The Parisians may be accused of being a little proud, arrogant and even downright rude, but they are rightly proud of their city -it is magisterial in pomp, rich in history and brilliant in scintillement bourgeoise. That they think they have the best city in the world is obvious and is the sort of pride that would get right up a proletarian Anglo-Saxon's nose. Bloody posh frogs...
But as one wanders along the boulevards humming La Marseillaise one is drawn to the conclusion that they might actually have something. A bit of mis-spent tax-payer's money here, a conniving maire's vote-winning preferment there, et voilà -the city looks très attractif! In our close adherence to the principles of fair play and honesty of government we have overlooked the spectacular benefits of self-aggrandisement and our cities are a little more drab.
So it is with the Eiffel Tower. Commissioned as nothing more than a spectacular gateway for the International Exhibition of 1889 to commemorate the Revolution's centenary, Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel's design won over 700 others (one in the form of a giant watering can, another as a giant guillotine to honour the victims of the revolutionary terror). The design immediately ran into veciferous local opposition by the Committee of Three Hundred -one member for each metre: how, they asked, could anyone allow this iron monstrosity to emerge forever "over the city of Paris still vibrant with the genius of so many centuries... spreading out like a blot of ink, the shadow of this disgusting column of bolted tin"?
The Exhibition, like the three before it, was expected to lose money and the wily government would not put up more than a third of the cost -less so for the tower. Besides, it was not clear whether anyone would come to an event based around celebrating a violent revolution. In the end, it was an astonishing financial success and every major nation's manufacturing sector, irrespective of their government's political opinions, was presented. Monsieur Eiffel astutely acquired independent investment to finish the tower (agreeing to cover any losses) and recouped his money within the first year thereby aquiring boucoup des richesses.
The 'giant spike', it was thought, would give the Exhibition something special -a signature feature. The design was exclusively bought by Eiffel who then persuaded the committee to accept his design. The exposed ironwork was considered too vulgar, too modern. Garnier, who designed the beautiful yet traditional Paris Palais Opera house, claimed even after the tower's completion, "They have only erected the framework of this monument. It has no skin." Eiffel the experienced builder of bridges was exact in his technical specifications and included these in the design's proposal. It seemed only natural, therefore, upon successful completion to attach his name to the tower's title. So there you have it, the Tower reflects la gloire d'un homme.
There are plenty of marvellous statistics about the ole Tower, but that's not the point of this entry. The Memsahib and meself had left off visiting the place all week. Eating at various wonderful Parisian cafés and other discoveries such as Le Soufflé, we had found cuisine in the French capital to be generally good but no better or expensive than elsewhere: quality of ingredients appeared to be the determining factor. I knew about the restaurants on the Eiffel Tower and had booked a table at Le Jules Verne before leaving Hong Kong. Back in 2007 Alain Ducasse took over the restaurant bringing with him the determination (and much of the menu) seen in Spoon at the Intercontinental Hong Kong.
Arriving by cab, we took ourselves to the entrance of the splendid restaurant named after the fine French futurist and author. Escorted in a private little elevator to the Tower's second stage, we smiled as we left the underprivileged hoi-poloi below in long snaky queues eagerly waiting to ascend the four big lifts. There must have been move than 10 people that meeted-and-greeted us somewhat tiresomely before we even got to sit down: it felt like a security detail. One maître d' (and this may have been the experienced Francis Coulon mentioned in the on-line blurb) was particularly pleased to greet us utilizing what can only be described as Parisian Cockney.
We settled down with our Manhattan cocktails to 'study' the menu and wine list -that's such a poncey term, particularly in this case when there are only 19 items à la carte (25 including the set menu). The sommelier, in our case Amar Chebrek, was keen to offer advice, but perhaps a little too ready to agree with our preference -a difficult line for anyone to walk. A friendly bloke, at least he wasn't as snooty as some of the bloody waiters.
We began with slow cooked veg and snails for me (we're in France after all), both served with a pouring of little separate sauces. Exquisite: beautifully presented. I must also mention the bread which without doubt was the finest I have ever tasted -ever. A freshly-baked salted brioche swirl sounds so simple, yet a meal of this light bread alone would have been worthy of praise. It was a pity the Memsahib could not taste it, but the restaurant was happy to accommodate her wheat intolerance, at least to begin with.
Billecarte-Salmon rosé champagne, being our favourite, went very well with all our choices. The pigeon was, by the Memsahib's account, delicious and the steak was perhaps the best I've had -the knife literally fell through the meat. I'd been saying all week how I wanted to have steak-frites in Paris, it now being the national dish, and here it was in its' fully glammed grandeur. The accompanying pommes soufflés, thin slices of potato fried once and left to cool then fried again at a very high temperature so that the insides puff up, were parfait!
Accompanied by a glass of sensuous Maury, the chocolat framboise and abricots rôtis were further examples of high quality this time under the direction of renowned pâtissier-chocolatier-glacier Christophe Devoille. Light and full of delicate nuances, each dessert had the right balance of sweetness and flavour, although I took so long eating mine it degenerated at the end into bowl of school canteen mush-up. The restaurant is run by teams, one for each of the three restaurant sections (the kitchens being on the fourth corner). Along with the few couples at table, there were a number of large parties eating at the restaurant, each with accompanying decorative femme fatales and their somewhat outshone opposite numbers, femme attrapées -of which there were more: clearly, one hosts at the Jules Verne to create the right impression.
Coffee and choccy petits four came on, but we were stuffed and there was obviously some wheatflour in the framboise and it was beginning to tell on the Memsahib. But it was past 10.30 and we'd been throroughly enjoying the food, wines and ambiance for three hours. The view, of course, is the reason for this particular restaurant surpassing in comparison practically any other eatery in the world. Our table overlooked Paris from the Champs-Élysées and Montmartre all the way to the Orly airport and bands of rain could be seen wafting across the cityscape and then clearing away to the south.
Upon our leaving the waiters asked if we wanted to take in the city view of which they were rightly proud. The City of Lights spread before us did indeed glimmer with all the bourgeouisee it could muster. We descended the elevator with a little sadness: the Jules Verne experience had been, as Alain Ducasse wished on his website, "the most beautiful place in Paris to enjoy the pleasure of a contemporary and accessible French kitchen." He may be happy to hear that I have to concur.
Cela semble délicieuse -the traditional rude Vietnamese peasant's fare
Posted by: Richard Peters | Wednesday, 27 July 2011 at 07:59 AM
Hello from your woman in Hue,
Your meal sounds divine darlings. Although I have had some jolly nice food here in Vietnam, tonight I had a burger and chips accompanied with a Huda beer - it was lovely!
Posted by: Lesley Croft | Tuesday, 26 July 2011 at 04:51 PM