Le Blog

The serendipitous adventures of an Anglophonic, francophonic, francophiliac that inspired PARIS par HASARD: from BAGELS to BRIOCHES and inform the next book are recorded weekly.

A Master Class in Networking

It was a polar day in Paris with temperatures dropping into the teens (Fahrenheit.) So cold in fact that my diminutive (in stature only) daughter was barely recognizable bundled up in a fur (Artificial)-lined ski parka that wrapped around her frosty cheeks as she approached me at our meeting place, Metro Mabillon, in the heart of Saint-Germain.

Her choice for lunch was a charming family run Chinese-Vietnamese bistro, Le Canton. The food adhered to my rules of rapport qualité-prix- a formule of entrée, plat & dessert for only 15 euros.

But far surpassing the meal was the show that we produced. A natural shmoozer (genetic?) Patricia promptly engaged our neighbor Marie-Laure from Annency and now resident of Paris in conversation and offered my biz card and a postcard promoting my concerts at the Duke’s Bar.

Roberta and Nina, a mother and daughter act from Paris via Firenze were next to be drawn in, aided by my warbling of Arrivederci, Roma and Mala Femina.

By this time,Lily, a newcomer to Paris from LA and Teheran, intrigued by the goings on approached and requested an invite to the concert.

At that point the two guys to my right were feeling neglected and asked for their invitations.

I love guerrilla theater.

It Happens More an More

It’s getting harder and harder to hide in this town.

While waiting for a meeting in front of Carette, the patissierie/café at Trocadero a woman approached me and said: Aren’t you Terrance? There being no outstanding warrants on me I answered affirmatively. She was a Swedish-Colombian, English-speaking reader from LA.

I look forward to seeing you in Paris.

Scenes from San Francisco

Just arrived from New York and I continued the attack on my body with concentrated participation in the Great American Diet: Take-out Chinese, giant, greasy hamburgers with mountains of fries, thick crust pizza topped with pepperoni and the one healthy component-tamales, quesadillas and frijoles prepared by my ex-wife.

After catching up on a few zzzs I had lunch with my son. Grandpère had a chance to hug Sydney, Alejandro and Edward who tell me they love me in impeccable French-what a difference a year makes.

One of the advantages of an annual visit is being treated as visiting “royalty”-the first coffee at La Coppa on the house, compliments of Nacho, dinner Chez Les Fox and a buttery steak au poivre and crème brulée chez J Brady-delicious calories.

Wednesday began with a presentation of Paris par Hasard to a standing room only crowd at the Commonwealth Club- a prestigious venue that has welcomed Henry Kissinger and other political and literary notables. A handful of friends and many new readers and subscribers.

That night I was joined by my accompanist, Sheldon Forrest at Martuni’s where we entertained a full house with music of Cole Porter, Oscar Levant, Charles Trenet and several of Johnny Mathis and Tony Bennett’s best. I’m becoming addicted to performance and will be hunting for a regular venue when I get back to Paris.

Found it-the Duke Bar at The Westminster Hotel.

Aidan Docherty is my youngest dedicated reader and he brought his sister Kayleith, Aunt Catherine and mom and dad to dinner  to catch up on old times. He is a bright, inquisitive and disarmingly charming lad.

Next up was lunch with my old friend Michael Krasny, host of Forum, the daily, 2 hour public radio broadcast featuring interviews with news makers and authors. Michael is a local treasure who never got the national notoriety he deserves.

That evening I was welcomed by Neal Sofman,at Book Shop West Portal, where he continues the good fight to sustain a local bookstore in these challenging and changing times-bravo. If you live in the Bay Area and haven’t read Paris par Hasard or would like to buy it as a gift please visit Neal and say bonjour for me.

PS: They loved the book and I forced them to listen to my CD prior to my talk-always be promoting, especially to a captive audience.

Dorothy Lefkovits, a singer herself shares a hug.

