BRYCE CORBETT

Mes excuses...

2009-12-20T22:57:00.003+01:00

Hello bloggettes -
Not a day goes by when I don't think of this blog. It sits in the corner of my mind's eye taunting me, lamenting how I neglect it, sobbing that I don't bring it flowers anymore - and you'd have to admit it has a point.
I notice my last entry was November 20. A full month ago. An appalling effort for anyone hoping to participate in the blogging zeitgeist.
Suffice it to say, my silence has been for a reason. And that reason is sound.
On the professional front, I am sweating on meeting a deadline for the new book. With my editors expecting a squaeky clean manuscript in their hot little publishing hands by the end of January, I am tippity-tap tapping away on the keyboard every hour that the good Lord gives me.
On the personal front, there has been a new addition to my little family - and if any of you out there are parents, you'll know how even the smallest addition to a family can make a large impact. Sleep is something I now only dream of. It's a magical land that I think back on with fondness and recall wistfully.
And so dear bloggettes - excuse the hiatus. I'll be back - as soon as the diaper demon releases me from its clutches. Think of this as less of a goodbye, and more of an au revoir...

Spring-ing into another Beaujolais Nouveau

2009-11-20T14:46:00.008+01:00

There's so much to like about my new quartier. The Louvre and its most famous tenant, Ms M. Lisa, being my new next-door neighbours (she's as quiet as a mouse, and as demure as you like), the Seine and its soul-soothing qualities being but a hop, skip and jump away, and the profusion of great restaurants, cafes and food havens that happily call this arrondissement home.
Last night was Beaujolais Nouveau night in Paris. It's the night for all the wine makers in Beaujolais to foist the fruits of their 2009 harvest on unsuspecting Parisian palates. On BN nights of yore (for, in ten years here in Paris, I've had more than my fair share of Beaujolais Nouveau), I've been so overcome with bonhomie and a feeling of goodwill to all men (a state my wife commonly refers to as "offensive drunkenness") that I've barely been able to recall my exploits.
Last night however, I remained relatively sober - the better to be able to relate my adventures last night in the quartier.
The much-celebrated Paris-based Chicago foodie, Daniel Rose, has gone and opened a new epicerie across the street from me (there goes the neighbourhood). It's a spin-off from his wildly successful 9th arrondissement eatery, Spring.
Spring - The Epicerie, had its grand opening last night. Well, as grand as a 50m2 space can pull off. There were food and wine lovers spilling out onto the pavement as everyone happily tucked into the free booze to wish Daniel well on his latest venture. The Epicerie - packed to its freshly-painted rafters will all manner of delicious, distinctly artisanal French foodstuffs - is but a taster of things to come in the I-Should-Be-So-Lucky 1st arrondissement. Sometime next year, Spring Mach II will be opening on the nearby Rue Bailleul. Le tout Paris' tastebuds are quivering in anticipation...
Mr Rose cut a cool figure last night, reclining on the stairs of his new venture, resplendant in a ye olde epicier blue coverall, while Paris's fooderati flapped about him.
Once we had toasted the Rose, our party headed across the street to the trusty ol' Le Garde Robe wine bar for a bit more BN guzzling. The wines on offer from the makeshift kerb-side counter were excellent - defying ten years worth of experience with BNs which were, in retrospect, undrinkable.
Across the street, O Chateau's Olivier was welcoming crowds of wine enthusiasts to his subterranean wine tasting emporium. If you're in the market for a crash course in French wines, this is the man to see.
With our stomachs swilling with BN, it was decided nothing would sate our hunger like a session at Chez Denise. Somewhat full from the bread and saucisson I'd been munching at Le Garde Robe, I sat at our table, with its red-and-white checked tablecloth - and scanned the menu for something 'light'. I may as well have been looking for something non-fattening in a patisserie. Chez Denise is renowned for its meaty menu. Meals come in three varieties: meaty, extra-meaty and heart-stopping. My initial instinct was to go with Coq Au Vin - the closest thing on the menu to a salad. But when one of my dinner companions asked if I would share a cote de boeuf, I heard the words "I'd love to" spilling from my lips. I blame the wine.
The steak was delicious, the frites were sinfully good and the BN just kept flowing. Not even the sight of a few ample-bellied, red-faced, extra-large human heart-attacks at nearby tables was enough to put us off our feast. We were in the throes of a BN bacchanalia - what's a few hardened arteries between friends?

Below: Daniel Rose in epicier mode

Early morning on the Pont des Arts

2009-10-31T12:35:00.006+01:00

There was a time - and it doesn't seem that long ago - when I would be one hundred times more likely to see sunrise over the Seine at the end of a big night painting the town rouge. This morning, I experienced dawn's crack on the arm of my 18-month-old son, as we scarpered from the apartment to give his long suffering mum a precious extra hour's sleep.
It was cold, the Pantheon was shrouded in early morning mist and the normally buzzing streets were deserted. My little man and I stood on the Pont des Arts for as long as the cold allowed, watching the occasional boat sluice its way up the river. The Seine was as still as the proverbial mill pond. The city was shaking itself out of its slumber and preparing for itself for another crisp, late autumn day. And I thought about the time in my life when sunrises were only ever the backdrop to a scurry home after a big night out. And as fond as those memories are, I found myself relieved those days are (mostly) behind me. They were a pleasure to experience and I don't regret a second, but neither do I need to relive them. And while initially the prospect of dragging myself and the little fella out of the warmth of the apartment and into the cold filled me with dread, I soon discovered early morning Paris offers up a world of delights.
Does it mean I'm getting older? Probably. Does it mean I have matured? I hope not. At least not too much...
And just because I like the photo, see below a snap I took the other night from my other favourite Parisian bridge, the Pont Alexandre III. You've got to hand it to the old dame Paris, she sure does scrub up well.

Public Service Announcement: Tourists to Paris! Beware the gold ring scam

2009-10-27T14:56:00.007+01:00

So I was walking through the Tuileries this morning, on my daily consitutional stroll, when I saw a couple of tourists looking quizzically at a woman who had just handed them a gold ring.
What I knew, and they clearly didn't, was that they were about to be ripped off. They were about to be taken for a ride, scammed, cheated out of money. And so, donning my good samaritan hat (because I hate to see tourists in Paris being taken advantage of), I intervened and informed them they were about to fall victim to one of the most popular tourist scams currently infecting Paris.
And so it occurred to me to blog about it, in the event it saves any tourists currently in the City of Light - or any planning a vacation here soon - from being ripped off.
The scam goes something like this.
You will be walking along the street/through the gardens, engrossed in the beauty of your Parisian surroundings, when out of the corner of your eye, you spy a person bend down and pick something up. That person will make a loud exclamation, indicating how "surprised" they are. They will then approach you, holding up a gold ring, and ask if it belongs to you. You will say no and they will continue to feign surprise before insisting you take the ring. They will then ask for a sum of money - presumably in return for the gold ring they found, but have magnanimously handed over to you. A gold ring which, coincidentally, is a piece of polished plastic.
Now, I don't really understand how or why this scam would work. Why would people take a ring that wasn't theirs and then hand money over to the stranger that found it? It doesn't make sense. But given the number of times I have seen it unfolding on the Paris streets (especially in high-traffic tourist areas) it's a scam that obviously does work.
Tell your family, tell your friends. Tell anyone planning a trip to Paris to beware the gold ring scam...

Writers At The Residence - a night at the British Embassy

2009-10-21T15:12:00.006+02:00

Greetings Bloggettes.
Firstly, apologies for the infrequent nature of these postings. I am working feverishly to complete the manuscript of book two, am working to meet a fast-approaching deadline, and hence haven't had time to blog. My humblest apologies.
I tend to go into a bit of a tunnel when I am in writing mode. I put the blinkers on, turn off the phone, disconnect the internet, desist from looking at email or Twitter - and just try to focus.
I did surface briefly last night, however, to participate in a charity fundraiser at the British Embassy here in Paris. It was such a good night and for such a good cause, that I have even broken my self-imposed blog embargo to share a little bit of it with y'all.
I was part of a panel of Paris-based authors for an event at the UK Embassy called Writers At The Residence. Organised by UK Ambassadress, Lady Westmacott, to raise funds for the excellent local charity organisation, SOS Helpline, the event also featured fellow scribblers Heather Stimmler-Hall (Naughty Paris Guide), Alex Lobrano (Hungry for Paris), Stephen Clarke (A Year In The Merde), Charles Timoney (A Certain Je Ne Sais Quoi) and Michael Sadler (An Englishman Amoreux).
Before an attentive, generous audience of some 200 British, American and Australian expats in Paris (plus a handful of indulgent French) - and in a room of the Embassy that re-defined the meaning of the word "sumptuous" - the panel members (yours truly included) yammered on for an hour or so about French stereotypes, the worldwide fascination with France and the state of the French food industry.
From Heather we learned the French reputation as excellent lovers was not always deserved (she tactfully declined to reveal how she knew this), from Alex we gleaned that France is still the world capital of inventive, innovative cuisine, from Charles we learned how his French colleagues gather at his office door at 5pm every day in anticipation of him "taking tea" (as all good Englishmen should), from Stephen we heard how proud his mother was that the French word for "pooh" had become his trademark and from Michael we were treated to the spectacle of an old-school raconteur in full flight.
A rollicking good time appeared to be had by all (at least from where I was sitting), plenty of money was raised for the SOS Helpline and no-one got hurt (except, perhaps, for the collective dignity and pride of the French nation, so insistent were the parries and thrusts from those of us who make a buck poking fun at or otherwise highlighting the apparent absurdity of some of their quirkier habits).
Heather was moved to remark after the event that the six of us ought to take our show on the road. So there it is people: we're available for hire. Weddings, parties, bat mitzvahs..

Samson & Delilah - a cinematic tour de force

2009-10-15T15:34:00.012+02:00

As an Australian in Paris, I'm about as far removed from my sunburnt homeland as it is geographically possible to be. But that doesn't mean the heart-strings don't occasionally twang for the wide brown land. Bouts of nostalgia for Australia come in regular waves (more regular, in fact, the longer I live here in Paris) - and there's often nothing I like better than to take a break from all this European refinement and haute culture and lose myself in the raw, unwieldy, unchecked majesty of my sprawling country of birth.
One such bout of nostalgia sent me off to a cinema on the Left Bank last week to see a press screening of the Australian film, Samson & Delilah. And while it would be difficult to describe the experience as uplifting, I challenge anyone to go and watch this excellent film and not come away having been moved by it.
It's a simple, yet powerful tale, masterfully told. First time writer/director, Warwick Thornton follows the film's two protagonists, a pair of Aboriginal kids living in a run-down community in Central Australia. Against a backdrop of neglect, a most unlikely love story plays out - one that speaks as much to the resilience of Australia's Aborigines as it does to the casual cruelty with which they are forced to live everyday.
The portrait painted of modern Australia and its relationship (or, rather lack thereof) with its indigenous people is shocking. You feel the sense of hopelessness with which these kids confront their futures - lives stunted even before they have had a chance to begin. And yet, and yet - Thornton doesn't let the credits roll without offering up a glimmer of hope.
The performances are inspired - especially that turned in by Delilah (Marissa Gibson). You can count the lines of dialogue on one hand. In this film, the power lies very definitely in what is not said. And the cinematography is sumptious, making it a well-deserved recipient of the Camera d'Or at this year's Cannes Film Festival.
The film's designer, Daran Fulham (of Syriana and Blood Diamond fame) deserves a special shout out for creating an on-screen ambience you can practically smell and feel. The grit practically falls off the silver screen.
It will be interesting to see how this film plays to French audiences. Paris movie-goers are famous cinephiles, so there's little doubt it will be lapped up for its many cinematic virtues. The French are also unusually interested in the plight of Australia's Aborigines. Many is the time I have been quizzed by locals interested in the Aboriginal story. If the French media dedicate any air time or column space at all to Australia, it is more often than not to explore the Aboriginal predicament. Samson & Delilah will doubtless go some way to feeding that fascination.
You can always tell you've been to a good film if it haunts you for days afterwards. Samson & Delilah has enormous haunt potential. And while it may not be the kind of film to make an ex-pat Aussie like me hanker for the homeland, it is a vital story, expertly told - and a movie to make this Australian proud of the talented folk his country has a happy habit of producing.

