Adventures in Paris: Les Halles is Foodie Heaven

For most women, the boutiques of the stylish Boulevard Champs-Elysees, Rue Montaigne and Rue St. Honore may be the ticket, but the neighborhood that makes my knees tremble is the gutsy, ballsy, decidedly blue collar Les Halles, the belly of Paris, once home to the famous markets of Paris Only vestiges remain, but what vestiges.

Here I ate lunch at Aux Tonneaux des Halles, a turn of the century bistro that serves up os de moelle (marrow bones) with ramekins of fleur de sel, huge workingman platters overflowing with perfectly cooked steaks or duck confit (best I've ever had), pommes frites or sauteed potatoes and fresh salad with perfect vinagerette. And wine. Unfiltered natural biodynamic wine that was nothing short of superb.

Just around the corner, there is G. Detou. If you love to cook, especially if you love to bake, you have to come here. After Monoprix, this is easily my favorite shopping destination in Paris. It's small than the average 7-11 and stocked from floor to ceiling with the most wonderful stuff. Exotic teas. Huge bricks of the finest chocolates (and also bags of chocolate chunks and cocoa powder), nuts in bulk, all kinds of flavored, colored and shaped sugars, flavored extracts, candied flower petals, dragees, exotic spices, Madagascar vanilla beans. Flavored oils. Mustards. Jarred
foie gras and pates. Tuna and sardines in prettily decorated tins. Iranian pistachios and saffron. And for the most part, everything is very reasonably priced.

"C'est comme Paradis!" I blurted out to the clearly amused proprieter as I looked around wide-eyed. He was only too happy to prove me right.

"Quel est le meilleur chocolate pour faire le chocolat chaud?" He whipped out a 1 kg bag of Valhrona Guanaja Mariage de grands crus 70%, little tabs of rich, dark chocolate to melt into milk or even to slip into croissant dough for pain au chocolat.

"Avez vous les lentilles du Puy?" I asked envisioning making that heavenly lentil salad from my October 2008 visit. Main bien sur. Did I want them in a tin or bag.

Flower essences? Rose. Lavande. Violette. Vertiver. One of each, please.

Candied violet and rose petals? Check.

Chestnut flour or Flour made from the lovely rose biscuits de Reims? Sure. I could also buy the fragile biscuits whole if I so desired.

G. Detou was actually the original owner, Gerard Detou, but pronounced in French it also is a play on words for "J'ai de tout" or "I have some of everything."

And they do. Or rather they did.

A fair amount of their merchandise came home with me.

The House Where the Black Cat Lives Goes to Paris

I'm back from Paris. And as always, it was an adventure. I am convinced, no matter how many times I go there will always be some new sight, taste, sound to delight.

Like Au Panetier, one of the oldest patisseries in Paris, where the buttery toothsome pastry is eclipsed only by the beautiful Belle Epoque decor. Check out the lovely tile work.
Like Bistro d'Henri on Rue Princesse in St. Germain. Tiny dining room, always full, always good. I went there for the name; I came back for the food.
Shopping in the covered Passage Vivienne with its lovely domed glass skylights and elaborate wall frescoes.



Walking across a bridge covered with locks, left by thousands of lovers as signs of eternal love. Only in Paris.

This beautiful fountain near St. Sulpice.


Gardens everywhere, including this lovely little gem in the courtyard of Musee Carnavelet.


Pig pastries! (This one's for you, Lou.)

A decked-out bridal car parked outside Gerald Mulot (the similarly gorgeously attired bridal party was chowing down inside).


And black cats everywhere, popping up in the most unexpected places, reminding me that as enchanting as Paris may be, I'll always have a reason to come home.

Shopping in Paris

More and more often lately, my thoughts turn to Paris. I'll be headed that way soon (my fourth visit if anyone is keeping track.)

Now you may wonder what there could possibly be left for me to see. Well, lots. I have reached that wonderful place in my relationship with Paris where I'm no longer the tourist running the frenetic race from the Tour Eiffel to Notre Dame from L'Arche de Triomphe to the Louvre.

Now I can enjoy Paris as the locals do, wandering the neighborhoods, revisiting familiar haunts, enjoying small-off-the-beaten track museums. And, of course, shopping.

Paris is a shopper's mecca. From les grandes magasins to the tiniest specialty boutiques to even the street markets, all the merchandise is arranged to entice.

I can't resist the vendors' entreaties to try les meilleures cerises dans la ville or that dab of cheese at the peak of ripeness. To enjoy a lick of the world's best ice cream scooped in the shape of a beautiful delicate rose . To spritz decadent parfum from a Baccarat crystal flacon onto a paper fan and waft it delicately under my nose. To enjoy the flutter of an ombre silk scarf against my neck as the vendeuse deftly knots it that inimitable way Parisiennes are born knowing. And they always wrap the packages so nicely, like a present just for you.

So what's on my Paris shopping list for this visit?

Food: bricks of Valhrona chocolate for baking and chocolat chaud. Madagascar vanilla beans in bulk. Candied violets. Essences of lavender, rose and violet. Mustard and honey -- the choices are dizzying for both. Green lentilles de Puy so hard to find over here.