School Days

I answered the 8:14 bell for Sydney’s kindergarten class where I was joined by 2 parents and grandmother who were also volunteering. We were seated at ‘stations’ and joined in rotation by groups of six 5 year-olds. I had a ball teaching them how to count and identify colors in French but chapeau to Ms. Lum and all of those extraordinary teachers who help create a learning foundation for our bambini.

And the following day I attended Edward’s 4th grade classroom where they had been making a big pot of soup and discussing the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. After an introduction in which Edward rose and introduced me as grandpère from Paris and a nice guy (I detect a touch of the performer) Ms. Arnold projected a map of the world onto a screen and I gave the kids a geography lesson followed by a spirited Q & A in which the subject of snails was raised-do they have brains and intestines? Eliot correctly used their proper name-escargots and crowned the day when he approached me at the end of my remarks and inquired:”Do you know Pasta Pomodoro?” I answered yes and he alerted me to the fact that they do a “brilliant job with escargots.”

New York par Hasard

A great week in la grande pomme began with a bumpy landing in Newark as we punctured a turbulent sky before settling down on the Jersey tarmac. I had business meetings before continuing on to San  Francisco to hug my grandchildren and M was about to experience her first taste of New York.

We awakened to a gloriously sunny Friday and I assumed the role of tour guide, pointing out the major architectural landmarks as we left our Stuy Town crib ( merci Martha Ann) headed west on 14th Street and then north on Broadway before crossing  57th Street towards Bloomingdales. Now, seriously hungry I sought P.J. Clarke’s, the classic bar (featured in The Lost Weekend) for spicy Bloody Mary’s in the jam-packed bar and spirited repartée with the mob before being escorted to the back room for a juicy Cadillac Hamburger ( bacon and blue cheese) where Pete Hamill joined Sinatra in the opening chapter of his homage to Ol’ Blue Eyes, Why Sinatra Matters.

Saturday was one of those days when the gods decided to play with we mortals as the wind blustered and snow flakes tumbled out of the sky at an alarming rate as we went from spring to winter overnight. Power lines fell on trees and power would be out in New Jersey for several days and just as quickly it melted overnight as another splendid day greeted us.

Sunday in New York, the cliché began with a walk along the East River promenade where we ran into Chris and Caroline form Ottawa who purchased a copy of my memoir, Paris par Hasard, that always accompanies me on my perambulations. Lunch was dedicated to the memory of my Grandmother at the relocated 2nd Avenue Deli on 33rd Street where we were offered slices of rye bread with creamy chopped liver before sitting down to a pastrami sandwich that was too big to fit into M’s mouth-not mine.

Monday was the MOMA with Martha Ann for a large exhibit of DeKooning’s and dessert at Café 5 one of the museum’s Danny Meyer-operated restaurants that featured a creamy pumpkin cheesecake-to die for. It was Halloween and as we passed in front of one of the information booths in the lobby a voice within a masked face shouted: “Terrance.” I looked in surprise as all I could see were her eyes but when the mask came off it was Margery whom I had met in Paris two years ago when she visited with Christa Fuller (Sam Fuller’s widow) for a presentation of films about the liberation of the concentration camps.

Tuesday was a work day for me and M and MA did the Metropolitan and then joined me at Danny Meyer’s Maialino at the Gramercy Park Hotel where we celebrated  happy hour with $5 glasses of a very drinkable Tuscan red.

More work for me on Wednesday but not before a massive hamburger and shoestring potatoes at The Spotted Pig. Dinner was at Bao Noodles, a Vietnamese restaurant where we had greaseless crab spring rolls, shrimp, squid and iron pot basa (a firm white fish) at a very reasonable price.

Thursday was reserved for a walk over the inspiring Brooklyn Bridge from the Brooklyn side and a long walk up to Houston street for knishes at Yonah Schimmel followed by shopping and galleries in Soho-especially Franklin Bowles that was showcasing the work of Pierre Boncampain before collapsing at the apartment.