Top tips for a budget pig out in Paris

2009-10-13T13:26:00.008+02:00

One of the great joys of living in Paris is the seemingly inexhaustive supply of amazing places to eat. I’ve been here ten years, and until yesterday, thought I had a relatively good handle on the gastronomic pleasures to be sampled and supped in this fair city. But then the most recent edition of Olive magazine arrived in the mail. Olive is food and wine magazine published in the UK by the BBC. The good folk at Olive had asked me to contribute to an feature they were preparing for this month’s issue on navigating your way around “Bargain Paris” - the best places to eat and drink on a budget. Why they assumed an author and journalist would know how to live cheaply in the City of Light, I cannot begin to imagine. I managed to deflect the slight that I am a cheapskate long enough to churn out 800 words of sterling copy on the subject of cheap eats in Paris – almost every one of which is now appearing in an Olive mag near you.
What I discovered this morning as I read through the article, was how little I knew about the broad range of amazing eateries that hide out in this city. The article also features eating-on-a-shoestring tips from fellow Parisian foodies/bloggers/dwellers, Meg Zimbeck, Adrian Moore and Olivier Magny.
Between the three of them, they know a treasure trove of great little cafes, boulangeries, bistros and brasseries where your euro will stretch that little bit further. From Meg’s contribution, I almost had to change shirts after reading about the white chocolate pain au chocolat in the boulangerie Blé Sucré in the 12th. Adrian’s enthusiastic appraisal of Frenchie, the hip new resto off rue Montorgueil had me reaching for the phone to make a reservation, and Olivier (the only French man among us and whose company 'O Chateau' does excellent “Discover French Wine” courses) shared a couple of secrets from his leeetle black book, including restaurants Le Reminet and La Biche Au Bois.
Which goes to show it doesn’t matter how long you have lived here in Paris, or how well you think you know the eating scene, new and interesting places are always coming across your radar. So while my waistline may not thank you – Meg, Adrian and Olivier – my stomach definitely does. Merci.
Oh – and in the interests of fairness to the Olive folk, I will hold off until the end of the month before letting you all in on my top tips for budget eating in Paris ..

McDonalds' at the Louvre? It's a tempete in a teacup

2009-10-06T09:36:00.007+02:00

So McDonald's have announced plans to open an outlet in the Caroussel du Louvre, the shopping mall underneath the world's most famous temple of art and culture. Quelle horreur!
If the world's press is to be believed, the French are up in arms at the prospect of le Big Mac fighting for floor space with Caravaggio and Da Vinci. According to reports in newspapers all over the world today, les francais are set to take to the streets to stop this most heinous development from taking place.
Which strikes me as rather odd.
France is the second biggest market for McDonald's outside the grand ol' US of A. According to the CEO of Maccas in France, "les restos McDo" (as they are affectionately known here in France) open at a faster rate in la belle France than in any other country in Europe, and the McDonald's store on the Champs Elysées is the most profitable outlet of the hamburger and fry empire in the entire world.
Now, I'm no great fan of the Golden Arches. I find their food frankly hideous and would rather eat cow dung than feat on a McValue Meal (unless of course I have a hideous hangover, in which case, all bets are off). But I can't help but think this apparent mass-outrage on the part of the French - as represented in the international media - is a little exaggerated.
When it comes to fast-food, the French are voting with their hip-pockets. Dominos Pizza sells more than 12 million pizzas in France every year. France is the second biggest market for take away pizza after the US.
As Mike Steinberger, author of the recently published "Au Revoir To All That: Food, Wine And The End Of France" points out, the reality of French eating habits sits at odds with the perception of a nation obssessed with food and one that only sups on the finest produce, lovingly prepared according to time-honoured traditions.
I can only speak from experience. Yes, the French eat exceedingly well. Yes, the French are obsessed with food in a way few other nations are (which is undoubtedly one of the great delights of living here) and yes, on balance, the French - collectively - have a much better diet and much healthier eating habits than people in most other Western countries (a combination of readily available, excellent fresh produce, a disinclination to eat processed foods and a healthy lifestyle marked by three meals a day with no snacking in between). But to believe that France and the French are immune to the fast food scourge that is sweeping the world would be simply naive. That's the funny thing about globalization - it has a nasty habit of being, well, global.
As for McDonald's at the Caroussel du Louvre, it's perhaps worth pointing out that the Maccas in question will take its place next to a raft of other fast-food outlets which have been operating under the Mona Lisa for years. Pizza, pasta, salad bars, doner kebabs compete for the tastebuds and wallets of the thousands of tourists who pass through there every year - there's even an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. The Caroussel du Louvre itself is a hopped-up shopping mall - about as tacky a place in central Paris as it is possible for there to be, stuffed to its gills with Swatch stores, Tie Racks and souvenir stalls. If Maccas is going to be situated anywhere near the Louvre, it really couldn't be in better company.
(Cartoon credit: Cathy Wilcox - via the Brisbane Times)

Review: Quai Quai -- I say oui, oui

2009-10-05T13:48:00.007+02:00

It's hard to know what I get more excited about these days. The actual event of sitting down and eating at a restaurant or the fact that I am out at all.
With an 18-month-old doing a convincing job of otherwise filling my every waking hour, plus a book deadline looming (note to my editor: I'm working on it Vanessa - really I am .. even as I type this blog entry, I am forming winning sentences for the book..) it's usually all I can do at night to collapse in front of the telly with a plate of re-heated leftovers from a meal we cooked three nights previously.
Which is why Saturday's visit to Quai Quai - the dead-groovy restaurant perched conveniently on the Pont Neuf - was such a delight.
The Missus and I broke bread with a fellow Aussie couple, and our consta-companion Julien - a Parisian of exceedingly good taste who has been my gastronomic guide to the City of Light for as long as I have been here.
The decor chez Quai Quai depends where you are seated. The restaurant straddles a block, meaning it has two entrances and two distinct dining rooms. One is all romantic-intimatey with muted lighting and cushioned bench seats and a tasteful brown and lime-green interior design motif. The other is more canteen-esque, with simple, mismatched furniture, distressed wooden doors and more muted lighting. We were seated in the rambunctious part of the restaurant (even before we had opened our mouths..) and settled in for a three-course adventure.
The menu is, by bistro standards, both extensive and eminently affordable. Entrées start at around 7 euros and peak at 15. Mains run the back-pocket gamut from 17 euros to 35. A dessert will set you back anywhere from 7 to 12 euros.
The trio who recently opened this eatery are also responsible for Cinq Mars, the equally hip little eatery behind the Musée d'Orsay. They've created menu that is at once traditional and modern. Contemporary twists on ye olde French bistro favourites.
I kicked off proceedings with sardines marinées - which were delicious. The Missus opted for ricotta de grand-mere avec tomates confites, which was presented in a glass pot that could have been style-over-substance were it not for the fact the ricotta was creamy and the tomatoes were plump and juicy. Un demi canard avec sauce champignons was next on my eating agenda, and what a delight it was. After ten years in Paris, I've eaten my fair share of canard, but this dish was prepared and presented in an inventive, attractive way. The Missus went with the lamb, which was okay, without being remarkable. For dessert, I couldn't go past the millefeuille aux framboises, a tasty confection of pastry, raspberries and fresh creme anglaise. Mmmmmmm. The Missus allowed herself to be tempted by the pain perdu - which while tasty, was perhaps a little heavy going for an end of meal option.
It was all washed down by several bottles of a very good red wine - the name of which I will post once I have consulted with Julien.
The service was attentive and friendly, the restaurant was packed with groovy young things (ourselves not included) and the bill was reasonable. Perhaps the best part of the meal though is stepping out the door, onto the Pont Neuf, and taking a post-prandial stroll as you stare up river and drink in one of the most beautiful views in the world.

A tale of two quartiers

2009-09-24T22:36:00.005+02:00

They say that moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do. What rubbish. It’s easily the most stressful thing you can do. It’s three days after the fact here in Parigi. I packed up my small tribe and moved them three arrondissements to the west at the weekend, trading the down-at-heel but oh-so-groovy 11th arrondissement for the well-turned-out and ever-so-slightly-snobbish 1st arrondissement. The reasons for the move and the rationale behind the choice of new neighbourhood are too tedious to go into here. Suffice it to say a fast-expiring lease, a proprietor who wanted his apartment back, the looming threat of homelessness and the convenience of friends offering up their recently vacated space near the Louvre all conspired to make ma petite famille the newest residents of Paris’ eminently chic 1st arrondissement. Rue St Honoré, no less. I figure if you’re going to be bourgeois, you might as well be bourgeois in Paris. Parisians do an excellent line in bourgeois.
And so it’s farewell to the gritty mean streets of Oberkanmpf. Au revoir the Polish clochards who used to camp out with their flagons of rosé on the Boulevard Richard Lenoir. Bye bye to the Canal St Martin and the clutch of cosy cafes that line it. Auf wiedersehn to the wonderful collection of commercants that lined our former street, rue Oberkampf, and who kept us in cheese, meat, chocolates, baguette and croissant for the past four years. And it’s hello to the Louvre, pavements lined with tourists, the market street of rue Montorgueil, Palais Royal and Les Tuileries.
Much as we will miss Oberkampf, it’s exciting to have a new quartier to explore. I have grand plans to get a season pass to the Louvre and make regular weekly visits (how much do you want to bet I get the pass and never go?). With Palais Royal and Les Tuileries as his backyard, our little man is set for a once-in-a-lifetime experience his little mind has no way of processing and properly appreciating. We now have the arduous task of setting about the quartier sampling every fournisseur of fine foodstuffs within striking distance of our new abode. We’ve got to find a boulangerie worthy of our daily custom (there’s one across the street which claims to be the official supplier of breadsticks to the Elysée Palace – but then my friend Jules reckons they all claim that), a boucherie to call our very own and a market for the sourcing of fresh fish, fruit and vegetables.
I’ve already settled on the café where I will be putting the finishing touches to book numero deux. It’s drenched in afternoon sunshine, has electrical outlets a-plenty (for the laptop), seems to be extremely tolerant of impoverished writer types setting up for the afternoon and sitting on a single coffee, has straight-backed chairs and serves ginger biscuits with its affordable-priced coffee. Result! And the fact that it happens to look onto the Louvre and across the Seine doesn’t hurt.
Bourgeois Bryce? It doesn’t have such a bad ring to it afterall.

Vive les non-prudish francais!

2009-09-09T12:37:00.003+02:00

Say what you like about the French, but you have to take your hat off to their no-nonsense approach in the fight against AIDS.

SIDA, as the acronym is written in France, continues to be a major preoccupation of French medical authorities, with more and more creative ways being dreamed up all the time to educate the populus on its prevention.

Last month, the city’s streets were adorned with city authority-ordained posters depiciting the condom as “man’s best friend” and “woman’s best friend”. In a city which has a collective dog obsession, in a metropolis where dogs are happily accepted in restaurants and pooch-owners lavish untold amounts of attention and money on their mutts, the campaign is a clever reminder of the effectiveness of the the humble condom in the protection against the AIDS virus.

Then yesterday, when exiting my local neighbourhood pharmacy, I came across the Tetu-sponsored series of adverts, which struck me with their cheekiness and impact.

“The condom protects against AIDS” proclaims one of the posters, featuring the beaming face of a septugenarian. “Odette – 13874 condoms”.

It’s simple, it’s shocking but most of all it’s fun. The humour inherent in the posters takes nothing away from the seriousness of the subject matter. In fact, I’d argue, by turning AIDS advertising on its head – ie: by no longer hammering people with the doom, gloom, grim-reaper messaging – and instead playing up the fun side of sex (because yes, from experience I can faithfully and happily report it can be fun) the message conveyed is all the more effective.

In the same campaign, a photo depicts a teenage boy with a look of marvel and excitement on his face. “Kevin. One condom already,” the caption reads.

The brains trust behind the campaign is the French gay magazine Tetu, which launched an international campaign calling for fresh ways to convey the condom message.

“We received an impressive array of submissions from people of all ages,” explains Tetu’s Luc Biecq. “After much consideration, the jury selected this campaign. With a condom, there is pleasure, joy, the happiness of being able to love, freely, without exclusion.”

I love this about the French. The lack of prudishness when it comes to talking about matters as basic as sex. We all do it, the posters are saying - we might as well admit it and make sure we’re doing it safely.

Bravo, I say.

All aboard! Showgirls and books in Foyles St Pancras promotion

2009-09-03T15:15:00.009+02:00

Shameless self-promotion alert!
For anyone who happens to be passing through St Pancras station in London in the next month or so, be sure to drop into Foyle's bookstore. Not only will you be bowled over by the style and grace of the place, you can also pick up a copy of my book, A Town Like Paris AND score yourself an exclusive 2-for-1 ticket deal for the Lido.
For any of you English folk who are jumping on a Eurostar and popping across the Channel for a leeettle taste of Paree, a night at the Lido and a copy of my tome could well be the perfect accompaniments for your mini-break (if I say so myself).

Did I mention there's even a 'Bryce Guide To Paris' in the back of this edition, with a list of all my favourite Parisian bars, cafes and restaurants?
For the uninitiated, the Lido de Paris is a world famous cabaret venue on the Champs Elysées. It also happens to be where my lovely wife high-kicks her heart out each night for a living (two shows a night, six nights a week ... count 'em).
To mark the release of "A Town Like Paris" in the UK, the Lido has banded together with Foyles to present this exclusive offer.
If it wasn't for the fact I've read the book a few times and seen the Lido 72 times (I know, tragic isn't it? The things one does for love) - then I'd be hot-footing it over the Channel myself and grabbing me a copy of the book and Lido 2-for-1 voucher.
Don't just sit there? Get thee to St Pancras! What are you waiting for?