Toiletries: The pharmacies and perfume boutiques are pure heaven for a girly girl like me. I love to stock up on the big cubes of Savon de Marseilles olive oil soap (great for the skin), and sachets in pretty silk embroidered packets.

This year I am determined to set foot into the grand parfums salons. Sure I can purchase a bottle of Shalimar or Chanel No. 5 here in Hattiesburg, but I can't recreate the experience of sniffing Narcisse Noir or N'Aimez que Moi at Turtlecreek Mall -- these are sold exclusively at the Caron boutiques. And, while at over $100 dollars a teaspoon, I can't justify bringing these home as souvenirs, I can allow myself a whiff there in the salon and bring home a slightly more affordable, if still decadent, swansdown peach powder puff or five precious bath beads.

Scarves: My Paris obsession. Hermes is not in the budget this year, but even the street scarves sold in the markets and the metro stations have a certain cachet when knotted just so.

And perhaps a serendipitous old treasure or two discovered at a street brocante.

Is shopping in Paris cheap? No it is not, but it is a heady, gracious and soul-satisfying experience rarely found anywhere else in the world.

And you can't put a price on that.

So what would you buy if you were going to Paris?

There's Something About Ernie

Like some people, certain cats are just blessed with charisma.

Ernie is one of those cats.

From the day that he showed up on my deck in Bay St. Louis, exactly six years ago yesterday, it was clear the tiny three-week-old grey and white tabby kitten with the big ears and enormous paws possessed personal magnetism in spades.

Immediately upon his arrival, he started charming the fur off the feral kitties that lived under my deck, working his way into their hearts (and their food bowls).

I thought he was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. Which is why I got concerned when I saw him trying to chat up the 'possum and raccoon that also helped themselves to the cat chow after darkness fell. In the wild, personality does not determine survival of fittest.

So I brought him inside to become part of my inside feline family.

Though Little Ernie was clearly delighted with his new family of five feline brothers and sisters, the feeling was not always mutual. His arrival in our lives coincided with the other cats' third birthday; a little brother was not on their birthday list.

Ernie was oblivious. For his first year in our family, Ernie, in true little brother fashion, padded around behind Henry wherever he went. He mimicked his mannerisms. Henry was not amused and frequently swatted the little guy sending him tumbling head over tail across the room. Ernie thought it was a cool game. He wanted to be Henry when he grew up.

Henry doesn't swat him around anymore now that Ernie is twice his size. He just hides from him. Ernie doesn't mind (I'm sure he's still oblivious).

And then there's Roxie. When she arrived, a skinny, frightened little feral, Ernie gallantly showed her the ropes, sharing his food bowl, protecting her from the others' malevolent glares, lovingly washing her gaunt little face with his big, pink tongue and heeding her piteous cries for company at all hours of the day and night. Theirs was -- and is -- one of the sweetest love stories I've ever witnessed.

When I fostered her three little grandchildren a year later, Ernie was their mentor and playmate. The slept in a pile, the kitttens happily snuggled against Ernie's growing girth. When awake they dueled, the kittens batting Ernie's huge paws with their tiny ones. One by one the kittens went off to new homes. When the last one left, Ernie wandered the house disconsolately for days. He missed his little buddies.

Just recently, three more kittens (Roxie's great grandchildren) joined our foster family. The semi-feral little moppets huddled wide-eyed in the training cage hissing in terror whenever one of the adult cats came sniffing their way. Then Ernie ambled by, belly a'swingin'.

It was if a switch had been thrown. The three kittens rushed to the wall of the cage, mewing happily, three sets of paws stretched out eagerly, reaching for Ernie, batting at his tail, their own tails up and alert. And, as always, Ernie was happy to oblige.

It's the damnedest thing.

My House Overfloweth

The House Where the Black Cat Lives has always been pretty much at capacity, but for the past week or so we've been overrun with black cats.

Gizmo, now about six months old, has been caught and spayed. She now resides in my guest bedroom waiting for relocation into a new home. Although she retains some of the skittish mannerisms of a feral cat, she is a naturally affectionate kitten, given to spontaneous cuddles and outbursts of impromptu purring. She is well on her way to being someone's devoted companion.


Gizmo

Her mother, Funny Face, has finally been caught and spayed (the culmination of over a year's worth of effort). She remains in her old neighborhood, adopted as a yard cat. Another happy ending.

Three of the four kittens in her last litter were caught at one go and are now undergoing socialization in my guest bathroom as a prelude to being placed in new homes. They are about seven weeks old now -- a truly adorable age. All are black and white tuxedo kitties with white whiskers and longish hair. While they still hiss defensively when I pick them up unexpectedly, they grow friendlier every day, allowing me to cuddle them (kitten therapy is the best!) and tease them with the feather wand.

As you might guess, all this extra kitty love pretty much eats up all my spare time -- the time I used to use for eating, sleeping ... and blogging. So my apologies for having been away, but it's been for a good reason.

So .... anyone looking for a kitten? Call me!

The Cat Mobile

You can tell a lot about a person by the car they drive. Not so much the type of car -- mine's a fairly generic Toyota Camry -- but by what they keep in it.

