Burtigan's Big Adventure: A Parisian afternoon

February 2016

I lift my glass to my lips and drink a little more red wine. It's not bad, flavoursome with a fair amount of tannins. I set the glass down again and look out at the crowds bustling past me on Rue Montorgeuil. It's almost 6:00pm on a Thursday in February, and mild enough to be sitting outside on a Parisian street with a coat but feel a little too warm.

I'm beginning to get impatient. I have a 7:13pm Eurostar to catch back to London from Gare du Nord, about a 20 minute walk away. But my dinner of charcuterie hasn't yet arrived, and I still want to stop en route at a supermarket for a few cheap bottles of wine to take back.

The man at the table next to me is smoking a cigarette with his coffee, and a slight breeze wafts the horrible, sharp smell towards me for a few moments. Luckily it soon subsides. I have another sip of wine.

I had only arrived in Paris at 10:30 that morning. I'd decided to do a day trip, avoiding most of the big attractions we'd already seen, and just walk around the city soaking up the atmosphere. I also had a tight budget of 100 euros.

I walked south from the station towards the Seine down Rue Saint-Denis. This was an ancient Roman-laid road from Paris to the Cathedral in Saint Denis where the French kings were once crowned, but since the Middle Ages it had become seedier and known for its prostitutes. I found it nice enough at 11:00 in the morning. I continued south, through the Porte Sainte-Denis, a triumphal arch on the site of one of the old medieval city gates of Paris.

I continued down the pretty Rue Beauregard and onto Rue Montorgeuil. This was a market street, but at this time not all of the shops had fully opened, and many were taking deliveries from trucks.

I was feeling the need for fuel, so stopped at a corner cafe and sat outside. After a cafe au lait and croissant I walked onwards.

The next stop was brief, at the square in which stood the Fountain of the Innocents. It was hard to believe looking at it, but this square was for hundreds of year the site of the main cemetery in Paris. Bodies were continuously buried there from the Middle Ages, to the point that people living in the nearby houses would get headaches from the permanent stench and food would go off within hours. In the 1780s the remains were dug up and removed to old quarries on the other side of the river to later become the catacombs of Paris that we visited in 2015.

The waitress comes out of the cafe, and serves drinks to the table next to mine. "I'm really sorry, two minutes away," she says over her shoulder to me, then dashes away with her now empty tray. The man at table next to me stands up, pushes his chair out of the way and walks away down the street to join the crowds ambling along the cobbles.

A woman with two small children walks along. The eldest comes up to the just vacated table and leans in close to the candle.

"Ne touche pas le bougie!" the mother exclaims and pulls the boy away from the table, wrestling with the smaller child who she holds with her other hand. The boy leaves the table, walks past mine, finds the next empty table, and leans in to blow out the candle. She wrestles her way over the pull him away, muttering at him. I smiled to myself as she carries on.

She had in fact said a lot more to her boy than just "don't touch the candle", but I couldn't distinguish anything else. This was a problem I found frequently in Paris. I had been trying to teach myself French for several months, and felt while I couldn't speak very well I could hear and understand it ok based on listening exercises, a couple of podcasts, and our time spent elsewhere in France previously. But real life Parisian talk was very fast, quieter and almost mumbled so I had real problems understanding people in shops. "je peux vous aidez?" or "can I help you?" became a mumble than I could only figure out by hearing the word "aidez" after several seconds of thought. Thankfully everyone was able to speak English - and despite popular (largely British) opinion French people are not at all rude.

After the fountain, I continued towards the river to Sainte-Chapelle, built in the 1200s as the King's private chapel. I entered and found myself in a long chamber, with warm and luxurious gold and blue on the ceiling and arches. This was the lower chapel. It was one of the most impressive rooms I'd seen. It also housed the gift shop, oddly enough.

I walked up the narrow winding staircase and found myself in a much larger, lighter room. Three sides were almost completely covered in stained glass, and even the cloudy winter sunlight illuminated them spectacularly. The Sainte-Chapelle was stunning. I could only imagine what it would be like on a bright summer's day. This had been the one thing I specifically wanted to see on my trip, and it did not disappoint.

I take another sip of wine. Where the hell is that charcuterie? I check the time - it's now just on 6:00pm.

It would have to be a rushed meal, unlike lunch. After the Sainte-Chapelle I continued south to the Left Bank. As soon as I opened the door to 5me Cru and it felt comfortable. I asked for a table for myself with my rudimentary French, and while I waited for the menu I looked around. It was small, with warm colours and packed with locals taking leisurely lunch breaks. The walls were mostly taken up with wooden shelves showing the wine available to take away or to have with a meal. If I were to ever open a wine bar, I decided, it would look and feel like this.

The waiter brought a menu board over and began to talk me through it in French. I got the gist of it, but as I was making the big decision - entree and main, or main and dessert - I must have looked confused.

"You want me to explain in English?" he asked.

"No, no I understand, I just can't decide which ones to have," I replied. But that was it - no more French for the rest of the meal.

I started with charcuterie - four types of flavoursome cured meats, pate, butter and mini gherkins with bread. The main was a deliciously rich cuisse de canard (duck) with creamy pureed mashed potatoes and bittersweet caramelised onions. I washed the meal down with a few glasses of wine.

After buying a bottle of the wine to take back to London, I set out again. I crossed back over the Seine via the quiet streets of Ile St Louis, one of the two islands in the middle of Paris. I spent the afternoon zig zagging through the streets of the Marais.

I stopped at L'eclair de Genie, an eclair specialist, at the request of Rach. After the now obligatory unrecognisable (to me) French, I was served two eclairs. I carefully put the box in my bag, and prayed they would survive the journey home intact.

I continued onwards, and throughout the day ticked off of the picturesque streets I had plotted out - Rue des Barres, Cour Damoye, Rue Galande, Cour du Commerce Saint-André, and Rue des Rosiers. I stopped for a glass of wine at a cafe near the Place des Vosges.

Away from the grand monuments of the Eiffel Tower, Louvre and Notre Dame it really is a picturesque city. The streets are lively, interesting and in many cases very grand. I also couldn't help but compare it with London, which by comparison seemed rushed and modern and without the easy grace of Paris.

I also had a grand plan to have dinner at a food market, the Marche aux Enfants Rouges. That was a mistake. The market was tiny - particularly compared with London food markets - and most of the open stalls sold fresh produce and meat, rather than street food as I'd expected. Bitterly disappointed, I wandered aimlessly for a few minutes before checking the time. It was close to 5:30pm. Time was getting a little tight, so I decided to try Rue Montorgeuil again in the hope of finding something decent to eat on the way back to Gare du Nord.

I look over to see the waitress approaching. She lays down the evening charcuterie. I quickly began to eat the meat, gherkins and salad and bread. which really can't compare with the one from lunch. Sure, there's meat and bread but it's nothing special. I check the time, and see it's 6:04pm. I ask for the bill before I finish eating and I'm disappointed to see that it's only four euros less than that for lunch - but far less satisfying. C'est la vie.

I can't finish my meal - it's not that bad - but I really have to run. I finish the last of my wine. I put a few pieces of meat between the pieces of bread to eat as I walk. Then I pick up my bag, pick up the bread and meat, and step back out onto Rue Montorgeuil. I dash northwards in the twilight, towards home.