Gimme Shelter ... any day of the week

2009-08-25T11:26:00.008+02:00

In what must surely qualify as the worst movie ever made, Kevin Costner’s baseball flick “Field of Dreams” is based on the premise “if you build it, they will come”.
In the case of Kevin, it had something to do with the ghosts of long-dead baseball greats gathering together in some stadium he built in the middle of a cornfield to play one last glorious game of ball. I don’t remember all the details of the film, I was too busy curled up in agony in the corner of the living room, tormented by the thought I was wasting a precious hour and a half of my life watching the damned thing.
And while the film annoyed me, it’s tag line stayed with me. “If you build it, they will come”. It’s a tag line that obviously spoke to the Club Med creative minds behind Paris’ newest hip hotel in Paris – Mama Shelter.
The place is so modern, so new, so oddly located, so shiny and so deeply design-daahling, it’s the antithesis of your prototypical Paris hotel.
Stuck out on the fringes of Paris, not far from the péripherique in the down-at-heel (but gradually gentrifying) 20th arrondissement, Mama Shelter is a neighbourhood anomaly. Interior designed by Philippe Starck, it has all the hallmarks you’d expect of the ubiquitous designer. Polished concrete walls, low lighting, oversized lamp shades and lots of black.
I recently treated the Missus and myself to an overnight getaway at the hotel. I know, it sounds odd to take a mini-break in the city in which you live, but when you have a 16-month-old otherwise taking up your every waking moment, five uninterrupted minutes with your spouse huddled under a freeway overpass would be a luxury.
We stayed in the suite (don’t look so shocked – the hotel distinguishes itself for offering modern, comfortable, designer rooms at very reasonable prices), and enjoyed a super comfy bed, a small but perfectly formed living area and a terrace. The view from the terrace across the high-rise, low-rent apartment blocks and Ibis Hotels lining the peripherique is hardly the most inspiring – and it should be said that if you are coming to Paris for the first time or want to look out your hotel window onto a typically Parisian vista, this ain’t the place for you.
Rather smartly, the folk behind the hotel have turned Mama Shelter into a self-contained destination. The downstairs bar and restaurant area is huge and open plan. By night, the u-shaped bar, the full-size ‘babyfoot’ table and the top notch DJs keep a sleek crowd suitably lubricated and entertained. By day, the restaurant does good modern French at reasonable prices. We tucked into a couple of faux filets and a bottle of Crozes Hermitages over lunch on the restaurant terrace – giving as it does over a disused railway line – and could not have been happier. The rhum baba and moelleux au carambar for dessert didn’t hurt, either.
But it is probably the Sunday brunch that deserves the biggest wrap. In a city where a thimble full of scrambled egg and mini-pancake with fruit salad is considered “un brunch” – and will set you back 25 euros – Mama Shelter’s 39 euro, all you can eat Sunday brunch is a revelation. The food was truly excellent. Inventive, fresh and plentiful. I can’t remember the last time I encountered such good service in Paris. The house policy in Mama Shelter seems to be “let them sit and linger” rather than “quickly turn the table”. And the ambience created as a result was just about the warmest and most welcoming I have encountered in a long while.
It’s not the most obvious place to stay if you are headed to Paris for a once-in-a-lifetime visit, but if you’re popping over for a mini-break, or like me, treating yourself to a little holiday in your home town (weird, I know, but that’s the way I roll), then you would go a long way to find a better destination than Mama Shelter.
Two thumbs up.

Ten Tips On How Not To Look Like A Tourist In Paris This Summer

2009-08-17T12:23:00.008+02:00

It’s August in Paris. And the way I can tell is because the city is almost completely devoid of Parisians and packed to overflowing with tourists.
The tourists you can spot a mile off. They dress differently, behave differently and comport themselves differently.
And while I would never argue that people should be anything other than what they are, sometimes (especially in Paris) it helps if you are able to blend in with the locals.
Not only will you be afforded marginally better service in the three cafés and restaurants that are open in the city in August (well, maybe not, but you’ll at least be given the benefit of the doubt fractionally longer by recalcitrant wait staff), you’ll also make yourself less of a target for the shysters who lie in wait to harass, rip-off or otherwise cunningly relieve you of your hard-earned travel dollars.
So, in the interests of ensuring you get as much out of your Paris experience as possible, I humbly present a list of ten tips on how to not to look like a tourist in Paris.

1. Don’t wear white sneakers
I know they’re the most comfortable shoes you own and I realise you will be doing a lot of walking while here in Pareee, but nothing screams “tourist!” more than a pair of bright white Nikes or Reeboks. When was the last time you saw Christian Dior send white sneakers down the catwalk? Try to find a comfortable walk shoe in leather – or go with a sandal. White sneakers are a particular no-no for ladies. The only time any self-respecting French woman would don a white sneaker would be to play tennis or go to the gym (which is about once in a blue moon).

2. Don’t wear TEVA sandals (or any variation thereof).
Yes, I know I suggested a sandal above as an alternative to a white sneaker. But there are sandals and then there are TEVAS. The latter are fine if you are at a beach or backpacking through the Greek Isles, but they will only betray you as a tourist on the otherwise elegant streets of Paris.

3. Don’t wear hiking boots
See my comment above in the white sneaker entry about sacrificing comfort for style. You’re visiting The Louvre, not scaling Everest. The most testing terrain you will encounter in Paris is the white gravel surface of the Tuileries. Do you really need carbon-fibre soled, waterproof clodhoppers to conquer the rues of Paree? I think not.

4. Don’t wear sun visors or baseball caps
I know they’re practical because you can shove one in your backpack at the start of the day, but I’d say two things here:
1. the sun in Paris is really not that strong. You want full-force furnace UV rays? Visit Australia. A simple sun-screen should serve you perfectly well.
2. it’s going to ruin your hair – and no Parisian would ever step out in public without a carefully coiffed do. Even Parisian men who sport the scruffy, voluminous hair look spend hours in front of the mirror.

5. Don’t wear your camera around your neck
Wear a camera around your neck and you might as well accompany it with a large sign that reads: “I also have a large wad of euros in my wallet”. Either invest in a compact digital camera or get yourself an elegant shoulder bag to keep your camera in.

6. Invest in a pair of designer sunglasses
Sporting a pair of sunglasses that really only belong on a ski slope will betray you as a tourist faster than you can say “sacré bleu” (which, by the way, no French person ever says…). Sporty sunglasses of the multi-coloured, reflective and wrap-around variety will only draw unwanted attention to you.

7. Try to avoid wearing a backpack
It’s tough, I know, when you are going to be out all day, trudging about the city, taking in sites, to not have a carry-all on your person. But backpacks that feature water canteens hanging off them or elaborate clip and elastic systems will mark you as a tourist. You want to blend in? Get yourself a nice leather carry-all – or, if you’re a lady, one of those bottomless pit handbags.

8. Don’t wear a fanny pack
People don these monstrosities under the perverse belief that their wallets and passports are safe if carried within them. They might as well paint a bullseye on them while they’re at it. Nothing screams “steal me!” like a fanny pack.

9. Don’t carry a guide book
By all means take a guide book with you on your wanderings, but don’t walk down the street with it in your hand.

10. Keep your voice down
You’re not in Kansas any more (and lest my friends in the great state of Kansas take offense to this, let me point out I am using this phrase in its metaphorical sense rather than its literal sense). The French are a quiet, relatively understated people. They don’t feel the need to shout when they are in conversation with a neighbour. They don’t yell across Metro carriages or scream at one another in a bus. I know the experience of being a foreign city can sometimes be disorienting, unsettling or even exciting, but try to keep the voice down when you are talking to one another. You’ll make more friends among the Parisians and attract far less attention.

Oh – and number eleven (and this is probably the most important one) try to at least learn a phrase in French. Even if the only thing you learn is “Excusez-moi, je ne parle pas francais” you will be amazed at the difference with which Parisians will treat you. It’s a beautiful language with a noble heritage. The French are very proud of their language and feel like it’s under seige. At least do them the courtesy of acknowledging they have their own language by using even a sentence of it. Imagine how unimpressed you’d be if a French person bowled up to you in your home town and started spouting French at you, arrogantly assuming you would understand them. Besides, you will be amazed at how quickly a Parisian will warm to you if you at least make an effort with their tongue. Give and take, people. Give and take.

Now get out there and enjoy.

Review: La Société: The Costes-ification of Paris food continues..

2009-08-13T13:02:00.003+02:00

The latest salvo in the Costes brothers campaign to flood the French capital with uber-stylish yet ultimately disappointing eateries comes in the form of La Société. Housed in a former jazz club next to Café Flore and across the rue from l’eglise St Germain, it’s a spectacularly beautiful looking restaurant. Clearly no expense has been spared on the interior design and furnishings. I was there the other night with a group of friends. It was all muted lighting and white leather banquettes and honey-brown lacquered walls and marble accents. It practically screams “money”! What a shame then that no attention has been paid to the menu. I’m all for sticking to a winning formula, but just once I would like to visit one of the Costes family’s ubiquitous Paris properties and not be forced to choose between a salad of haricot verts (shoot me now), mandarina crispy duck (always more crisp than actual duck) and a club sandwich (which at 20 euros is frankly ridiculous). Two of our party had carpaccio for entrée, which looked like it might have been okay had it not been smothered in a kind of salad cream. I opted for “le thon facon nicoise” – which was essentially a fancy nicoise salad, with admittedly well-cooked and very fresh tuna steak. But at 32 euros for a bit of salad and fish, you can’t help but wonder what they’re spending the money on. Then you notice the wait-staff and it all becomes clear. An exquisite example of French womanhood, to a person, they seem to have floated direct from a catwalk to a Costes near you. And while their waiting skills are apalling, one suspects they haven’t been hired to provide a running commentary on the provenance of a steak or the suitability of a wine. And while it’s true that man cannot live on bread alone, a little less style and perhaps a tad more substance would make La Société a wholly more satisyfing eating experience. But then, taking a look around at the bling-and-cosmetic-surgery obsessed crowd of fellow diners, you get the distinct impression that people are here to be seen, not fed.

Montana: where the cool kids hang

2009-07-27T09:47:00.006+02:00

It’s not often that I get out to nightclubs nowadays. Quite apart from being a dad, and being on the wrong side of 37, I don’t much like to suffer the indignity of clearly being the oldest person in any given room.
But when a mate is about to get married, and the wife selflessly hands you a 24-hour pass out to help said mate celebrate his last days of being an unmarried man, it demands a bit of an extraordinary effort.
So it was that I found myself recently striding to the door of Montana – the newest, hippest bar/club in all of Pareeee.
Now, I’ve encountered some tough doors in my time, but nothing has ever compared to the steely reception we received when we bowled up to Montana. Tucked behind Café Flore in the otherwise preternaturally dull 6th arrondissement, Montana is guarded by a team of burly gorillas under the sway of a 16-year-old fashion victim. It took some convincing before the waif would let us pass, but once inside, we began to understand that selective door policies definitely have their benefits. Especially if you can get past them.
Montana is the latest establishment in the ever-growing stable of cool-kid haunts owned and operated by Paris graffiti artist-turned-entrepreneur, Monsieur André. He’s made a packet for himself by buying up interesting old bars and turning them into dens of beautiful-people iniquity. He launched his Paris bar empire with Le Baron, in the 8th arrondissement, a former brothel that, about four years ago became the place to see, be seen and dance ironically to hits of the 80s.

The Montana interior is textbook André – a kind of red-velvet boudoir meets punk-rock with a touch of biological textbook theme. You know, that old classic. The ground floor bar area is tiny. All the better for huddling up to the gaggle of perfectly formed folk who are either movie and TV stars or look very much like people who should be movie and TV stars (it was dark. If there was someone famous in there, I was none the wiser).
The cocktails are ludicrously expensive (20 euros a pop, excuse me?). Even a beer will set you back 12 euros. But you can still get a bottle of Moet for a comparatively reasonable 180 euros. Downstairs is where the action is. It’s a tiny space – no more than your average cave voutée (a typical, Parisian stone lined basement), expertly decorated and with just enough room for a DJ to spin a mix that segues effortlessly from Amy Winehouse to Flashdance.
To any of you beautiful young things who were there the other night and wondering who the old fella was dancing like a madman in the corner, it was I. And I thank you for your forebearance.

