Borrowing from the likes of Cole Porter and crooner Frank Sinatra, I love Paris in the spring time, I love Paris in the fall, I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles, I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles - except when my hair goes all poufy and doesn't sit flat despite the amount of product I smoothed all over it before heading out. Grr. But Paris, wonderful, beautiful and eternally romantic Paris can certainly make up for whatever the elements may bring...
It's the 7th of January, winter in Paris, and my husband is taking me to one of the world's finest restaurants, Pierre Gagnaire. We've left the boys with their grandparents at our hotel in Disneyland Paris where we are staying and decide to Metro it into central Paris. Wearing our finest covered up by our warmest winter coats we alight finding ourselves almost directly underneath the Arc de Triomphe with a twinkling Tour Eiffel clearly visible. Disneyland Paris this is not and immediately I am taken back to the last time I was in Paris and squeeze Robin's hand with my own mitten covered one in anticipation of what the night might bring.
It's still early, by Australian standards at least, but dark, and blisteringly cold. Upon finding the right direction we make our way easily enough along rue Balzac yet still manage to miss our destination. Two young chefs lean against a wall outside another restaurant hurriedly puffing on cigarettes before service begins and with broken French we manage to ask them for directions. They oblige in fluent French, thankfully with hand signals, and moments later we find ourselves in the foyer of Pierre Gagnaire. It is here that my anticipation turns to a mild anxiety as I am notorious for doing the most embarrassing things when I am in fine restaurants.
Immediately we are welcomed, our jackets removed and led to a table to the rear of the restaurant on a slightly raised level. I notice that we are the first to arrive and am fearful it will be a quiet evening - a flashback to a pre theatre meal at one of Gordon Ramsey's London restaurants springs to mind when a line of waiters jumped to our assistance after every sip, slip or sneeze which I found to be extremely unnerving. Sitting, our table is pushed up against us (not tightly, mind, just securely and so we don't have to move our chairs) and after a moment the person assisting us has determined that we would rather he spoke in English, that we are uncertain as to what menu we would like to choose from and that champagne to start was a definite. There isn't a hint of arrogance and I can feel my nerves slightly unravel as I pull self consciously at my Wonderbra enhanced cleavage wondering if perhaps I should have put the safety pin a little higher and not left so much to show.
Flipping through the menu options it becomes obvious that it is all in French and without prices. This is Robin's night, or rather his treat for us, so I decide I'll let him decide. He sneaks a smile at me before whispering 'How much money do we have on the credit card?' I cringe. 'Enough.' But not quite enough for Pierre Gagnaire's it seems; well at least not the truffle menu. Still recovering from my bout of London gastro I opt for only a main course, saving myself 100 euros in the process. Robin orders the signature langoustines to start and we both appreciate it for its overwhelming beauty before he commences eating. I sample things along the way but my heart just isn't in it, the anticipation of my main course far more appealing. By now the restaurant is filling nicely and though I am aware we are by the far the youngest couple here (and I'm no spring chicken) I feel completely and utterly comfortable. Until I need to go the the toilet that is. Without thinking I push my chair back, banging it into the wall so hard in the process that the couple at the table opposite us glance over. Embarrassing moment number one. Pinned I turn to Robin for assistance. 'What do you do if you need the loo?' I ask. He grins. 'Cross your legs.' As the starter plates (yes plates, there were six offerings) are removed I announce as politely as possible my urgent desire for the facilities and the table is pulled forward and I am freed. Following a waiter out of the restaurant and through the lobby to the downstairs bathrooms I take in the 1950s decor and the wealthy looking clientele. As I sit myself down I am shocked to find that from the waist up the entire toilet cubicle is mirrored, something I fully appreciate as I pull up my tights checking my dress hasn't got itself caught in the process. Then comes embarrassing moment number two when I am found wandering aimlessly by a staff member from the hotel in which Pierre Gagnaire is housed and asked if I need assistance finding my way back to the restaurant. Naturally I do as I was far too busy checking everything out to pay any attention to where I was actually going.
Moments upon returning the table is pushed back into its former position and the manager approaches our table with the most delicious smelling steaming le creuset pot. He removes the lid to reveal my duck, sizzling away in its own juices with fresh thyme and bay leaf. This is not my main course, I mean it is, but not yet, this is just to show me that it has been baking in the oven and is now to return to the kitchen for serving. It's a great selling point too as everyone on the tables around us (remember at this point we were the first to arrive and therefore the first to order) decides to order the duck too, their nostrils filled with its mouthwatering aroma. When it returns a short time later there is still a hint of its former aroma glory but I am disappointed to find the skin isn't as crispy as I would have liked but then the duck meat itself is so tender I couldn't complain. Robin happily tucks into his veal sweetbreads (I'm serious, among other things it comes with a side of curried veal kidneys) and I make a mental note not to kiss him later.
After main courses are cleared it's Robin's turn to relieve himself. He automatically pushes back his chair, knocking into the glass encased wine cellar and rebounding into our table; embarrassing moment number three. Stifling giggles, we both redden as a staff member rushes to our aid, pulling the table forward & freeing Robin. Upon his return (table back in its place) the manager wanders over to enquire about dessert. Believe it or not I am actually full. Pierre Gagnaire is one of those wonderful restaurants that serves you something like a billion little extra courses which not only make you feel special but also stretch your capacity to its limits. It is decided that Robin will order Le Grand Dessert de Pierre Gagnaire, a dessert inspired by French pastries and seasonal fruit and which the manager insists we share. As he sets the table for our impending dessert he asks where we are from. Robin automatically answers, 'Australia. Well, England really, but we live in Australia,' and the manager smiles, nods, and disappears. Robin and I look at each other suddenly unsure if that was what he had asked us at all and if he had been given some random reply to his question. Embarrassing moment number four, and thankfully the last embarrassing moment of the evening (unless you count being given a tour of the kitchen, meeting Pierre himself and having to appear together when you are still recovering from a tummy bug and have had far too much to drink - for me that's more than one glass of wine). Dessert is like nothing on earth, though there isn't enough chocolate to please my sweettooth and Robin manages to squeeze in a coffee before requesting the bill. 491 euros later (that's around $800 Australian dollars) we head back out into Paris's cold evening and towards the Metro where we are to make our way back to Disneyland Paris and reality.
Pierre Gagnaire was easily one of the most expensive meals of my life but certainly one of the most enjoyable. The food was divine, the service bar none, but I honestly think what made the evening so special was being in Paris with Robin.
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