You wouldn't need to be a super-sleuth to figure out I'm a cat mama.

I actually chose the Camry over the Corolla so that I would have ample floor and seat room for stacking all seven cats in their carriers for our annual vaccination vet runs, household moves and emergency hurricane evacuations (been there, done that).


Peek into my trunk. On any given day you'll spy cases of canned cat food, large bags of kibble, water bottles, paper plates, trash bags, economy-size boxes of kitty litter (hefting those in and out of the car comprises my weight-lifting regimen) and a few empty Pet Smart bags, receipts and coupons that I never get around to using.


Like any cat mama, and a former Girl Scout, I travel prepared for any possible feline emergency. The "passengers" in my formerly roomy back seat include a wire small animal trap along with some camoflauge blankets and towels and some heavy duty claw-proof gloves. You just never know when the opportunity to trap a feral will present itself.

I also cart around a plastic cat carrier in case a kitty requires transport to the emergency vet pronto.

Always mindful of public relations -- yep, it's what I do in my spare time as well as my professional life -- I keep a few info kits about living harmoniously with feral cats from Alley Cat Allies, to hand out along with garbage can bungee cords and cat repellent to address some of the more prevalent crises I deal with.

And in my glove compartment? A supersize cat hair remover roller for last minute cleanup, wipes (because accidents do happen) and car deoderant -- because, let's face it, cat food stinks.

OK, so now you know what's in my cat mobile. What can people tell about you from YOUR car?

The Baby Daddy

I’ve rarely met a cat, especially a black cat, that I didn’t like.

But I don’t really like this one.

He’s mean. Really mean.

He chased off my two sweet boys, Fergus and Tux.

He beats up on his woman, Peggy Sue’s beautiful girl Funny Face, she of the sapphire eyes and Himalayan coat.

He’s the baby daddy to her two half-grown kittens, Gizmo and Leona, and probably also fathered the litter she gave birth to some three weeks ago.

He abuses his kids, too.

Gizmo and Leona hide in the tall grass when he’s around and walk between my ankles for protection from him when I come to feed them.

I usually just refer to him as "The Baby Daddy," but lately, I’ve started calling him “Sid.”

When Sid first started hanging out at the colony, he was wearing a flea color, so he must have belonged to someone sometime. He’s since lost the collar and apparently his home, too.

Maybe he was abandoned by someone in the trailer park down the street from the colony.

I suspect Sid’s home, when he had one, was not happy. The wary way he circles me, his plaintive cries, hisses and growls, the obsessively jealous way he guards his food tell a story of starvation and abuse.

I used to chase him off, but he refused to go. So now I feed him, speak to him softly, and, when he is receptive, scratch his ears. Even bad cats need love.

Occasionally, he purrs. He sounds rusty, like the engine turning over in an infrequently driven car.

Maybe if he wasn’t fueled by so much baggage and testosterone, he wouldn’t be so doggone cranky.

I know how to fix the testosterone. If I can manage to trap him, a trip to the spay and neuter clinic will get rid of all that in about three months.

Getting rid of the rest of his baggage may take a little longer.

And I don't have longer. I have just found out that my darlings are in trouble. Big trouble.

The neighborhood association where my little family resides has some issues and wants to get rid of them. Apparently, the fact that there are crack houses and growing drug problems in this neighborhood is no big deal to "the association". But they are very concerned about getting rid of a few cats who are cared for and sleep all day

To most of you this may not seem like a big deal. It is to me. Huge.

My heart is breaking, my stomach is churning, my blood pressure is up so high, it's like tribal drums beating in my ears. I just got a new mattress set. But something tells me I'm not going to sleep tonight. Or any night until I can resolve this.

You see. I've cared for this colony, and its evolving membership, for going on four years now. That's longer than many significant relationships in my life.

I've helped trap, foster and find "forever" homes for eight of its kittens. I've spayed/neutered three adult members and adopted two of them myself. One sleeps in my bed; one in my garage.

I've fed them by flashlight in the dark. Through cold winters and hot summers, I've slipped flea medicine on their necks when they scratch and antibiotics into their food when they are injured.

I've run interference with the neighbors and supplied informative literature about feral cats along with bungee cords and Nature's Miracle to deal with the more common complaints.

I've smiled into faces I've wanted to slap. Listened patiently and with as much sympathy as I can muster to some pretty outrageous (and I'm pretty sure some bogus whining). I've resisted the urge to point out that the "cats" they describe getting into their trash sound more like raccoons and that trash bags placed on the curb without benefit of first being placed in a can with a secure lid are an open invitation to raccoons, dogs, possums, foxes and other wildlife, not just cats.

I don't see myself just walking away at this point as some of my "friends" have suggested I do (for shame!) My babies, even Sid, need me now more than ever. No one else is stepping up to the plate.

I'll make a last ditch attempt to educate the ignorant, trap/spay/neuter/relocate the innocent and get assistance from the uncommitted . But I feel I'm going it totally alone.

And that scares the hell out of me. For me. And especially for the kitties.

Most of all this makes me mad as hell.

They're God's creatures. Don't they deserve better?