Chateaubriand: substance and style in equal proportions

2009-07-20T22:44:00.008+02:00

Let’s get one thing straight from the outset. I’m not a nouvelle cuisine kind of a guy. Whether it’s because I actually like to feel as though I have eaten when I go to a restaurant, or because my palate is not so refined as to appreciate the subtle flavours of half-a-parsnip with a side order of air, I’m not one to recommend restaurants where style is more important than substance. Which is why it surprises even me that I can call myself a hand-on-heart, card-carrying member of the Chateaubriand fan-club.
Ever since this unassuming eatery set up shop in Paris’ relatively non-descript Goncourt quartier, it’s been on the receiving end of all sorts of good press. If you gave the place nothing but a cursory glance, you’d be forgiven for thinking the lavish praise heaped on the resto has been largely due to the stylish art deco interior and an employment policy of only engaging dark-haired, slightly scruffy, intensely Latin-looking waiters with five day growth. People seem to like a pout with their Paris eating experience – go figure. But get yourself a table at Chateaubriand, as I did on Friday night with a group of friends, and you soon discover that this is one Parisian bistro a la mode which is not simply floating along on a cloud of mousse, jus and undue hype. Or, to mix metaphors completely, this particular Emperor definitely has clothes.

Each Friday night, chef Inaki Aizpitarte presents a set menu that simultaneously pays homage to his Basque roots while hinting at his bold sense of gastronomical adventure. There’s no choice. If you want to eat at the restaurant, you get what you’re given. Basta. It’s a bold business strategy, and, given there was standing room only in the room on Friday, one that appears to be working.
For 45 euros per person we were treated to a five course “taster meal”. The menu is prepared so that each dish finely complements the next one, and builds in a pleasant palate crescendo. We started with an amuse-bouche, which, to be honest, left me cold. A few cubes of sardine, some finely sliced radish, a few other shavings of similarly raw legumes and a cold jus of some description. It wasn’t the most promising harbinger of things to come, but nor was it offensive. I’m prepared to give Inaki the benefit of the doubt and say my palate isn’t sufficiently sophisticate to appreciate whatever he was trying to do with the amuse bouche.

Things started looking up when the next course arrived. Described on the menu as “mackerel, green vegetables, cucumber water” (whatever that may be), it was delicious. Not least because of the “salicorne” – a type of seagrass – the raw cornichons and almonds with which it was served. Next came the “lotillon au foin, carottes” a finely balanced dish of white fish and fresh vegetables. I love a bit of lotte in my life – it’s a fish with a fantastic texture, cooked to airy perfection by Mr Aizpitarte & Co. (forgive me if I , keep gratuitously keep dropping his name into this blog entry – I just find Basque names with their x’s and z’s and general unpronuncability brilliant). Easily my favourite dish of the evening was the pigeon (and there’s a phrase I never thought I’d utter). We were gravely informed at the start of the meal that the pigeons were sourced direct from the (apparently) reputable pigeon farmer, “Paul Renault”. I’ve no idea who Paul Renault is, but his name was whispered with such reverence by our waiter, I can only assume he is the king of pigeon farmers. Though I can’t help but speculate the provenance of the pigeons was emphasised lest any of us clearly uncouth diners worried Mr Aizpitarte had spent a profitable couple of hours pigeon collecting down at the Pompidou Centre or Les Halles. Wherever the pigeons came from, they were extraordinarily good. Served with finely sliced beetroot, a bitter radicchio-type leaf vegetable and cranberries, it was melt-in-the-mouth good.
Things went a little downhill in the dessert department, when a promising-sounding “fraises chantilly” came out as a bowl of strawberries swimming in cream. I guess it was nothing less than what was advertised, but it seemed a kind of clumsy, heavy exclamation point on which to end an otherwise delicately balanced meal.
Overall, an excellent meal. And one that even managed to sate the Showgirl’s impressive apetite. And believe me, in the words of Bananarama, that’s really saying something.

Happy Birthday France

2009-07-16T22:23:00.005+02:00

You've got to hand it to the Frogs. They sure know how to put on a show.
It was Bastille Day in Paris this week and the city once again threw itself into an uncharacteristic frenzy of celebration and happiness.
Proceedings began - as they traditionally do - on the Monday night (the 13th) when the collective forces of the French fire fighting
The Showgirl and I had the good fortune to be invited to a friend's home in the Australian Embassy to watch the traditional Bastille Day fireworks. As luck would have it, the Embassy looks directly over the Eiffel Tower. We're talking so close you can almost see the whites of the eyes of people as they go up in the elevators.
And so we stood, champagne in hand, and watched god only knows how much of our taxes explode in a kaleidoscope of colours against the backdrop of the world's most famous landmark and the world's most beautiful city.
That it also happened to five years to the day that the Showgirl and I had met, also at the Australian Embassy at a function for the Ambassador, only made it all the more special.
Though I still think the best bit about the entire night was the fact we didn't have to sit through the Johnny bloody Halliday concert on the Champs de Mars to see the fireworks. I mean, what does it say about the state of contemporary music in France that a man who dominated the music charts 1960 is still top of the pops in 2009?

My Big Fat Greek Holiday

2009-07-16T21:57:00.004+02:00

Faithful bloggettes. Sincere apologies for the radio silence. La famille et moi have been gallivanting around the European continent - variously taking advantage of early summer cheap deals and attending weddings of friends.
The last week of June saw la famille Corbay disappear on our very own Greek odyssey. After ten years in France, and more Euro mini-breaks than you can poke an Easyjet at, neither the Showgirl nor I had ever been to Greece.
And so we packed up the Little Big Man and trundled south. Our ultimate destination was the idyllic island of Amorgos, in the Cyclades. But we couldn't pass through Athens and not stop to doff our cap at the Akropolis.
Athens is a dive of a city. A baking hot concrete jungle, from which we couldn't wait to escape. We did the Parthenon - which might have been a spiritual experience were it not for the millions of cruise ship tourists with whom we walked the hallowed mount and the almost complete lack of infrastructure that the Greeks, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to create around what must be one of the world's most famous tourist sites. I can only assume they have purposefully gone for the pared-back, untouched look - to add a touch of authenticity to the experience. You've got to admire a city that invites the world to come and see one of the wonders of the ancient world but then cannot be bothered to put even a fence or walkway around it.
But I digress.
We then spent a glorious week of sun-worshipping on the beautiful little island of Amorgos. Perched out on the eastern fringe of the Cyclades, Amorgos is hard to get to, but defnitely worth the journey. It was the setting of the Luc Besson film, The Big Blue (or Le Grand Bleu) and exceeded all expectations. We ate like kings, we swam, we slept, we read and I wrote. Lots. The locals could not have been more welcoming. I can highly recommend it. And if it's a comfy hotel you are looking for, with all mod-cons you cannot go past the Yperia Hotel, in the port town of Aegiali. Ask for Adonis, and tell him Bryce sent you.

There's no question who wears the pantalons in the Chirac famille

2009-06-19T20:37:00.006+02:00

So Jacques Chirac, former French president and famed ladies man, has been finally busted by his long-suffering spouse, Bernadette.
As widely publicised in the media today, the old Casanova, famed almost as much for his extra-marital romantic liaisons when in office as for his political achievements, was caught out by his wife yesterday during a public engagement in Correze.
Pants-Man Chirac is seen in this YouTube clip to be openly flirting with a younger blonde woman while his wife performs the public speaking duties at the rostrum barely four feet away.
Bernadette's withering look, mid-speech, appears to stun the former Prez back into line, giving perhaps a moment's insight into exactly who wears the pantalons in the Chirac household.
And yet what amazes me - as it has done for the entire ten years I have been living here in France - is the fact that Chirac's infidelity is widely celebrated in France, where infidelity is still practiced as a national sport.
Chirac himself has made no secret of his infidelity, admitting publicly that he has loved "many women" in his life "as discreetly as possible".
And while I would never seek to make a moral judgement on the way people choose to live their lives and the manner in which they choose to conduct their marriages (each to their own, I say), it's nontheless curious to see what some might consider one of the worst French stereotypes (all French men cheat on their wives) being reinforced and celebrated with such nudge-nudge, wink-wink gusto.
My own personal experience is that, as with every country, marriages come in all different shapes and sizes here in France. There's probably no more infidelity here than in any other country in the world. The French just care less about hiding it. And maybe that's healthier. But I can't help but think French women are the losers in all of this. Stoic, long-suffering, but ultimately cheated. My only hope is that Bernadette has been busy with a few extra-marital adventures of her own.

Who doesn't like a bit of street grit with their poulet?

2009-06-19T18:07:00.008+02:00

The world is understandably fascinated with French cuisine. It sits right up there at the top of the world's gastronomy ladder as one of the most refined, accomplished, complex and proud culinary traditions. And for good reason. For centuries, French chefs have been setting the pace in international cooking circles, and while new world competition has emerged - and is fierce - French cuisine still manages to serve as a benchmark in cooking excellence.
More than just technical competence with the blending of foodstuffs and flavours, the French food dominance stems from the national obsession that is eating in France. Your average French person, be they a good cook or not, will go into raptures about a steak they had the other night or the texture of a comte cheese they consumed after dinner. Food occupies a central part of all French peoples' lives, to the extent that living is just the stuff they do to kill time between meals. And it makes for one of the great joys of living here.
The French relationship with food is such a tactile and intimate one. You'll see customers at the butcher's feeling a cut of beef for tenderness or old ladies in line at the market fondling a salmon steak or squeezing a goat's cheese to check it for "ripeness". It's also a relationship that is delightfully devoid of the the kind of borderline anal, hermetically-sealed, health-and-hygeine approach that we have to food in countries like the US, UK and my homeland, Australia. At home, all foodstuffs are packaged in styrofoam and plastic wrap, kept in spotless supermarket freezers or served by vendors wearing gloves, hair nets and using tongs, as if the food they are serving is somehow toxic and untouchable. And while there is certainly some comfort to be drawn from the fact the food you are buying at least APPEARS to have been hygienically prepared and handled, there's something earthy and honest about the French approach.

Take for example the chicken rotisserie at the butcher's shop on my rue. It sits there on the footpath, day-in, day-out, with plump chickens turning slowly, sending a heavenly aroma up the street. Cars, buses and motorscotters fly by on the busy thoroughfare that is Rue Oberkampf, kicking up all manner of dust from the street. Pedestrians scoot by, pushing prams with wailing babies, coughing, talking, laughing and sneezing. And still the chickens turn, separated from all of this by two flimsy glass doors. At the base of the rotisserie, and basting in the fat of the chickens above, sits a pile of new potatoes, bubbling away. During winter, it's the job of the chicken lady to ward off the more enterprising members of the homeless contingent who live down on the boulevard Richard Lenoir and make occasional raids on the rotisserie, scooping out as many potatoes as they can before they are chased off by a carving knife-wielding butcher.

In my home country, this butcher shop would be closed down. A phalanx of clipboard-carrying Public Health And Safety officials would descend on the butchery and slap a condemned sticker on the old rotisserie, labelling it a grave threat to public health.
And maybe it's not the cleanest, most hygienic way to prepare roast chicken. But I challenge you to find a more tasty poulet anywhere in the world.

Anne Frank The Musical: Fun for all the family

2009-06-10T10:16:00.004+02:00

Every now and then, whilst wandering the streets of Pareee, I come across something so mind-bogglingly hilarious I can scarcely believe it's real.
Take, for example, Anne Frank: The Musical.
Now, I should preface this blog entry by stating up front that I haven't seen this production, and hence, am not in a position to give an opinion one way or the other on whether it makes for a rollicking good night at the theatre. I should also state up front that I am among that minority of the population who read her diary and found Anne Frank plain annoying. While I would never seek to belittle or diminish her plight - or that of the Jewish people more generally during WWII - I found it hard to get past Ms Frank's whiney teenage tone. Important contribution to history and the literary canon: yes. Enjoyable read: not so much.
So to then discover that some enterprising Parisian theatrical impresario has concocted a musical based on the Diaries of Anne Frank just leaves me scratching my head.
Quite apart from the fact that there cannot be much in the way of scene changes (they lived in a hermetically-sealed one room apartment for God's sake), I can't begin to imagine how you fashion a musical number out of the Frank family experience.
Are audiences leaving the theatre humming the tune to that show-stopper "Sssh! The Germans Are Coming!"? Or are they being moved by the pre-interval power balled "Not Beans For Dinner Again!"?
We can only hope it has Mel Brooks' paws all over it. His "Springtime For Hitler" musical-within-a-musical in the hit Broadway show and film, The Producers, set a new standard for Nazi-inspired musical theatre. And as a genre, it has been sorely underserviced ever since...

Introducing les NoPos ... Les Nouveaux Pauvres

2009-06-06T14:30:00.010+02:00

If you've lived in Paris for any period of time, you've probably come across "les bobos" - that peculiar breed of Parisian who, despite their bourgeois background make an active effort to live as bohemians. Hence the moniker 'bobo' - les bourgeois bohemes.

These are people who have had an excellent education, a comfortable upbringing and hold down good jobs with respectable salaries yet who prefer to cloak themselves in a veneer of bohemia to improve their street cred. There's nothing cool or even remotely artistically credible about having parents in the 16th arrondissement and a family holiday home in Cap Ferret. And so they slum it in ateliers and lofts in the 10th and 11th arrondissements, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and wearing designer trainers with their H&M jeans.

