French Diary Day 40: Food for body and soul

Friday 4th December.

There is a lot to fit in today, being friend’s last full day.

We have tickets for the Monet Exhibition at the Musee Marmottan.  There are two great Monet Exhibitions in Paris at the moment, most people are going to the one at Le Grand Palais and only coming to Musee Marmottan if they cannot get tickets to the other.  However, my reading suggests that they are complimentary, rather than substitutionary.  I have tickets to both: to go to one with one friend, and, (courtesy of my American friends who were going to go but returned home instead) to the other with my other friend.

The Marmottan Museum became a museum in 1934 following an incredibly generous donation to l’Académie des Beaux-Arts by Paul Marmottan. Later, in the 1960s Michel Monet gave the Museum a significant number of his father’s paintings, drawing and other objects.

The entry hours are stipulated at both museums: today our time slot begins at 10.45 am.  We need to cross Paris right to the edge of the Bois de Boulogne: by metro it will take two different lines, by bus, three changes and four buses.  But friend thought the bus sounded fun as it would give her a good look at different parts of Paris.  Our journey will take us up the Rue du Rivoli, past the Louvre, the Tuileries, down to Place de la Concorde, up the Champs Elysees, and then past several Boulevards named after American Presidents, to the Jardin du Ranelagh.  I was intrigued by this latter name since it is in my husband’s family who come from Ireland: it does not sound French!

So an early start after a very short night, and to face a really cold day.  At least four layers of clothes on today!  We left, caught the first bus OK and changed at the Hotel de Ville: caught the second bus OK and changed at the Place de la Concorde.  At least, we got off there, and found the correct bus stop for the next bus.  But no bus came: we waited, and waited.  Most stops have signs on which give the number of the next bus, and the time it is expected.  This sign said ‘delays due to perturbation’!!  I would have expected the word ‘circulation’ meaning traffic, but I loved perturbation despite the time wait.  The sun came out and the lamp posts and statues with gilding looked lovely.  We stood in front of a large hotel and watched several delivery vans bringing in fresh veg and salad: then a police motor cycle school roared past, with about 25 ‘rookie’ cyclist looking very proud.  Off to one side we saw a lot of police vans and guards escorting a large black car into a big building: who was visiting whom we wondered?

Finally the bus came, and we set off up the Champs Elysees in style.  We got off at the correct stop to change both buses and direction for the last leg of the trip.  Now at least thirty minutes late for our timed entry to the museum.  There was no immediate sign of the next bus stop and my friend dashed off at speed up the Champs Elysee: since all previous stops had been very close to each other I was not at all sure about this.  I felt we needed to stop and take stock.  After ten minutes with no further bus stops we sat on a bench and I was able to consult my trusty transport map book.  The stop was back where we had got off, but just up a side road!  So down we tramped, cold as ice.  And there it was, very logically placed for a change of direction.  The transport service in Paris is wonderful.

However, we had a ten minute wait in the wind and the cold by a very scruffy piece of pavement outside a night club.  Still, the bus came, warm and comfy and off we set.  Through an American section of Paris, past the Place des Etats Unis,  down the Avenue du President Wilson, past the Palais de Chaillot – above Avenue Kennedy, past Rue de Benjamin Franklin, and lastly down the Avenue Paul Doumer (French President assassinated in Paris for his political views).

Unlike most buses, this one did not have a rolling digital display of stops we were coming to, so it was more difficult to see where to get off.  We asked the driver and he said he would call out to us when we got to our stop.  Which he did and then pointed out to us where we needed to walk to get to the museum.  A lady who got off with us then made sure we knew exactly where we were going before she headed off about her business.  So kind of everyone.

The stop was in the middle of the Jardin du Ranelagh, a small park full of trees: there was lots of thick frost on the ground, far too cold for anything to melt today.  As we walked towards the Museum we passed a large statue of a man with a crow by his feet and a fox looking up at it. There were no indications of subject or sculptor but I realised it must be based on the Aesop fable of ‘The Fox and the Crow’: perhaps it is Fontaine.  We later found that to be correct.     It was beautifully modelled, with such a kind face on the man, and the crow and the fox well observed: the fox even had his tongue licking his lips!

The Fox and The Crow

A Fox once saw a Crow fly off with a piece of cheese in its beak and settle on a branch of a tree.

“That’s for me, as I am a Fox,” said Master Reynard, and he walked up to the foot of the tree.

“Good day, Mistress Crow,” he cried. “How well you are looking today: how glossy your feathers; how bright your eye. I feel sure your voice must surpass that of other birds, just as your figure does; let me hear but one song from you that I may greet you as the Queen of Birds.”

The Crow lifted up her head and began to caw her best, but the moment she opened her mouth the piece of cheese fell to the ground, only to be snapped up by Master Fox.

“That will do,” said he. “That was all I wanted. In exchange for your cheese I will give you a piece of advice for the future: ‘Do not trust flatterers’.”

Apparently the bronze statue dates from 1983  and was sculpted by Correia and made in the Mapelli foundery in Italy.  It replaces a former statue of Fontaine which was erected in 1891. As I expect everyone knows, Jean De La Fontaine was a French poet who lived in the 1600s. He spent twenty-six years rewriting the fables of Aesop and writing his own.

