway. We’re New Yorkers — not Americans. There’s a difference.

We were two hours early for check-in, so decided to maximize our tourist time by taking the 20-minute walk from Montmartre to Sacre Couer.

Jesus, was it hot. It was 105 degrees. The walk was perpetually uphill and when we finally arrived there were more staircases than in the MTA’s latest atrocity, the 86 thSt. Q train. What a moronic architectural disgrace that is.

We bought water from a local store and the lady didn’t even offer us a plastic bag. None of the stores did for entire whole trip. They all had them behind the counter if you needed, but I never saw anyone take one. Paris: 3. NYC: 0.

I could feel sunburn setting in. I took off my long sleeve shirt and threw it over my head to protect myself. The Asian tourists kept their umbrellas up for protection (though when do they not?), and the Italians were next to naked (though when are they not?). The heat was inescapable. It felt like the temperature was climbing along with us up the steps. Instead of a church, it was as if we were making the pilgrimage in Egypt. We had to take regular breaks and be mindful to breathe and stay hydrated, and constantly remind ourselves: “This is vacation, we’re having fun. This is fun. It’s vacation. This is… this is… this hot as fucking hell. Let’s take a lap around this church and go home.”

Sacre Couer is gorgeous: Incredible view of the city outside, and even better art inside. A local came over and requested I remove my hat, and I wasn’t sure whether my Americanism or Judaism was more apparent. We put hats on intentionally in our place of worship.

Finally checked in the hotel, we passed out for two hours in the coolest bedroom in Paris and woke up rejuvenated. We had dinner reservations at Derriere at 19:30, which was the earliest possible reservation because 19:30 is what time Derriere opens, which is just about the fanciest thing I’ve ever heard of.

Our table wasn’t even ready yet, but the maitre’d was friendly.

“Please, have a seat, we’ll get you a glass of wine and let you know when the kitchen’s open.”

Lovely!

Even my fiancée, who is rouge-exclusive, opted for white because of the climate, and it was the best white wine either of us had ever tasted in our pathetic American lives. Pouilly Fumé, crisp, minerally, dry and perfect and it was 6 euro, half what it would be back home.

We waited and waited, watched a few other parties get ushered into the restaurant ahead of us, and wondered if we should say something. I got up to remind the host of our presence, and he was flamboyantly sweet, super pleasant and matter-of-factly excited to seat us.

Ahh, Europe. Is it possible for a constant intake of alcohol, tobacco, bread and cheese to be physiologically offset by a complete lack of urgency and adherence to time?

When we finally got inside we found an adorable, almost hipstery chic spot that had apparently been someone’s home converted into a restaurant. We each sat in our own cushiony love seat across from one another in a spread out living room/library/game room as an active ping pong table was set about three feet behind my head.

Our waiter, Tyler, was from Canada, hence boasted the perfect hybrid of debonair French style with a western work ethic. We were relieved that he spoke English, but soon discovered so does 90% of the country. Tyler was jovial and handsome and encouraging of our order choices. The duck was insane — the best we’d ever had — the braised beef with zucchini was even better.

“Fuck you,” my fiancée kept exclaiming at how blown away she was by the food. I was happy we were able to show the local Parisians how New Yorkers applaud quality — by cursing it out.

We could have returned the knives, as the meats would have fallen off their bones with even the side of the same soup spoon we used to eat the best Gazpacho I’d ever tasted. With dinner we had the best rouge in the house for only 14 Euro per glass, and as a reward Tyler and the sommelier came over and insisted we all do a shot of rum. We were adequately buzzed with bellies full of beef… and bread. The whole experience was magnefique.

We followed Tyler’s recommendations for the night (we would have followed Tyler into the gates of Hell), on to cocktails at The Little Red Door, and although neither my fiancée nor I are very much into cocktails you couldn’t help but trust in the elitist mixology menu. Drinks were fantastic. We ended up yukking it up with some gay New Yorkers coincidentally seated next to us on the couch, mostly over how superior the culture everywhere else in the world is to America, with the exception of New York — one of my favorite topics of conversation.