For as long as there will be aristocrats in France (and let's face it, despite a big-ass revolution back in 1789 and a concerted campaign of head lopping, the aristos are alive and well in la belle France), there will be "bobos". But since the global financial meltdown, a new subset in French society has emerged. A subset of which I am proud to be a member.

They're called "les nopos", or les nouveaux pauvres (the new poor). Unlike les bobos, whose down-at-heel lifestyles are a denial of their healthy bank accounts, les nopos lead lives of indulgence they simply cannot afford. Their bank managers may be phoning every other day, their credit cards may have been cancelled and their daily lives may be a tightrope walk across the abyss of bankruptcy, but they continue to lead lives of relative excess, working on the theory they may be dead tomorrow.

Les nopos as a social construct were first brought to my attention by my good friend, the ever stylish Esther Loonen. As well as being one of Paris' most celebrated new children's fashion designers (Lili And The Funky Boys), Esther and her hubby, Jules are the Showgirl's and mine partners in newly impoverished Parisian crime. Despite the ever present spectre of financial disaster, we forge ahead, eating at a restaurant here, organising a modest little European mini-break there. It's not exactly Marie-Antoinette, let-them-eat-cake excess (that's the exclusive preserve of people who actually do have money to fall back on, and besides, our deeply instilled Protestant work ethic would never allow for that kind of completely irresponsible behaviour), but there is a certain cavalier fatalism to it all.

Sure, the pile of available euros seems to dwindle with every passing day. Yes, unemployment in the Euro zone has climbed to an historic high. Of course, working as a writer in one of the world's most expensive cities while supporting a wife and child is akin to madness. But what are you going to do? Sit around at home eating lentils? Spend the day nervously watching movement of the global stock markets? Life is short. If you're going to take time each day to count anything at all, it should be your blessings, not your savings.

No, global economic crisis or not, I refuse to be bowed. I reject the recession. I am a proud, card-carrying member of les nouveaux pauvres. Vive les nopos!

Now, where did I put that Greek Island travel brochure?

The Sweet Life In Paris -- live it vicariously

2009-05-22T10:00:00.003+02:00

When living in Paris is your day-to-day reality, it’s sometimes easy to take the place for granted. The out-and-out physical beauty of the city, the centuries of history and culture, the amazing food, the wonderful quality of life – it can all too easily be forgotten under the pile of gas bills, the fight you had yesterday with the cable guy or the bad taste left in your mouth after yet another old biddy pushed her way in front of you in the supermarket queue.
Because that’s the thing about living in another city for a long period of time. After a while, it stops being so intoxicatingly exotic and teeters dangerously on the brink of becoming pedestrian.
Which is why it is important to be reminded now and again of the good fortune I have to be living it large in the City of Light. And for exactly that reason, I feel compelled to issue un grand merci to my neighbour and fellow Paris-based scribe David Lebovitz for his excellent new book The Sweet Life In Paris.
If you’re a fan of Paris, a fan of witty anecdotes, a fan of good writing and most importantly, a fan of food, you won’t find a more satisfying read this (northern-hemisphere) summer.
Though he’s usually to be found edifying the faithful thousands who read his blog each week (www.davidlebovitz.com) with tales of gastronomic adventures in the world capital of food, David uses this book to reflect on the journey he has taken since moving to Paris six years ago.
Where other Paris memoirs ricochet from one well-worn cliché to the next, David’s keen eye, sustained presence among the French and determination to get under the skin of the city sets this book apart. We follow him as he volunteers at a local fish shop, works behind the counter of a chocolate boutique and infiltrates Paris’s usualy cloistered culinary community.
It’s a book, moreover, that shows the author’s deep affection for his adopted hometown. Sure, it rails against pushy Parisian grannies, perma-striking workers, awful French coffee and general aversion to customer service, but most of all this book is an ode to a city, a country and a culture that the world – like David - is unusually fascinated with.
It also happens to be one of the most mouth-watering reading experiences I have ever had. Packed with recipes and with entire chapters given over to the sensual description of French foodstuffs, The Sweet Life In Paris makes you hungry just reading it.
In the interests of disclosure, I should probably note that I’ve had the pleasure of breaking bread with David on several occasions. I’ve enjoyed his company at cafes and chocolate shops. I’ve even escorted the man backstage at the Lido and watched as he donned a series of showgirl feathered hats (in which he didn’t look too bad, it has to be said). He’s a lovely guy whose tiny kitchen down the rue from where we live seems to be constantly churning out freshly baked delicacies that he is only too happy to off-load onto the Showgirl and I. And so yes, I am a little bit biased.
But if you’re looking for a great read about this fascinating city we call Pareeee, then look no further. Bravo David!
(now where is that batch of cookies you promised me?)

Paris bars - for the young, and young at heart

2009-05-08T15:14:00.011+02:00

Summer must be just around the corner. Do you know how I can tell? Because suddenly I am receiving emails from left, right and centre from friends, acquaintances and people who once sat on a bus next to someone who might have known me, asking for travel tips for their upcoming visit to Paris.

Where's a good place to stay? Any tips for restaurants? How can I get off the well-trodden tourist trail and experience the real Paris?

One email from a friend this week was on behalf of her sixteen year old niece, who will be travelling to Paris in a month's time. She wanted to know the coolest bars and nightclubs in Paris - the places where the cool kids hang.

Now it must be said that given that I am hurtling towards 40 (which I am reliably informed is the new 30), and given that I recently became a daddy and hence my days of staying out until sunrise have been seriously curtailed, I still have a VAGUE idea of what the kids get up to around here.

So I threw together a list for my friend's niece, and figured I would share it with you all.

Now, in the interests of keeping this blog family friendly, I will say that sixteen is kind of young to be going to bars. And in the interests of 'keeping it real' and appearing to be 'down with the kids', I will add that of course we were ALL sneaking off to bars at the age of 16, trying out our fake IDs. Ah, those were the days...

And so, movers and groovers, allow me to present my guide to Paris's grooviest bars and clubs. For the young, and young at heart, amongst you ...

BARS
'Experimental Cocktail Club' -- Rue St Saveur, 2nd arr. Groovy cocktail bar with DJ. Small
but but perfectly formed, and always packed with cool kids.

Cafe Etienne Marcel - crnr Rue Etienne Marcel and Rue Montmartre in the 2nd
- dead groovy bar where the beautiful young Parisians have their apero (aperitif).

La Perle - crner Rue du Vieille du Temple & Rue de la Perle - in the 3rd. Frequented nightly by a so-hip-it-hurts fashion crowd - lots of young kids with assymetrical hair-dos. You can imagine I blend in, chameleon-like.... La Perle is very down at heel and casual - but in a fiercely fashionable way. On weekends, there's barely elbow room.

Chez Jeannette - crnr Rue Elzivir and Rue Faubourg St Denis in the 10th -
the natural successor to La Perle. As La Perle starts to become yesterday's bar du jour, Chez Jeanette is emerging as the next drinking destination du choix among the Parisian kids. It's a groovier than thou old skool Paris bar
that has mysteriously become the most fashionably drinking hole in Paris for
the 18-25 trendsetter set. The neighbourhood is borderline grotty, and hardly the most salubrious spot after dark - but the drinks are cheap, the fashion is hot and the crowd is ineffably cool. Of course, I always feel like someone's father whenever I go there ... hang on, I am someone's father...

CLUBS

It must be said at this point that the last time I went to a club Depeche Mode were on high rotation (well, not really, but you get my drift ...). That said, I have it on reliable authority that the following clubs are the perfect spots to techno, emo or rock the night away (see that seamless, effortless use of the kiddie lingo?)

"Showcase" - under the bridge at Pont Alexandre III on the Seine (near
Invalides/Grand Palais) - top DJs, great location, open late.

'Social Club' - rue Montmartre, 2nd - THE club for the young 'uns -- techno heaven, emos and goths
and fashion plates all come together in an orgy of post-pubescent hormones.

'Alimentation Generale', rue Jean Pierre Timbaud, near Ave Parmentier, 11th - noisy, rowdy, heaving bar, often with live bands - always packed.

Am I in touch with the kids or what?

Eating and sleeping: French national sports

2009-05-05T23:24:00.005+02:00

Stop the presses, hold the front page! The French eat and sleep more than any other nation in the developed world. At least that's the word out of the OECD (Organisation of Economic Cooperation and Development) today.
Following a survey of 18 countries in Europe, Asia and the Americas, the OECD discovered that the average French person sleeps 8.8 hours every night - enjoying more time dans leurs lits than Americans and Spaniards.
And - surprise, surprise - the French take much longer lunches than any of their counterparts in other countries, dedicating double the amount of time to le dejeuner than Americans, Britons or Mexicans (a fact that is especially not surprising in the case of the Mexicans - have you ever tried to eat a full meal through an anti-swine flu face mask? It's a bitch).
So what does this OECD survey tell us about the French? That they have a great work-life balance? That insead of scoffing a sandwich at their desk they value the importance of sitting down, making conversation and breaking bread? That they place enormous emphasis on the art of eating, the quality of foodstuffs they ingest and time spent recharging their Gallic batteries? Or does this OECD report simply highglight the fact that the French are a bunch of food-obsessed, narcoleptic work-phobes?
There's no doubt that the quality of life on offer in Paris is especially high. And I'm not talking the types of dwellings or relative incomes. I'm talking about the French art de vivre - their inimitable way of making the otherwise occasionally pedestrian business of existing into a stylish art form. It's in the frenzy they whip themselves into over a cut of meat, or a glass of wine or a slice of foie gras. It's in the care they take with their appearance, the borderline haughtiness with which they carry themselves and the infuriating smugness with which they consider themselves superior to every other country in the world.
With all of that in your corner, you'd sleep well too.

Insider's Guide To Paris - Eating: Part I

2009-04-27T10:13:00.015+02:00

Greetings sports fans - and welcome back the second instalment of my Insider's Guide To Paris.

Whether you are planning to visit the City of Light or just want to take a little cyber-eander through the gastronomical landscape of Pareeee, this little guide has been compiled to ensure you side-step the nasty touristy restaurants and eat where the locals eat.

This is but a sampler of the full guide, which can be found in the back of the latest edition of my book, A Town Like Paris (available in all good bookstores ...). And while it attempts to give a flavour of the wonderful eating establishments in Paris, it is certainly not an exhaustive list. Great eating experiences hover on just about every Parisian corner- it's one of the great joys of living here.

Extracted from Bryce's Insider Guide To Paris

Eating in Paris is the main event. Sure, you can come here to climb the Eiffel Tower or gawk at the Mona Lisa, but food – and the 24-hour-a-day appreciation of it – is what a visit to France should really be all about.
There’s a benchmark in food circles called the Michelin star register. If a restaurant is “Michelin-starred” it is apparently the highest of haute cuisine. In my experience, these sorts of restaurants are well and good if you have already eaten before you get there. But if you have anything resembling a normal appetite, you’d do well to avoid them.
I have my own benchmark for the quality of a Parisian restaurant. It’s called the “Showgirl Star System”. If the Showgirl’s Herculean appetite is sated after a meal at a particular restaurant, the establishment gets two pom-poms. Extra pom-poms are thereafter awarded for ambience, grooviness, value for money and service.
And the pom-poms go to …

Hotel du Nord – 102 Quai de Jemmapes, 10th arrondissement – This one rates especially high on the grooviness and ambience registers. Located in what is currently the heaving heart of Paris hipness, on the quai of the Canal St Martin, Hotel du Nord is the eating, flirting and cavorting destination du choix of the cool kids set. It’s also a bona-fide historical monument as the setting of Marcel Carné’s classic, eponymous 1940s French film. A word of warning: the place has recently become so hip that it has two seatings (a very un-French, un-Parisian thing to do). There's an 8.30pm seating and a 10.30pm. If you go on a Friday or Saturday night and opt for the early seating, they will rush you out the door. If you go for the 10.30pm seating, you may not eat until 11.30pm-midnight. The service is either really good, or really apalling. But then, apparently, that's the price one pays to see and be seen.

Astier - 44 rue Jean Pierre Timbaud - Regularly written up in travel mags and on food blogs as a dependable Parisian restaurant staple, you cannot go past Astier for good value, top quality French bistro food. The wine list is impressive, the set menus are alway inventive and the cheese basket has to be seen to be believed.

L’Autre Café – 62 rue Jean Pierre Timbaud, 11e – If it’s a no-fuss, dead simple, street corner brasserie experience you are craving, look no further than this neighbourhood staple. The Showgirl never has anything but the entrecote with béarnaise sauce. Be sure to ask for the gratin dauphinois as accompaniment. Stodge central.

La Marine – 55 Quai Valmy , 10e – Especially good in summer, when you can take full advantage of the outdoor seating, La Marine is another dependable bistro. The food may not win awards, but the conviviality of the place is infectious.

Maria Louisa – 2 rue Marie et Louise, 10e – Italian members of the Posse reckon this funky little taverna does the best pizza in all of Paris. All I know is that its collection of Italian red wines, its stripped-back interior and casual dining atmosphere make for a perfectly pleasant Parisian night out.