What I did not know is that it is uncertain whether Aesop originally wrote the fables he is famous for. He was a slave from the Island of Samos around the sixth century B.C. Stories from that time were verbally told throughout the centuries long before the stories were written down on paper. It was believed the the fables, stories that teach a lesson, were originally used for political purposes. The reason for this was that, during Aesop’s time, making political speeches was considered illegal and was punishable by death.

We arrived at the Musee Marmottan cold, thirsty and hungry, and the first question was, “Where is the cafe or restaurant?”  There was none.  Dismay.  And nothing nearby.  So we just had to ignore our starving innards and enjoy the Exhibition.

This exhibition, ‘Claude Monet: son musée’, presents for the first time the whole collection of Monet owned by the Musée Marmatton  – the biggest single collection of Monet paintings and other artefacts in the World. On show are 136 pieces by Monet, as well as a few others of him by his contemporaries.

The paintings the Museum has in its collection are some of the more iconic ones – these include the painting that gave rise to the Impressionist movement, namely Impression, soleil levant ( a painting depicting sunrise over the harbour at Le Havre), paintings of the parliament buildings in London, the Cathedral in Rouen, the Japanese bridge at Giverny and of course some of his final paintings of the water-lilies.

The whole Exhibition was quite superb and not crowded: sometimes you had to stand back for a second to let someone else pass but it was not noticeable.   We saw Monet’s artistic and domestic life from the beginning to the end.  To begin with there was a collection of Monet’s scurrilous political cartoons, by which he first began to make money!  Then caricatures, self-portraits at various ages, family portraits, and portraits of Monet by his contemporaries at various stages in his life, as a soldier, a thin, struggling young artist with fire in his eyes, cosy domestic scenes from his later life, his dogs.  Collections were hung together to illustrate his method of working to show how a painting developed from first sketch, through three or four subsequent trials.  So you would first see the sketches, then the original blocking-in, how he used the canvas almost as if painting in water colours, then changes in colour and light as he worked through his ideas.  This was so much more informative than just looking at a single painting.

Collections of paintings from his travels abroad followed and there were films of him painting and walking and talking in his garden: it was a really, really fantastic Exhibition illustrating a painter’s life and development in the round.

And that is not even the BIG one, which is Monday.

Then back out into the freezing cold to wend our way to the Marais once more.  On our way back through the park I found a sign which told me about the name of this Jardin, which has puzzled me:  apparently, on this piece of land in 1774, a ball was instituted, called the Little Ranelagh, imitating the famous public ball in London created by Lord Ranelagh, an Irish Lord.  So I was right about the Irish connection!!

Later, in 1862 the ground was no longer required for the ball and this garden was laid, out under the leadership of prefect Haussmann. It is triangular in shape, “shaded by majestic trees and is the privileged domain of local children”, offering a playground, sandpit, table tennis, a puppet theatre and also donkey and pony rides.  Parents in their turn can admire the beautiful trees in the park and enjoy renting chairs or lying on the grass while listening to music from the bandstand.  In summer it must be delightful, but today it is rather bare, stark and very, very cold!

Having taken the scenic route to get here, we just wanted to hurry back to lunch and warmth so chose the metro for our return journey: that was fine once we found it.  Metro station signs are not intrusive on the urban landscape!!

So a quick and uneventful journey with only one change of line at Republique: we got off at Hotel de Ville to walk into the west end of the Marais to look for Jo Goldenberg’s Deli.

It has closed down, and is now a gents’ fashion store.  This is just what the locals are protesting about, the trend to change the Marais into some kind of chic shopping centre rather than to remain the colourful, residential area is still is.  I could not resist the window display in this opticians’: On our search I popped in ‘Ours du Marais’, a teddy bear shop, to see if they had a catalogue for a friend, and we were captivated by bears, dogs, cats, a Mr. and Mrs. Darwin (!) and some which defied description, let’s just say they were imaginative.  I bought one, a rather idiosyncratic bear for the little prospective great nephew/neice.  We were given a recommendation to eat at Marianne’s, where I have eaten before and which I love, so off we went.

As usual there was a queue for tables although it was mid-afternoon by now.  Then we were led off out of the main shop/restaurant, through a door next door and into a delightful stone room with beamed ceiling and a very rustic air.

We ordered a ‘Plat Marianne’ a selection of entrees for two people – we could choose ten different small dishes!!  We chose:

A melange of artichoke, fennel and orange: to die for.

A red pepper, celery and tomato salad: crunchy and fresh, lovely.

Tapenade: too salty for me, but friend loved it.

Taramasalata: which proved to be delicate and subtle, scrumptious.

Tuna mayonnaise: very good but not a familiar taste.

Stewed aubergine and sesame: out of this world.

Cheese creamed with paprika: pretty and nice.

Humous: smoky and nutty, a revelation.

Yoghourt with cucumber and mint: fresh and delicious.

Falafels: hot, light and spicy, gorgeous.

All served with a basket of rye breads, some light with caraway seeds, others dark and moist.