We walked the mile home because time flies while walking through any city. We stopped twice for some nightcaps and allowed the city lights to fuel our way. Although New York is the “city that never sleeps” Paris is apparently the city that always eats. 1:00 in the morning on a Wednesday night and it seemed almost every restaurant with outdoor seating was not only open, but practically filled with locals literally and figuratively chewing the fat. Any potential for jet lag and heat exhaustion had been instantly healed by meat and alcohol, but still we were spent, and a had a long next day ahead planned.

It’s possible I was woo’d by the air conditioning as I’m not much of a museum guy, but the Louvre was great, definitely our favorite tourist attraction of the trip. We’d bought tickets beforehand and it took about 60 seconds to enter. Almost everyone there was quite pleasant, though the best part was the security guards at the Mona Lisa who were anything but. Groups of us at a time were being yelled at for not moving fast enough — like waiting on line to view the classic piece of art was a local crime and we owed a cowering apology while running and ducking for cover. They could have been instantly beamed to the central bookings jail in downtown Brooklyn and not missed a beat. One of them was the first white guy I’d seen in France with that pathologically rosy facial complexion that screamed alcohol, hypertension and New Jersey; and although it was clearly his job there to be an asshole we believed it to be a case of chicken or the egg.

I’d love to tell you it was beautiful, that Mona was beautiful and a magical experience of tourism, but I don’t think I ever got a good look. It was pure chaos, herded into a swarm of fellow tourists, and one of the only contexts where typical Asian good manners actually fell by the wayside as they refused to be denied the perfect photographs. Spun into confusion and shitted out the other side of the room we much preferred the rest of the less popular parts of the museum.

Before leaving my fiancée insisted on taking pics by the Pyramid outside and I… I just cannot tell you how hot it was. There were other people out suffering as well, but most were huddled in the shade, massaging their skulls with frozen water bottles and drinking from another. We muscled through it, took photos with fake smiles, feigning joy or even comfort so that everyone on social media could see that we had fun at the Louvre. Indoors we did. Outdoors was about survival.

Next door we passed by the other popular museum, D’Orsay ( What is this, the museum district?), and fiancée asked if I wanted to go in. As I generally visit one museum per decade at home, my rule overseas is one per trip.

We walked along the Seine River,which was beautiful and I imagined on any day under 109 degrees would have been crowded with other cute couples cut from similar cloths. They’d be eating cheese and baguettes, as everyone had instructed us to do, but ours was a different kind of trip, and I’d surely have jumped into the river before sitting along it with quickly melting brie. There were benches where I could picture us sitting, but even the mental effort of creating said picture was burning calories at an alarming pace. We passed through the Tuileries Garden, got a croque monsieur and more gazpacho.

On the way home I bought a suit for our wedding! It wasn’t the plan, but hey… we’re just some hot shot New Yorkers flying by the seat of our pants in Paris. Beautiful pants as it were, as I never thought I could make such a baller move.

Of course going into the store was wifey’s suggestion, but I went along with it. “Should we go in and see if they have any nice suits?” she asked.

“We should go in and see if they have any nice air conditioning.”

They did.

And before we knew it we were whisked away into the back room as if we had a reservation for two. Everyone there’s faces were beautiful and their outfits even more beautiful. I felt a bit underdressed in my Marcus Camby Knicks’ throwback jersey (while sweating like Patrick Ewing) and my crooked Yankees cap, but before I knew it I was Julia Roberts with Roy Orbison blasting in my head, as one of the most charming men on the planet, Tomas, put together ensemble after ensemble, creating his own Mona Lisa out of me.

Me, the sweaty asshole who just walked in the door in his gym clothes. Instead of angry security guards yelling at us, Tomas took his time with me, like a true gentleman, never allowing me to put any of the jackets on myself. His assistant brought us bottles of water and suddenly I began to suspect I was on a hidden camera show and Richard Gere was going to come out of the back room and ignore my sexual advances.

One fabulous suit I tried on was apparently made of some high-quality but more delicate fabric that Tomas warned me of: “A suit like this — you can only wear this to work maybe two or three times a week… otherwise it will not last.”

Two or three times a week? Who the fuck does this guy think I am? I’m sorry, Tomas, I love you, but in case you haven’t heard it’s only about 1% of the professions in New York these days that even require a suit at work… and those guys can afford enough suits to wear them two or three times a year. I’m not worried about it.