La Boulangerie - 15 rue Panoyaux, 20e – Straight out of the Hidden Gem File, this restaurant is one of my favourites. Don’t be put off by the neighbourhood (‘down-at-heel’ would be a generous description), this converted boulangerie serves up some of the best French fare in the city. Modern French cuisine has never tasted heartier or better. The wine list is extensive, the service is attentive and the welcome genuinely warm. It’s a five pom-pom eating experience.

Chateaubriand – 129 Ave Parmentier, 11e – Right up there in the pom-pom stakes, even if it teeters dangerously close to the brink of haute-cuisine pretentiousness, is this fine establishment. Art deco interiors, a wine list which meanders through wonderful, little known boutique French vineyards and a dégustation menu that changes daily, depending on the whim of the chef and the seasonal specialties of the nearby fresh food market. Chateaubriand is a deeply fashionable eating experience – and a gastronomical adventure to boot.

Chez Janou – 3 rue Roger Verlomme, 3e – Whenever guests are in town and they ask for a restaurant recommendation, I send them to Chez Janou. It’s a winner every time. Five pom-poms for ambience, three pom-poms for food. The moules marinées are a perfect way to start your meal, and the chocolate mousse has to be seen to be believed. But be warned: the Chez Janou secret is definitely out. The last couple of times I have been there you cannot move for English and American accents. But the mousse remains devilishly delicious ...

Robert et Louise – 64 rue Vieille du Temple, 3e – Meat, meat and more meat are on the menu at this hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the Marais. Come for the entertainment as much as for the mouth-watering slabs of red flesh. The octogenarian proprietor, Louise, is a study in perpetual motion. If she’s not tending sizzling steaks on the open fire at one end of the room, she’s slapping yet another pichet of Bordeaux down in front of you at the other.

Chez Nenesse – 17 rue Saintonge, 3e – There’s nothing at all pretentious about this humble, yet excellent eatery. Family owned, family tended and committed to doing French classics very well, Chez Nenesse is an oasis of old world charm, food and value for money in a quartier that is becoming increasingly fashionable. Try the duck – you won’t be disappointed.

L'Ami Jean - 27 rue Malar, 7e - It takes a lot to lure me across the Seine, over to the Left Bank. L'Ami Jean is about as good a reason to visit the 7th arrondissement as you are likely to find. The food is inventive, innovative takes on French classics. The kitchen is a hotbed of culinary creativity. The last time I was there, the riz au lait was so good I could have happily climbed into a bath-tub full of it and slowly eaten myself to death. And you can't ask for a better endorsement than that...

STAY TUNED ... next week's instalment: Bryce's Insider's Guide, Eating Part II

Now, that's what I call a baguette

2009-04-24T12:47:00.005+02:00

There's been a deliciously disturbing development in my neighbourhood.
For months, the corner shop opposite our apartment building has lain dormant. The Showgirl and I would emerge from our building each day, nervously eyeing the empty space, worried what kind of retail monstrosity was about to invade it.
A slew of mobile phone shops and "two-dollar" stores had been popping up in the quartier, and we were worried that Rue Oberkampf was about to be visited by yet another of these tacky shops.
What relief then to finally discover our new neighbour was to be a boulangerie. Sure, there are already three boulangeries within stumbling distance of our place, but none of them seemed to produce the perfect baguette. And so it was with no small amount of delight that we discovered the new bakery was to be an outlet of the mildly famous "Gana" collection of boulangeries.
Run by the Ganachaud family - who have baking in their blood - and purveyor of one of the most famous baguette in all of Paris, "la flute Gana", the store opened to neighbourhood fanfare and queues down the street.
Six months later and I have developed a deep and abiding Gana addiction. Lunch times are not complete without a nip across the rue to take possession of a fresh-from-the-oven Gana baguette.
Our Father, who art in heaven, hast truly given us this daily bread - who am I not to gorge myself on it?

Flaneur -- a Thursday morning stroll through the quartier

2009-04-23T14:19:00.008+02:00

We have a guest staying with us this week, which is great from the point of view of having a friend to sit up with at night and polish off the odd bottle of wine - but it's not so great from the point of view of having to get up early to tend to the new little man in our life, get him dressed, fed and out the door before his early morning caterwauling disturbs the visitor alseep in the living room.
And while the initial early morning fumble to get out the door is painful, the rewards for hitting the streets of Paris before 8am can be enormous. As they were this morning.
I think it was a combination of a perfect spring morning in Paris (blue sky, sun shining, a slight chill in the air) the fact it is school holidays (meaning the city is much more quiet than usual) plus the fact that Parisians are not early starters (meaning we had the rues, boulevards, jardins, parcs and cafes to ourselves) that made this morning's wander about the quartier so utterly delightful.
Guiding the pram through the obstacle course of dog shit, we floated down Rue Oberkampf, across into the Marais and along Rue de Bretagne (my early morning cafe haunt du choix). While the Rue de Bretagne's fromagers set up their shops, its fleuristes sprayed their wares with water and its boulangers did a brisk early morning trade, the little fella and I set up shop in Cafe Charlot for that first glorious cafe of the day.
Then it was a quick cheerio to the horse butcher in Rue de Bellyeme, before we stopped in the sun in the little garden in front of the Picasso Museum. That I can stop and admire a Picasso sculpture or three on my early morning wander is nothing short of remarkable - and something, no matter how long I stay in Paris, I vow never to take for granted.
Then it was down to the tranquil, sun-drenched garden of Place Louis Achille -- one of my favourite hidden gardens in the Marais. It was deserted. Just me, the little man (who was slumbering in the pram by now -- hallelujah, praise be to God) and an explosion of colourful tulips.
After a stint in the sun, I decided it was time to head home. And being the hunter-gatherer that I am, I stopped by the boulangerie on Rue de Turenne and stocked up on an armful of the most delicious croissants. We're talking melt-in-the-mouth exquisite.
Suffice it to say, both the wife and our guest were pleased to see the men of the house return.
And while I'm definitely not the early rising type - if this morning's experience is anything to go by, mornings in Paris could just about become a new habit.

Insider's Guide To Paris - L'introduction

2009-04-22T16:47:00.003+02:00

Spring has sprung in the City of Light! Want to know how I can tell? Could it be the rows of daffodils that have flowered in the local park? The blossoms that have appeared on the cherry trees on Boulevard Richard Lenoir? Or is it that subtle shift in the attitude of the locals from permanently-annoyed to just-plain-pouty?
Actually, it's none of the above - the reason I know that winter is officially over here in Paris and that summer is on its way is because the city is starting to fill with tourists.
Credit crunch, credit schmunch. The global recession is clearly not having too much effect on people's Paris travel plans. And why should it? Afterall, Paris is the perfect destination, no matter how dark the economic clouds or how wild the global financial storm.
And because I hate to see a fellow foreigner fumbling around in the cross-cultural wilderness, and because it pains me to see tourists being treated awfully by service-averse Parisians, I have decided to share with you my very own "Insider's Guide To Paris".
This is but a taster of the complete guide that comes with the latest edition of my book, 'A Town Like Paris'.
Over the next few weeks/months, I will be posting on this blog extracts from My Guide to Paris -- and lacing the posts with updates and errata, for those of you who already have the guide and want to make sure it is still kosher.
And so, without any further ado, I humbly present my guide to getting the most out of the City of Light ... Enjoy!

Extract 1 of Bryce's Insider's Guide To Paris

Anyone can pull a guidebook off a bookstore shelf, learn a rudimentary French phrase or two and declare themselves ready to be launched on the City of Light.
But to really get under the skin of Paris, you need to have lived and breathed it. You need local knowledge.
To properly understand the Parisian, to get a handle on what makes him tick, you need to have undertaken years of intensive, on-the-ground research. Entire days must be given over to the singular activity of lazing in a terrace café, sipping Sancerre and watching the world go by. You have to be prepared to drop everything and commit yourself to a daily (and nightly) regimen of bar-hopping, brasserie hanging and restaurant haunting.
It takes the dedication of an Olympic athlete, a Teflon-coated liver and the constitution of an ox.
But because not all of us have the luxury of time to spend years splayed at the altar of hedonism, I’ve gone and done all the hard work for you.
With the selflessness of a saint, I have dedicated countless hours (not to mention euros) to the arduous task of separating the Parisian wheat from the tourist chaff, so that you don’t have to.
That’s a whole lot of runny crème brulées, sub-standard steaks, desperately unhip bars and overpriced cafes I have saved you from.
All that is left for you to do now is to pull up a chair at the moveable feast, roll up your sleeves and tuck in.
But before we get underway, permit me a few disclaimers.
Firstly, if traditional, tourist Paris is what you are looking for, there’s a good chance this guide is not for you. If, on the other hand, you want to scratch a little beneath the picture postcard façade and discover the Paris that I have come to know and love, then read on.
Secondly, getting the most out of this guide will require somewhat of an adventurous spirit. Some of the destinations are well and truly off the well-trodden tourist track. But then, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

Coming up next .... a selection of my favourite places to eat ...

Pizza: the new national dish of France

2009-04-16T12:10:00.009+02:00

Think French cuisine and immediately you conjure images of confit du canard, a juicy entrecote steak, foie gras, croissants and cassoulet.
Certainly, French cuisine is one of the proudest gastronomies in the world. France is the home of haute cuisine, the crucible of fine dining, the last word in elegance when it comes to the lionising and preparing of foodstuffs.
Indeed, you only need to engage the average French person for two minutes on the subject of food and you realise how food - its preparation and consumption - is a national obssession in France. Shopkeepers will wax lyrical about the artisanal origins of a wheel of cheese or the firmness of a melon. French people from all walks of life will have an opinion on the best wine to drink with a 'souris' of lamb. And time (glorious time) is taken over the eating of every meal.
How to reconcile this then with the news this week that France is the world's second biggest per capita pizza consumer - just behind the United States and well ahead of Italy?
As La Tribune newspaper this week reported, the pizza business is booming in France, helped along by the recession as people look for something cheap and easy to eat.
Domino's Pizza in France (coincidentally run by an Aussie friend of mine) is the biggest pizza chain in the country. It saw sales rise by 12 percent last year.
According to a report by The Times correspondent, Charles Bremner, every person in France now eats an average of 45 pizzas per year. That's almost one a week.
There's no doubt at all France produces a stunning array of foodstuffs - and its cuisine has contributed more than it's fair share to the global melting pot of national gastronomies. But the next time a French person makes a snide comment at eating habits in your home country, remind them that 'la pepperoni et cheese' is fast becoming the French national dish.

Easter in Paris .. it's a conspiracy

2009-04-11T10:50:00.005+02:00

I don't want to come across as the Grinch That Stole Easter or anything, but why in God's name does the chocolate-fest have to happen two weeks after I have committed to a wife-imposed diet and exercise regime?
And why does the patisserie on the corner taunt me with its selection of home-made, ribbon-festooned, fine chocolate Easter eggs?
I'll tell you why. Because it's a conspiracy. It's a cruel twist of the knife in the side of all of us who find with the advancing years that shedding those pesky extra kilos requires a Herculean effort.
And so I sit here in the gastronomic capital of the world, staring at my bowl of sunflower seeds (and I'm sorry, it doesn't matter how you dress them up or what seasoning you put on them or how many books you read about their health benefits, sunflower seeds are for birds, not humans).

The cruel thing is, I know that a short lift ride away (yes, I know, I am supposed to take the stairs, but it's the weekend and I am spoiling myself) there are éclairs to die for, tartes abricots that dissolve on the tongue, buttery croissants and more mouth-watering pastries and cakes than you can point a set of scales at.
It is Easter afterall. And wouldn't it be sacrilege not to partake of the bounty of the Good Lord? Isn't it ordained by God himself that we should eat chocolate on Easter? Isn't the 11th commandment: "Thou shalt not deprive thyself of hand-made, ribbon-festooned, fine chcocolate Easter eggs from the neighbourhood patisserie"?
That settles it. To hell with the diet. La Durée here I come. If I don't get me a rose-flavoured La Durée macaron today, then it has been a wasted day in Paris.
And you, gentle reader, who have borne witness to my mental anguish, will surely only wish me godspeed.

Lost your job? Kidnap your boss!

