HAUSMANN’S TOP 10 LIST of
THINGS TO DO – AND NOT DO — IN PARIS
By Jonathan Freedman
Back from a week in Paris with his femme jolie and enfants terribles, Hausmann presents a 10-Part series: Hausmann’s Top 10 Things to See & Do – and Not Do – in Paris. Every day or so, a new adventure, exclusively on “Confessions of a Hausmann.”
Today, #1: Petit Déjeuner & the Best Dumplings in the Universe
Petit déjeuner at a small Parisian café near the Gare de Lyon: They serve soft, buttery croissants; hot chocolate, made by pouring molten cocoa into steaming milk; sunny side up eggs on ham, and foot-long buttered toasts. Once we became regulars (for a week), the waiter even smiled when we entered. We never learned the name of the place, just a typical café.
Chinese in the Latin Quarter – Okay, okay, the Latin Quarter is for tourists. No Parisian would deign to dine there.
Reality check: We’re tourists!
Indeed, the hucksters trying to drag you into their restaurants are annoying. And the dizzying array of placards “Menu 12 Euro!” soon become monotonous.
Yet, we were charmed by the mountebanks and street performers. And the fixed prices guaranteed we didn’t overspend. Well, not too much.
We were wandering around the Latin Quarter, when the kids spotted a Chinese restaurant.
“I want dumplings!” cried Lincoln. “Dumpling!” chorused Genevieve, with the moan of a deprived child.
In a way, there are deprived of dumplings — and it’s all Hausmann’s fault!
Flip the calendar pages to January, 2009. We’d just arrived in Basel, and were lonely and freezing, inside and out. Isabelle found a Chinese restaurant near the railway depot. The dumplings reminded the children of the fried dumplings at our favorite family-style Chinese restaurant back home, the endearing hole-in-the wall China Chef: 623 Pearl St., La Jolla, CA. Takeout orders: 858-456-1414.
Sadly, they didn’t deliver in Basel.
The Swiss Chinese restaurant was chilly, but the dumplings were comfort food. And we needed comforting in the dead of the winter.
Then I ordered water. The waiter brought a bottle of sparkling. Price: 6 bucks. No, just tap water will be fine.
“Vas ist tapvasser?”
“From the faucet,” I said, making a twisting hand motion.
“Verbieten.” Forbidden.
“Of course you can,” I demanded, with an edge in my voice.
The waiter stomped off and returned with a carafe of water, and four glasses.
“Danke,” I said, delightedly pouring the Basel tap water into the glasses.
You should know that Basel has natural springs, and the water is clean and refreshing. And it’s free! Flowing from fountains all over town. It’s something the Baslers are rightly proud of. But now the fountains were frozen over. So was the icy look from the waiter.
“Two Swiss francs for every glass,” he sneered.
“I’m not paying for tap water!” I shouted, embarrassing my wife and children.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Isabelle said, rightfully ashamed of my behavior and angry at me for being an Ugly American. “The dumplings are coming.”
The children’s noses rose, sniffing the fried dumplings, their eyes gleaming with anticipation like famished wolf pups smelling a bunny rabbit.
“Aus!” shouted the waiter. Get out of my restaurant!
Please, we pleaded.
“Nein! Aus! Aus!”
Driven from the restaurant, my dumpling-deprived wife and children glared at me. Hausmann spent a frosty night on the couch. Eventually, they forgave me, but still felt deprived.
In the Latin Quarter, we spied “Le Lac d’Louest” in green neon letters flashing on a Chinese red background.
“I owe you dumplings,” I said, leading us into the cozy restaurant. The menu offered Chinese, Thai, and Vietnamese delicacies.
“L’eau de le table, see voo play,” I requested, anxiously, in my gringo French. The waiter graciously brought a liter of table water, and replenished it, gratis.
“These are the best dumplings in the world!” Isabelle exclaimed.
“The best in the solar system!” cried Genevieve.
“The best in the universe!”
Every night, we chose a different restaurant in the Latin Quarter. The wine was cheap, the lamb stringy, portions sometimes stingy, 10 euro dishes iffy; the French onion soup savory, French bread soft or crusty, and the desserts variable as the fall weather. In short, you get what you pay for.
But every restaurant in Paris served us table water. Somewhere, in my confused value system, where liberté and freedom are quasi-synonymous with “free,” I still believe that potable water is a right, not a privilege.
Splurging, we tried the “Europeean Restaurant” a grand seafood place on the Right Bank. The golden lights reflect diners in ceiling-high mirrors. Uniformed waiters balance platters of oysters, crayfish, and lobster chilling on ice, and the champagne flows. A glimpse of Paris in the Gilded Age.
On a budget, we ate chicken!
Tomorrow, don’t miss #2 in Hausmann’s Top 10: “Meeting Relatives.”
Cheers? Boos? Please email comments to: confessionsofahausmann@tumblr.com You ain’t gotta sign up for nothin’, nowhere, and no how!