After about an hour of trial and error, mixing and matching and texting photos across the pond to Mom and others for feedback, finally we came to a unanimous decision. Tomas even threw in the pink tie from his own personal stash, and when we said Au revoirI could feel that none of us really wanted to. What we really wanted was to buy four more suits, then two giant homes in New York and Paris respectively where we could all live out the rest of our years together as the most stylish commune of love. Unfortunately that’s not how life works. But I found more than my wedding suit in the Paris SuitSupply. I found one of my favorite people, one of my fondest memories from the trip, and finally, a hell of a deal! Weeks later my (Jewish) fiancée did her research and discovered after the conversion rate I’d gotten a $1000 suit for almost half the cost. Paris: 4. NYC: 0.

When we got outside it was still 109 degrees. We went home and hosed down in preparation for another night on the town…

Bofingerfor dinner: An apparently pork forward venue that seemed to specialize in shellfish and sauerkraut dishes. I’d never had to de-shell my own snails before, and if you would have told me at any point in life I would twice in one day feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman I would have at least figured one of the two would involve prostituting myself on Hollywood Blvd. Thankfully, none of the “slippery little suckers” went flying across the room into any waiters’ hands. A now experienced acupuncturist I figured I could successfully navigate this previously foreign task and eventually I was right (although two of them were stuck super deep inside and I resorted to simply brutally cracking them open). Absolutely drowned in the plate’s bath of garlic and oil they were delicious!

The chilled cream of asparagus soup with mascarpone was the best I’ve ever had in my life. I understand this superlative is beginning to sound like a broken record, but hey, we’re discussing food and wine in Paris. It isn’t like I’m telling you I heard the greatest hip hop song of my life there.

Unfortunately the sauerkraut dish was anti-climactic in taste, overwhelming in size. A beast of a platter, and we figured the reason the runner brought burners to light underneath it must have been because no one could possibly finish this plate in less than three hours. Most of my family has hefty appetites and within my family I am generally the one most derided for overeating; but my fiancée and I couldn’t even make a visible dent in the dish. We left full sausages just hangin’ and neither of us even broached the monstrous pork knuckle that looked like too much to tangle with. What was most fascinating was the gentleman next to us ordered the same dish, had it arrive after ours, and absolutely demolished it before we’d thrown in our towel. “Was he overweight?” you ask. Absolutely not, he was handsome and slim, fit. This is Wonderland.

We had nowhere to take our leftovers, but figured better to gamble on running into a homeless person then just throw it out. We saw some poor man seated on the train station floor on our way to Latin Quarters, and bestowed him with what I assume was the best meal he’d had in years.

We passed by Notre Dame, and I felt kind of like an asshole — like the tourists in NYC taking pictures in front of Ground Zero before the new tower was built: Odd locational tone for a photo opp.

Latin Quarters sucked. Think Bleecker Street meets Time Square, and in case you thought bro-douchery didn’t exist outside of America think again. Lots of pubs and sports bars, novelty shops and loud partyers, and you could skip it. A friend of us warned it would be like this but was worth seeing once. Another friend told us of a cocktail bar there on the Holiday Inn rooftop, from which you could see the whole city. Sounds lovely! We passed by only to be told the roof was closed as a result of the heat. Night Deux was a bit of a letdown.

The next day was a more of the same, only to reinforce a lesson that as New Yorkers we should have already known: Avoid tourist traps. The elevator at the Eiffel Towerwas broken which greatly appeased my fiancee’s terrific fear of heights, however I’m still awaiting my refund for the aloof purchase. Champs Elysses was… ehhhh… like Fifth Avenue meets Soho, but not even the nooks and cranny side streets of old Soho of the 1990’s — more like vomit-up-your-ass chain retail, Broadway Soho of 2019. My fiancée got to take some nice pics of that other humongous fuckin’ old thing, but besides that the marathon distance walking through the desert level heat was beginning to wear on me… and by this time my neurology had shifted to a degree of alcohol dependency which is not my norm. It was time to call it a day and begin the night.

We closed more similarly to how we opened, in a more cultured reverence for gluttony in a local spot we’d been recommended that happened to be right down the block from our red suede hotel room.