There were political paintings and cartoons all round the walls, of the Revolution over the serving area,

and various Presidents including Sarkozy

We opted out of dessert and coffee but instead my friend was desperate to try the hot brioche and cold ice cream at Amorino’s: she chose a mixture of strawberry/mascarpone  and coffee ice creams and I just chose coffee ice cream which is strong and wonderful.  Since I cannot take coffee in any other form, this is always such a treat.  The ice cream is put inside the sweet, light-as-a-feather brioche, then the whole is put inside a small, shaped oven, where the sides are sealed as it is heated, keeping the ice cream frozen but the brioche piping hot.  Then it is dusted with icing sugar and handed to you in a napkin.  We walked along the Boulevard St. Antoine, getting covered in icing sugar, eating our luscious pudding, giggling like school girls.  My mother would not have approved, “you do not eat in the street”.  Several matrons looked at us as if they were thinking the same thing, especially at the disgraceful mess of powdered sugar sprinkled over our bosoms.  It showed worst on my coat, being navy blue.  Still, it was friend’s last day and she needed a good laugh!

Then off to the Red Wheelbarrow to collect a childrens’ book she wanted to take home ‘Chicken goes to Paris’ but on the way we were seduced by the African recycled art shop and had to pop in for a look around.  It is just wonderful, and so creative.  My friend made some kind of purchase and then we left.  Into the Red Wheelbarrow opposite,  and a lively discussion about whether Sheffield has a Literary Festival.  I said no, the others said yes.  Penelope proposed a bet, and she and my friend took me on.  A euro to the winner. A quick look at Google -  they won!  Further badinage and it was time to go.  I mentioned our evening’s entertainment, the Sound of Music in French acted by marionettes, thinking they would enjoy the surrealism: the announcement was met by stunned silence except for a customer at the back of the shop who was choking back her laughter as she tried not to eavesdrop!

I chose a route home via the Hotel de Sully which friend had not yet seen and a quick glance into the shop to see the painted wooden ceiling.  Then up the side of the Place des Vosges, into Daman Freres to to see the whole tea-selling experience, across the top to the chocolate shop for friend to buy some Christmas chocolate masterpieces to take home: I placed an order but left it to collect later.  Then home, collapse, and pots of tea.  But we did not have long to indulge.

I checked transport for the evening’s outing, and we changed to get ready to go out again.  At the bus stop a French lady asked us where she was and how to get to somewhere: we were s o busy telling her that we missed our bus.  She was very apologetic.  But what else could we have done: we could not have left her to her fate and just got on the bus anyway.  Luckily I had checked earlier and we had gone for the early bus so there was one more we could catch and still get there just in time.  All went well, but as we entered the theatre and bought a programme the seller asked whether we realised that the performance was in French!  The nerve of the man.  I said that was no bother at all thank-you!  He grinned.

This is a sweet little theatre that the troupe use every year: the Marionettes de Salzburg.

The show began well, with ‘what’shername’ the heroine,  sitting on the hills singing: as she sang the hills moved up and down under her like the sea.  We were killing ourselves and realised it was meant to be funny, and there was more slap-stick humour later, but the French audience thought it was a problem and that we were being heartless laughing at the mistakes.  Mind you, I don’t think French humour, as much as one can ever generalise, is slapstick in the same way as the German and Austrian can be.  Then while some nuns were singing a hornet came down and kept bobbing on and off each nun, then a girl was riding a bicycle which kept neighing and rearing like a horse  etc etc.  Plenty of fun being poked, we were not meant to be taking this seriously and we didn’t: but we did not want to upset the audience by laughing or the players by not laughing.  Quandary.  Half way through we changed seats and moved up from the stalls into the dress circle which was almost empty: great for us, we could stretch out our legs and move around, not so good for the theatre’s coffers, but it was the First Night.  My friend hurt her back this summer and has to be extremely careful where and how she sits, so although our view was not as good, we were much more comfortable.  I have long legs and now they were no longer trapped against the seat in front of me.

Occasionally a human would go on stage with the marionettes which was a shock: a woman dressed as a nun came and sat down and mimed as an extension of one of the puppets, and in the second half the legs of a man in nazi uniform came on with a broom sweeping away the dead spirit of Austria.  Very powerful imagery.  His legs looks sooo huge compared with the hills, scenery and puppets.  It made you realise that you had accommodated your vision to the size of the marionettes and humans now seemed gross and vulgar.

The nazis with Anubis heads was also startling:

Towards the end the Von Trapp family (puppets) gave a performance using their own puppets, very clever.  Then at the very end, part of the black-out above the stage was let down and we could see the puppeteers manipulating the puppets.  This was a much younger troupe than the last one I had seen, where most of the puppeteers had grey hair: these were all young, fresh faced, and blond or brown haired.

The audience gave the troupe seven encores and the troupe just grinned more and more broadly.

It was a lovely evening and a good way for my friend to finish her short stay: apart from the loos which had had their windows open, no seats and were freezing, it was a lovely, snug theatre although it could do with a little TLC.

We caught the bus home, had a quick meal of chicken, salad, cheese and fruit and were in bed for 12.

What a day!