2009-04-09T22:27:00.000+02:00

In this current economic climate (hitherto to be referred to in this blog as 'this CEC'), I'd be the last person in the world to defend fat cat company bosses.
Even here in France, where it is usually nigh on impossible to be sacked, company bosses are running around sacking people left, right and centre.
You can't turn on the TV news here in France without hearing of another couple of hundred poor souls being turfed out of their jobs.
And while, in this CEC, the sacking of workers may not be unique to France, the reaction of workers to these sackings is quintessentially French.
Instead of quietly accepting their fate, packing their bags and skulking back to their homes to lick their wounds, newly laid-off French workers have taken to kidnapping their bosses and holding them hostage.
Last week, in a Caterpillar factory in Grenoble, three of the company's management staff were bailed up in their offices and held hostage for over 24 hours by irate workers who had just learned they had lost their jobs.
Phone lines were cut, mobile phones were confiscated and threats were made against the bosses personal safety.
And because this is France, the police didn't get involved, the media and public were generally sympathetic towards the workers and the government made rumbling noises about shoring up struggling companies with taxpayer's money to protect jobs.
And while I am utterly sympathetic to the workers' cause - and more than slightly impressed than their novel approach to fighting the sackings - I can't help but wonder how sustainable a practice this is.
The boss-napping is becoming so widespread that today's Figaro newspaper included a feature article about a company that is offering special training courses to executives on how to manage kidnapping situations.
In the article, a business consultant (who is apparently now doing brisk business advising business men on how to behave in a hostage situation so as not to upset your kidnappers) explains how "boss-napping doesn't just happen out of the blue" but that "there are always signs, and as a company manager, you can learn to read those signs and avert being kidnapped".
That this is even being discussed as a commonplace, workaday occurrence is nothing short of remarkable.
You have to love this country ...

Get 'em hooked early

2009-04-01T17:34:00.008+02:00

If the spiritual powers that be were ever so kind as to give me a second turn around at this crazy thing we call life, I think I'd like to come back as a Parisian school kid.

Sure, the inner-city school environment means there's precious little in the way of grass to run on or trees to climb, but man, look at how well they eat.

In the corner of the globe that I come from, school lunches are a case of soggy sandwiches, hot pies and - if you were feeling especially gourmet - sausage rolls. And while it has been over thirty years since I was a primary school kid (that's enough sniggering from you up the back ...) I don't imagine too much has changed when it comes to culinary options for your average Aussie school kid.

But Parisian school kids? They eat like kings every day. Just take a look at the 'menu' (yes, they have a 'menu') posted outside the little school down the street from our apartment.

Each lunch is broken down into an 'entree', 'plat' and 'dessert' -- of course. A recent week's dining at the school included such entrées as "salade aux croutons", avocado with vinaigrette and "tarte aux poireaux". For their main course, the little darlings feasted on "filet de lieu au court bouillon", "sauté de porc a la moutarde" and "pavé de saumon a l'oseille". And for dessert, it was a choice between "flan patissier", "compote pomme-fraise" and that grand French classic "ile flottante". And of course, because this is France, there is a different cheese each day including "camembert", "tome blanche" and "Saint Paulin".

This is a public school - a government administered, free-to-attend, open-to-all public school.

It speaks volumes for why the French have such healthy eating habits. From a very early age, good quality food and carefully balanced meals are foisted on them even at school.

Now all I need to do is work out how I can sneak into the cafeteria each day for lunch.

Every cloud has a platinum blonde lining

2009-03-30T21:26:00.006+02:00

For the last couple of months, I've been loathe to turn on the TV news channels for fear of being further depressed by yet another barrage of depressing financial meltdown news.

Note to CNN and BBC news editors: We get it. The world's going to hell in a handbasket. Move on already. If I am forced to watch one more besuited, newsreading automaton whip themselves into a faux frenzy about how a tumbling stock market means the end of the world is nigh, I am going to top myself.

So it was with some trepidation that I shifted my TV news viewing alliances to the French TV news channels - fully expecting that, true to French form, the French newscasts would be reveling in the misery (for a nation that has so much going for it, and so much to rejoice, it never ceases to amaze me how collectively morose the French can often be).

But after a week or so of trawling the French TV news bulletins, I discovered that while the TV news cloud hanging over France might be as grey and foreboding as everywhere else, at least it has a shiny silver (or rather, a platinum blonde) lining.

Ladies and gentlemen of my overseas blog readership - I give you Laurence Ferrari. The souped-up, go-faster, shiny, racing-stripe, flashy model of a modern TV newsreader.

Ms Ferrari was embroiled in somewhat of a scandale last year when she was parachuted into France's highest profile newsreading gig - the evening news bulletin on the main commercial channel, TF1.

Her elevation to this plum post resulted in the incumbent, Patrick Poivre d'Arvor being put out to newsreader pasture, and was apparently only coincidentally linked to the fact Ms Ferrari had spent the latter part of 2007 dating French President Nicolas Sarkozy.

And so Laurence sits in my living room every night, pouting her way through the troubles of the world. A perfectly positioned beauty spot atop her lip, a pair of brown eyes that seem to hypnotise, a voice whose timbre hovers somewhere between come-hither husky and supremely bored. It's incredibly sexy.

And so now each night, I find myself watching the world crumble, the markets crash, the environment dwindle with a misty-eyed stare and stupid grin.

Do I want the good news or the bad news? As long as Laurence is reading it, I don't much care.

Merci indeed ...

2009-03-27T16:46:00.013+01:00

What would a Friday morning in Paris be without a visit to your local neighbourhood so-hip-it-hurts, uber-groovy design-concept-fashion-homeware store?

The creative brains trust behind the French children's clothing range, Bonpoint, have recently opened a vast new space which I think I can confidently predict will become the Paris shopping destination du jour for 2009.

Located on Boulevard Beaumarchais, just down the rue from our apartment, the store occupies an impressive 1500m2 - a fact only hinted at by the modest entrance and street exterior. From the decidedly New York-esque library space (selling all manner of fantastic second hand books for dirt cheap prices), to the Annick Goutal perfume lab, to the underground cafeteria space that gives onto a herb garden courtyard and the groovy men's and women's fashion departments, there's a little something for everyone at Merci.

And as if to prove that being de rigeur on the Paris shopping scene and having a social conscience are not necessarily mutually exclusive, a percentage of all sales at Merci go towards charitable causes in Madagascar (the country, not the DreamWorks animated film).

Together with our friend, photographer extraordinaire Carla Coulson, we lingered for a pleasant hour in the library-cum-cafe. One member of our party used the occasion to gurn in the shop window. For the life of us, his mother and I cannot work out where he gets his exhibitionist streak from.

To see what I mean, allow me to re-direct you to Carla's blog. Her photos do much greater justice to the Merci shopping experience, and capture the impromptu street performance turned on by the smallest member of the Corbett clan.

Showgirl cupcakes

2009-03-24T22:49:00.005+01:00

Please excuse the laziness with this blog post. It's the end of a long day - a day when I took my first tentative steps to getting rid of some of the winter flab by working out with a personal trainer.

As a result of the torture - I mean, the carefully constructed cardio-vascular and muscular workout that Toni the-pocket-rocket-Spaniard put me through this afternoon, I can barely move my arms, much less type.

Hence, I am copping out by referring you to a blog entry that I wrote for the tastefully talented Mr David Lebovitz - food blogger extraordinaire and fellow inhabitor of Paris' intrinsically groovy 11th arrondissement. David lives just down the road - and as any of you who regularly follow his blog will know, he cooks and bakes like a demon - which is sure to ruin the monastic diet that Toni has prepared for me. On the subject of which, I have a question: is it wrong or somehow sacreligious to live in Paris, the food capital of the world, and be on a diet? Personally, I think so...
But I digress.

If you follow this link to David's blog, you can read all about the cupcakes that my exceptionally talented wife, Shay likes to bake. And yes, the accompanying photo is one of Shay at work, on stage at the Lido, where she high-kicks each night for a living.

Revealed: the real reason French women don't get fat

2009-03-22T23:32:00.002+01:00

A couple of years back, an utterly irksome French woman wrote an equally irksome book called "French Women Don't Get Fat". Trading on a well-worn stereotype and playing to the collective fears of larger-boned women in other countries, the book tore its tedious way up best-seller lists all across the developed world.

The author, a cringeworthy old matron from Paris' rareified 16th arrondissement, maintained that French women remain svelte by eating small portions and taking the stairs instead of the lift.

In my book* (*denotes gratuitous, self-serving plug), I argue that the reason French women are generally so slim is because of the nervous energy they expend worrying who their husband is sleeping with** (**denotes gross generalisation about an entire nation's apparent lack of marital fidelity).

But the truth it seems, is altogether more pedestrian.

While wandering down my rue this morning, I noticed this poster in the window of my local pharmacie. It's an ad for a pair of tights that in my home country might euphemistically be referred to as "control tights". In the interests of calling a spade a spade, these tights are essentially a modern day girdle - an item of apparel whose sole purpose is to suck in a lady's tummy.

"Two sizes less, WITHOUT DIET (and) WITHOUT SPORT" declares the advertisement.
Non-French women of the world take note. You can stop beating yourself up over why you appear to packing a few more pounds than your average French counterpart. The fact is, you're not. You're just not cunning (or weight-obsessed) enough to hide them behind a pair of super-tight stockings.

Who are the people in your neighbourhood?

2009-03-19T21:37:00.006+01:00

Am I the only person old enough to remember a segment on Sesame Street called “Who are the people in your neighbourhood?”

It was the part of the show when Maria or Luis would sing this catchy little ditty about the people who comprised the Sesame Street quartier – the butcher, baker, the hip-hop music maker. Hey, it was set in Brooklyn afterall.

There’s not a day goes by here in Parigi that I am not entertained by the cast of characters that make up my neighbourhood. And so, gentle reader, I humbly present the first in a series of mini-portraits of the people that make up my neighbourhood.

But first, some context. We live on Rue Oberkampf – a lively street in Paris’ 11th arrondissement. If you were looking at a map of Paris, we are just to the north west of the Ile de la Cité (Notre Dame et al – generally considered the centre of the city). Our quartier, Oberkampf, is about a ten minute walk to Bastille and the Marais, a twenty minute walk to Notre Dame, and twenty five minutes to the Left Bank (but as confirmed Right Bankers, we rarely venture over that side of the river.)

Rue Oberkampf is what is known in French as a rue commercant ie: a street packed with grocers, bakers, butchers, patisseries, fishmongers, cheese shops, chocolatiers. It’s super convenient, with every delicious French foodstuff you can imagine at your feet – and makes for a colourful neighbourhood packed with all sorts of interesting characters. Not least among whom is Charlie – the local fishmonger.

Even in rue Oberkampf, a street packed with eccentrics, Charlie is a stand-out. He runs a little fish shop that functions as more of a stage on which Charlie performs than any kind of effective, seafood-vending small business. Charlie has been known to mount photo exhibitions in his shop

Charlie is also gay – and he proclaims it joyfully with rainbow flags and flyers for gay magazines and soirées and photos of him with his boyfriends plastered all over the shop. As far as I am aware, his sexual orientation has no bearing on his ability to monger fish – yet there it is everyday, hung out for inspection with his filets of sole and coquilles St Jacques.

Charlie is what the French like to call “une personnage” and “un animateur du quartier”, meaning his presence and activities in the neighbourhood liven the place up. As indeed they do.

And no more so than the current exhibit that Charlie has created in his fish shop. Installed back in February to mark Valentine’s Day (because he’s an old romantic at heart), the exhibit features large posters of semi-naked men and more red feather boa than you could poke a Vegas showgirl at. The posters are the blown-up, display covers of Tetu magazine – the French mag for gay men. Each poster – and there are about 40 of them - is framed by a long chain of red feather boa. A legion of dewy-eyed Adonises presiding over the perch.

It’s been six weeks now since the exhibit was mounted, and the boas are starting to sag. I can’t begin to imagine the kinds of health and hygeine laws such a display would be contravening in my home country. But here in France, anything goes. Vive Charlie, et vive la France.

A little ray of sunshine

2009-03-17T23:06:00.003+01:00

Has the unseasonally early onset of spring made the French all just a little bit giddy (today was the fourth consecutive day of glorious sunshine) or are they losing their grip on their celebrated, studied aloofness?

Whatever the reason for this little ray of sunshine (see photo), it put a spring in my step today and hence I will simply be thankful for it.

"Protest recession!" implored a piece of street art, stuck to a wall on Rue Vieille du Temple in the 3rd arrondissement. "Please dress up!"

And it occurred to me that there, in that one simple sentiment, plastered to an unprepossessing grey wall in a quiet Paris quartier, was an example of so much that is good about the French.

So the world is falling apart, the global economy is in freefall and recession looms - but we can always frock up and make ourselves feel better. If we're going to go down, we might as well do it stylishly.

Vive la France. Vive the sunshine. Roll on spring ....

In France, even the grass goes on strike...

2009-03-15T21:01:00.004+01:00

Going on strike in France is a national past time. It's up there with drinking wine and eating smelly cheese as one of the inalienable rights of every French person.

And while the almost constant stream of protest marches can be a tad annoying, you have to admire the average French person's fervent belief that taking to the streets is an effective way to have their voice heard. You may not like the fact that your Vespa ride across the city is interrupted by yet another bunch of chanting refuseniks, but you respect the attachment to and belief in democracy that spurs them on.

But when lawns start to exercise their right to strike, you have to ask if it hasn't all gone a little too far.