M was determined to ride to the top of the Empire State Building and we caught a break as the lines were short and it was worth the $20 admission as visibility extended to 25 miles. Next up were the Guggenheim featuring Mauricio Catalan’s eclectic assortment gigantic objects (a horse, a cow, Hitler, JFK) suspended from the ceiling that one viewed while ascending the circular staircase.

The Neue Gallery down the street offered a saner collection of German Expressionist and Austrian Art from the collection of Ronald Lauder. Lunch was downstairs at the art nouveau Cafe Fledermaus (same menu, same prices as the first floor Café Sbarsky but without the wait) where we shared a sacher torte after finishing our appropriately Viennese wursts.

We popped into Central Park, said hello to the seals and then headed downtown to pack and eat in before capping the week with a set at Small’s in the village where the super tenor saxophonist Harry Allen was playing.

Captain Joey-Hemingway’s Pal

I was walking along the rue Guisarde in the 6th when a charming women was nearly knocked over by a deliveryman retreating from a bistro. I remarked that walking in this neighborhood was dangereux and she promptly corrected my pronounciation.

We stared into each others blue eyes and instantly bonded. She was an eighty-five year old former journalist who had lived through the Nazi occupation, covered the Algerian War and interviewed General Giap, the Vietnamese soldier who had kicked the tushies of the French in 1954 and twenty years later the Americans.

In the spirit of baraka, Moroccan for good luck arising from serendipitous meets, she suggested a café, on her. Our conversation included her friends Hemingway and Graham Greene. We were both pressed for time so she invited me to come for lunch at her apartment next week…

Sunday at Le Flore

When I started announcing that I could be found on the terrace of Le Flore, my Paris office, on Sundays between the hours of 11:30PM -1PM I expected to meet a few readers from time to time but…

Last week New Yorkers Babettte, who sat next to me at a Paris Seder in April and her  friend Kathleen dropped in followed by travel agent Mary Ann Weyeneth from Danville, CA.

My great friends Stan & Joann Hays from San Francisco are included on a technicality-never on Sunday bit almost every other day during their Paris visit. And for the maraschino cherry on the sundae, San Farncisco’s Pat Brill.

Hope you can join us soon.

French Postal System is Extraordinary

In the hit film Miracle on 34th Street mail addressed to Santa Claus is delivered to the New York Courthouse where he is on trial.

A package containing a book was sent to me with a Mill Valley address, an incorrect Paris door code, a Paris zip code and was delivered to Village Voice books! Does the post office have a list of alternative addresses for me?

When Bobbie Ann Mason, my guest for a Paris Literary salon, asked if she could bring an 85-year old friend I was expecting a frail, hunched over, little thing. What I got was a spry, intellectually quick, blue-eyed beauty who was the real-life model for the title character of her novel THE GIRL IN THE BLUE BERET.

When 3,000 American and RAF flyers like Bobbie Ann’s father-in-law were shot down over France and Belgium during WWII it was brave 18-year old girls like Michele Agniel who acted as their liaisons in Paris and helped them evade the Nazi-occupiers as they were guided to safety.

Mme. Agniel’s first hand accounts of her experiences and the matter-of-fact acceptance that there was no choice but to help these cigarette-smoking, coin jangling Americans left the audience breathless.

My efforts to secure a video interview were met with characteristic Gallic, flirtatious ambiguity: “peut-etre.”

Up, Up & Away

The Wright Brothers get credit for man’s first flight but in 1783 Ben Frankin was in Paris to watch the Frères Montgolfier soar over Paris in a hot air balloon. This week I stepped into the gondola of a 1 million euro balloon that rose over the Parc André Citroen to offer a spectacular view of Paris from a height of 150 meters.

Downed Allied Flyers Saved…

The upcoming event with author Bobbie Ann Mason , The Girl in the Blue Beret has elicited very personal responses from readers. Here are two:

Mill Valley meets Paris

I’m no longer surprised when I run into someone from back home me so when en encountered Fred and Katharine Taylor on the rue du Four I took it in stride. And when two days later when I was returning to the Village Voice Bookstore, the  few unsold copies of Paris Without End from the event I had produced for author Gioia Dilberto it was par for the course that Fred and Katharine should show up. They kindly bought a copy of Paris par Hasard and followed my recommendation to buy Gioia’s book and not The Paris Wife that so shamelessly ripped off her book that had been originally published twenty years ago.