Le Bouillon Chartierdidn’t take reservations and had not one, but two lines wrapped on to the sidewalk of mostly locals waiting to get in. We wondered, with gratitude, why our wait was only about ten minutes, and were inadvertently given our answer once inside. It was packed and fast-paced, pretty noisy, though not much to look at. It had the gritty feel of Katz’s Deli or Barney Greengrass and the waiters were curt and void of pleasantries. Ahhh… we felt right at home.

The most expensive bottle of wine on the menu was 23 euro. And it was great! The prices of everything were dirt cheap — like fast food cheap — which only partially explained the line around the block. The duck confit was excellent, as was the whole sea bass (I felt I needed something just a touch lighter than incessant pork and red meat), and I think the whole meal with the full bottle of wine came out to 58 euro. I think it was during this meal that my fiancée began suggesting another “quick trip back” next month. “We can just come for a few nights and eat in places like this!”

We closed the night as we had every other, with drinks on the sidewalk at Café Le Brebant, which faced out on to the corner of the main strip, Poissonniere Blvd., constantly serving us a nice hybrid of the authentic Paris experience with familiar comfort of New York. Also, constantly serving us lovely wines until the early morning hours, though I always closed with a nice, cold IPA in a chilled glass, as I now suffer from alcoholism. The servers were still mostly God-awful and we always had to walk over to place orders, but they were all pleasant and we rationalized it was worth it to be absolved of gratuity.

The next day we took the train seven hours to Nice. It should have been six but Mercury was retrograde and shit was fucked. Nice was OK. Glad we did it — would never do it again. It’s a beach town, which in spite of its historically fancy reputation means the same thing it does anywhere in the world: More plastic surgery, less culture and nuance. Saw some boobs on the beach, but as is customarily the case, none of the boobs you wish to.

The water was beautiful but the rocks were painful and expensive. We had to buy special mats and shoes in order for the beach experience to be at all relaxing and I highly doubt I’ll ever use either again. From now on I’m sand exclusive.

We saw a great band one night, coincidentally named Bofinger, and had one amazing meal at Terres de Truffes, which translates as Truffle Land where they (predictably) put truffles on everything! White truffles over burrata cheese and sundried tomatoes as a “caprese,” summer truffles on the lamb confit and black truffles littered across the porcini mushroom ravioli! We downed a bottle of our new fave, the Margaux, and finished with the crème brulee with truffle infused caramel drizzle. It was fucked. Up.Suddenly we suspected maybe there was reason to come back to Nice after all. That was until my fiancée searched and found the spot had another location in Paris. So like, why ever go to Miami for a restaurant that exists in NYC?

To exhaust a cliché, we loved Paris. Who wouldn’t? Who doesn’t? I’ve literally never heard a negative report. It’s like New York but with its own twist and flare, and without our recently vampired cultural extraction by transplants only to be replaced with the vapidity of chain stores and pharmacies that once were implicitly prohibited from the once greatest city in the world.

It took me a full week to recover from the neurological storm of jet lag and alcohol withdrawal, though having to spend double the price for half the quality wine eventually ensured my sobriety. Sadly the same can be said for our food quality… even in New York! It’s an awful shame the farming practices our government permits in this country, and in my opinion reason enough to kneel for the Star Spangled Banner should you feel indifferent around the racial issues. Never say never, though I still doubt I could ever make a home across the pond, as I just don’t think anywhere in the world can offer the vibe of New York, nor our diversity. It’s possible that Paris and many other cities may come close in cultural diversity, though never in variety of style, subcultures and psychology. This was my one critique from an admittedly brief first visit — that Paris appears a bit more of a one-trick pony than NYC. In fairness, where doesn’t? They probably do their one trick better than anywhere in the world but it’s just not New York. The weekend after I came home I went out to dinner at Kyklades Greek restaurant in Astoria, then took the train uptown to the EPMD concert in the park in the South Bronx, where my boy, Ed and I were two of seven white people of the 800–1000 there. We watched the legends and devoured some dope, authentic Jamaican food for 8 euro (J/K, it was $10). Afterwards we got drunk at a bar by Yankee Stadium and watched the Yanks beat Boston. The next morning my fiancée and I had the best bagels, lox and cream cheese in town at the Upper West Side institution, Barney Greengrass. Our city is dirtier, as is our food. Our leader is dumber, our drinks are pricier. Still it’s always nice to come home.

Originally published at https://davidfostercomedyblog.com.