Fred and Katharine leave on Monday so I assume there will be at least one more encounter, par hasard.

Sunday on the terrace at Le Flore-the gang was all there.

The rentrée is almost here and regulars were filtering back from long summer vacations. Mme. Chapeau, sans chapeau, was there with Martine and Marian. The newest gang members, Jonathan from Belfast and Maria from Madrid soon arrived, followed by Joan Shore. Joan was there to discuss her new book Red Burgundy and our plans for an event in October-watch this newsletter for details.

And directly in front of me was Tom, the director of L’Europe, the top hotel in Amsterdam having breakfast with his family. I will be reporting from Amsterdam in the coming weeks and will be organize a weekend tour for readers.

So, join us every Sunday from 11:30 to 1 or as in this case, 2:30.

Summer Reading at 3 Euros

In America I had become accustomed to white noise–the continual reruns of Law & Order that passed for company as I wrote, did a New York Times crossword puzzle or read a Paris-focused book for review.

In Paris although my telecom package includes television I almost never turn it on preferring to relax with a spy thriller or detective novel: James Lee Burke, John Connolly, Michael Connelly, Phillip Kerr and Daniel Silva. My source is Jim Carroll’s San Francisco Book Shop at 17 rue Monsieur Le Prince in the 6th arrondissement.

For many years Jim ran a store of the same name in San Francisco’s North Beach until he consolidated and expatriated. You will often find neighborhood writers like John Baxter shopping here. And if you are looking to make room for additional titles in your overcrowded Paris apartment Jim will buy your books as well. If Jim is not on hand there is another Jim.

His system is simple and cheap. Bring in a pre-read thriller and receive 3 euros in trade to which you add three euros in cash and you have a book. I usually bring it back the next day and swap for another. It’s a great way to read an author’s entire output, unless his name is Simenon whose prodigious output would require a lifetime of summers to complete.

 Good news-Summer is almost over and returning Parisians will be bringing back loads of shelf-replenishing titles.

What were we thinking?  Originally published in November 2011

Obama Mania

It was the Sunday after what might be called the most historic and important US presidential election in history. John G. Morris, the 91 year-old former photo editor at LIFE, LADIES HOME JOURNAL, WASHINGTON POST and THE NEW YORK TIMES had worked tirelessly to achieve Obama’s election and invited over 300 elated supporters to celebrate at his Paris apartment/atelier. The price of admission was a bottle of wine.

The wine flowed and the party spilled out into the courtyard. The positive energy could have powered Con Ed’s New York power plants for a week.

I was practicing my usual party routine patterned after the noted romantic philosopher and one-time catcher for the Baltimore Orioles, *Gus Triandos-Find a spot near the alcohol and wait for women to find you-no searching and chatting (selling.) I was quickly engaged in several conversations with a variety of women and collegial men when the Intercultural Management Consultant went by to deliver her bottle to the bar and get a glass of wine.

As the other great philosopher of the fifties, Johnny Mathis, stated: “A fleeting glance can mean so many wondrous things.” As a true chevalier I filled her glass and we never separated. In between I swapped Jewish jokes and schmoozed in Hebrew with a black man from Oakland whose Yiddish intonations would have made Myron Cohen smile.

Dr. PP joined me and the IMC down the street at Les Caves St. Gilles for tapas, paella, garlic-fried gambas and Spanish vino tinto.

Mike Holly, the Netherlands

M. and I had left La Touraniere and were taking a circuitous rout to Le Grand Hotel Lion d’Or in Romorantin-Santhenay.

Our first stop was at Charles Joguet, a wine I had first tasted over 20 years ago in Berkeley at Kermit Lynch’s wine shop. While there we met Mike Holly and his wife Ils Here is Mike’s recollection of that encounter.

Sazilly. After the bursting car parks of Chinon, driving into Sazilly started the age-old discussion of where do the French disappear during the afternoon? Sazilly, leaning against the slow moving river (Vienne,) has no high and mighty cathedrals, no “brocante “ markets.

Has anyone ever bought anything at these markets?

Sazilly, or to be more precise, the Chinon of Charles Joguet. Why? Probably because we had read about Charles Jouguet in Kermit Lynch’s amusing conversations in his book “Adventures on the Wine Route”.

At the entrance, thank the gods for TomTom satnav, unlike Kermit who could not find the place, I expected to find a long drive, many advertisements luring me into the wine web to spend, spend, and spend.  I found just a simple entrance.

I met you (Terrance) in the “tasting area”.  You looked French, dressed French, and I thought that you were part of the “Jouguet” organization.

We spoke, not the deep political or cultural discussion you would expect,more, a summing up of book titles. Hemingway… how long ago is it that I read his “Old Man and the Sea” filled my thoughts. A library, 2,000 books or more, to be sold to fill a desire to move to foreign shores. Title after title, yet still walking in the shallows, never daring to go into the depths……….

Those tempting breaths of books filled me with the desire to discuss Yeats, Graham Greene (how I loved the Power and the Glory). Even Steinbeck-remembering my visit to the “Steinbeck” museum in Salinas, trying to discover Steinbeck and failing miserably. What is real in the museum, and what is not real?

We brushed against history. You telling me, was it sadness in your voice, that you could only borrow 4 books at a time from the library. From your youth, your desire to find out why it happened.

My love of history started late in my life. The why of everything. When writing this a flash of the 600 (Light Brigade) thundering into the valley of death fills my brain, sabres flashing……theirs not to reason why……………..Oh Tennyson, how true that someone had blundered……

Stop, the water is at our ankles …………

The honesty we shared, my wife saying that we did not like Paris, my adding that we loved Berlin.We parted, one quick photo to capture that one moment.

Then the wine, sometimes perfect, sometime raw-too young, and foolish? My thoughts turned to Yeats: ”take life easy, as the leaves grow on the tree”……My still trying to figure out the intricacies of the wine. Should this wine be drunk young? Or should it age first?

The balance, what is perfect? Do I taste more tannin, or is it my imagination yet each breath of the wine increases my thirst for more.

A perfect afternoon in Sazilly.

Mike Holly (June 2011)

Selling Par Hasard par hasard

Two petite blonde Américaines consulting a map and looking around with puzzled looks on their faces–‘Hello girls. Are you lost’ I asked in my most solicitous voice. ‘You speak English!’ They sighed with relief.

Jet-lagged to the max they had deposited their luggage and stepped out under a sunny Paris sky and a few steps later had forgotten how to return their hotel.

In exchange for my assistance they purchased the copy of Bagels to Brioches under my arm. I’m certain that this story will make the rounds in DC.

***

I was buying a gift for M. at Hermes and schmoozing with the vendeuse as she gift-wrapped the eau de 24 rue Faubourg fragrance. I had placed a copy of Paris par Hasard on the counter while I waited when Paul Bigley of Ft Worth asked if he could purchase the book for his daughter Meghan, a recent graduate of the CIA (not the government agency.)

I was delighted to make the transaction and handed it to Meghan who shared it with sister Sarah and Anita, her mom, who had been born in a Brooklyn hospital while her dad awaited discharge papers from the US Navy after the Second World War. My first readers in Ft. Worth.
***

Liz was an old pal from San Francisco who was passing through with her husband Rob. I was meeting them for a drink at Le Danton that turned into two followed by an invitation to dinner.

There was a slight chill in the springtime air and I suggested le Bistro d’Henri where we savored a pot au feu of bar, coquille Saint Jacques and saumon, lamb that been cooked over a low flame for 7 hours and I enjoyed the pan fried liver that bore no resemblance to the bone dry product my mother made me eat every Wednesday.

They were planning a move to Paris and I was happy to offer suggestions and assistance beginning with a thorough read of my book.