I wandered into the Place des Vosges this morning. It was a glorious morning. It felt like the first day of spring. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, the Parisians were borderline pleasant (I even saw one or two smile ... no, really). I thought I would celebrate this uncharacteristically warm March day by stretching out on one of the Place des Vosges four identical patches of finely manicured grass.

But a sign informed me that the grass was off duty. It was having it's winter vacation - its "repos hivernal".

The lawns of Paris clearly have excellent union representation.

Getting fit - French style

2009-03-14T08:44:00.008+01:00

If you've had the unmitigated pleasure of reading my book, A Town Like Paris (available now at all good book stores, mention my name and you might get a discount...) you'll know that I occasionally like to drop into my local gym for a spot of anthropological research.

It's always amusing to watch Parisians go about the business of getting fit. As with most activities requiring actual physical exertion, the Parisians go about it with about the same amount of gusto as most of the rest of the world reserves for the eating of offal (ie: not very much).

So it shouldn't have come as a huge surprise when yesterday, at the end of one of my infrequent sessions at the Club Med Gym (or Club Merde as it is known amongst locals for the semi-permanent stench of shit that hangs like a pall over the change rooms) the receptionist handed back my card with a complimentary bar of chocolate.

Swiss chocolatiers Milka had obviously brokered a deal with the Club Merde gyms to hand out promotional bars of their new "sugar free" chocky bars to the Parisian gym-going public.

Now, I'm no nutritionist - and it's true that I have been known to follow up a gym session with the occasional beer session - but chocolate? After a workout? At a gym? I mean, surely even the fact that it is 'sugar free' does not qualify chocolate as a wholly recommended foodstuff to follow up a workout.

I'd just spent half an hour flailing about on the treadmill. I was red-faced, sweaty and exhausted from my attempts to shed a bit of winter fat - and here was the gym offering me a chocolate bar as reward for my efforts.

Only in France ...

Fashionably confused

2009-03-12T15:45:00.004+01:00

One of the many perks of being a journalist in Paris is the occasional invitation you receive to fantastically over-the-top fashion shows.

It's Fashion Week here in Paris. The astute among you may in fact wonder if it is never NOT fashion week in Paris ... but this week is when the fashion press, the buyers and the international celebs keen for a free frock flock to the City of Light to sashay around the city for a couple of days and hope the paparrazzi notice them.

You can usually tell how fundamentally groovy a designer is by their choice of venue. From my several years experience attending fashion week shows here in Paris, I have learned that if you are a designer, there is a sliding scale of grooviness that is inversely proportional to the grottiness/obscurity/inaccessability of the venue you choose.

I once attended a Vuitton show in the run-down concrete shell of what used to be a municipal swimming pool. I've otherwise sat through shows in former convents, drafty market halls and museum basements.

Leave it to Karl Lagerfeld then - the grand-daddy of Paris fashion - to do his show in style. Along with 500 other carefully-selected chosen ones, I trooped on down to the Grand Palais on Tuesday to take my place in the audience for the Chanel ready-to-wear autumn winter collection.

Now, I don't know much about clothes, but it looks to me like the man knows what he is doing. I also don't know much about models, but I do know if some of them lean any further back while walking down the catwalk, they are going to be flat on their backs - stillettoes to the wind. Some of the girls loped down the runway as if they were engaged in a permanent game of limbo. What's with that?

No wonder he's in rehab ...

2009-03-02T10:28:00.007+01:00

While riding my Vespa through the streets of Paris this morning, I found myself stopped at traffic lights next to the number 96 bus.

Inside was the usual collection of grey-faced commuters - wrapped in scarves and coat and clearly relishing the prospect of another exciting week at work. On the outside of the bus was an ad for the new Owen Wilson, Jennifer Aniston romp, "Marley and Me" (or Marley et Moi as the French would have it).

Most of you probably don't need to be told it's a silver screen adaptation of a best-selling memoir about a man who gets a dog (I haven't read it, but as far as I can gather that's about it as far as plotline goes ...)

But as a fellow aspiring sometimes writer, I am in a glass house, so I'm not about to start throwing stones at the book or the author.

What I feel more than comfortable throwing stones at is Owen Wilson. And his agent. And the momentary lapse of reason that was clearly responsible for him agreeing to appear in this film. I mean, look at that photo! How could any self-respecting Hollywood type (much less one that has appeared with distinction in several brilliant Wes Anderson movies) allow himself to be photographed and plastered on buses all over the world in such a simpering, vomit inducing pose? Cheese-a-rama. I want to gag every time I see it.

C'mon Owen. I know you've been having a rough time of it lately - but really??

France: World capital of (frozen) food

2009-02-26T22:18:00.010+01:00

Hello peeps.

Some of you may have heard this one before. If you have, please bear with me. I think it bears repeating.

You know how the French have this amazing reputation for being the world's greatest gastronomes? You know the whole Michelin star thing is a French administered system? And you know how haughty the French can be about how superior is their cuisine compared to that of any other nation?

Well allow me to let you in on a little secret. They may talk a lot about the countless hours they spend every night, slaving over the stove to produce a meal sensation, but the truth is the entire nation is addicted to frozen food.

Okay, perhaps I exaggerate a little (who, moi? exaggerate? never!) -- maybe not the ENTIRE nation, but a good many of these food-obsessed Frenchies regularly eschew the fresh food markets and skulk into the frozen food emporium, Picard.

Picard is the friend of all single people. It's boil-in-the-bag, TV dinner heaven. Now, I know that in most other Western countries, TV dinners are about as apetitising as a bowl of gruel. But Picard has somehow come up with a winning formula to create GOURMET TV DINNERS.

I kid you not. Many's the time I have had guests coming for dinner and I've popped down to Picard and purchased three courses of ice-encased nosh, stuck it in the microwave or the oven and sat back and let the post-dinner compliments roll in.

In fact, when the Showgirl and I were courting (why don't people court any more? It's such a dignified practice -- everyone's so busy trying to bed one another, no one has time to court anymore --- but I digress ..) .. where was I?" Oh yeah - when the Showgirl and I were courting, I would invite her over to my place and present a gourmet meal. She used to think I was a god in the kitchen until she discovered my little frozen secret. At first, she was unconvinced about the whole "do your weekly shopping in a store full of freezers" concept. But now she's a convert. Not least because when you have an 11-month old, every second not spent looking after your child or otherwise performing household tasks such as cooking, is time you could be spending in bed. Asleep, people, asleep.

So - Picard. There it is. The great, dark, shameful secret lurking at the back of every Parisian's freezer.

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig('s ear)

2009-02-23T23:48:00.008+01:00

One of my bi-weekly joys is wandering down the rue to the fresh food market on the Boulevard Richard Lenoir.

Held every Tuesday and Friday, they are a bustling, noisy, colourful affirmation of life. The produce is fresh, the cheeses are ripe, the fishmongers are bawdy and the vendors are vocal.

And while living in France has largely desensitized me to butcher window displays of chickens with their heads attached and skinned rabbits with their eyes intact, there's one stall at the market that never fails to gross me out.

More than one of the charcutiers sell pork - in all its many variations. There's pork belly, pork roast, pork chops and more pork lard than you can poke a hardened artery at. And for the truly adventurous, there are pigs trotters (feet) and - wait for it - pig's ears and pig's snouts.

And not just plain old pig's ears, mind you. Some are even coated in a kind of aspic (what's the old saying about silk purses and sow's ears?)

I can't begin to imagine how you prepare a pig's ear or a pig's snout for eating. Do you lightly sauté them? Boil the living crap out of them? Or hurl them straight into the dog's bowl where surely they belong?

And no, this is not an invitation to email through your favourite offal recipes. As adventurous as I like to believe my palate is, I'm happy to stay in the dark on this one.

The Love Pad - revealed

2009-02-23T23:34:00.007+01:00

Hello people,

Since the publication of A Town Like Paris, I receive emails almost daily from readers. The feedback is generally positive (phew) and the wishes are almost invariably warm. So let me say a big, fat, public thank you to everyone who has taken the time to write.

Many of you have enquired after the Love Pad - eager to wrap your peepers around this famed den of seduction and iniquity. How, I am repeatedly asked, could an apartment really exist with orange-fabric covered walls.

And so, it is with great pleasure, that I present to you, gentle readers, a few photos from inside the Love Pad.

These are a couple of shots of me in the Love Pad, taken recently by my great friend, and photographer extraordinaire, Carla Coulson.

See - I told you. Orange walls. Stranger than fiction ...

Reason No.538 you've got to love the French

2009-02-23T23:19:00.003+01:00

There are so many reasons I love living in Paris. The aesthetics of the place, the rich cultural heritage, the wine, the food ...

And then every now and then there's a none-too subtle reminder why the country is considered the crucible of all that is civilised in this world.

Take for example the poster that currently adorns the press kiosk on just near my house on the Place de la Republique. Ostensibly advertising a beauty magazine, it features a full frontal nude photo of a young lady -- only the words "Special Minceur" protecting what tiny shred of dignity she has left.

Quite apart from the danger a poster like this must pose to public health (the Place de la Republique is a very busy traffic thoroughfare - how many car accidents is this poster responsible for?) the fact that it is considered appropriate for an image such as this to be on public display speaks to everything I love about this country.

So she's nude. So you can see her breasts. So what? They're just breasts. Half the world has them. If the rest of us were as relaxed about the naked human form as French, imagine how much more chilled out we'd all be.

As they say here in France, vive la difference.

London launch for A Town Like Paris

2008-12-29T22:49:00.009+01:00

Hello? Is anyone out there? It's been so long between blog postings, there's a very good chance I am shouting into a vacuum with this posting -- but in the event there are a couple of London-based or London-bound ATLP fans, this one's for you.
'A Town Like Paris' is finally being published in the UK and should be available in bookstores from mid-January.

To mark this most auspicious occasion, the Showgirl and I are popping across the Channel for a special launch event.
Australian author in London, Kathy Lette, has kindly agreed to perform the honours and give ATLP its official UK launch at a soirée in the venerable Marylebone bookstore, Daunt Books.
There will be Aussie wine (thanks to Thompson Estate) and in keeping with Aussie tradition, a real-life raffle of a hamper of Aussie delicacies (courtesy of The Australian Shop)
We're welcoming all-comers -- so if you happen to be in the vicinty, don't hesitate to drop in and say hello.

UK LAUNCH EVENT DETAILS
Thursday 29 January
6.30pm-8pm
Daunt Books
83 Marylebone High St
London W1U 4QW

Hope to see you there ...

PS: Yes, the photo above is the new Aussie cover. Another fantastic photo from the exceedingly talented Carla Coulson - whose new book, Paris Tango, has to be seen to be believed. It's a photographic triumph!

ATLP takes a bite out of the Big Apple

2008-06-27T17:40:00.008+02:00

I went, I saw, and I did my level best to conquer.

The thing that always strikes me about New York City is the overwhelming size of the place. It's noisy, it's vast and it seems to move in a state of perpetual fast-forward.

For a humble lad from Sydney-via-Paris, it's all slightly overwhelming. So it was that I fronted up to Idlewild bookstore in Manhattan last Thursday night for the US launch of A Town Like Paris with a hulking great knot in my stomach.
A few glasses of Thompson Estate Chardonnay (note gratuitous plug for friend's delicious Western Australian white wine) managed to take the edge off sufficiently that I was finally able to stand up before the 100-strong crowd, make a short speech and read from the book.

Thank you to everyone who waded through the New York humidity to join the festivities - and thank you, especially, for the lively Q&A session that followed the book reading. Some of you had really done your homework, quoting back at me entire passages from the book. If I looked momentarily taken aback, it was simply because some of you appeared to know my book better than me. Impressive work people.

A Town Like Paris gets the Page Six treatment

2008-06-27T17:09:00.004+02:00

Question: What do Anne Hathaway, Jimmy Page and myself have in common?

Answer: We all shared coveted Page Six column space in the same day's edition of the New York Post.

It's not every day a fella warrants a mention in Gotham City's most hotly contested celebrity register, so permit me an indulgence if I draw it to your attention.

Published on the morning of the US launch event for 'A Town Like Paris', the article featured a winning photograph of the Showgirl (which, it's fair to say, probably helped sway the editor's decision to include the article in the column ...) and a brief description of the book.

All in all, a cracking good start to the New York adventure.

The article in full:

"Heartbreak Fix"

"June 19, 2008 - GOING to Paris with a broken heart worked out splendidly for Australian journo Bryce Corbett. After breaking up with a longtime girlfriend, he fled London for the City of Light to meet French women and fell for a hot Lido showgirl, Shay Stafford , a fellow Aussie who ended up marrying him. Corbett writes about his exploits in the well-received tome "A Town Like Paris," which will be feted tonight at 7 at Idlewild Books at 12 W. 19th St."

To see the article online, click here

Start spreading the news .... New York here I come

2008-06-05T10:39:00.009+02:00

Mark your diaries people! It's time for the US launch of A Town Like Paris. I am Big Apple-bound.

We're talking an all-singing, all-dancing, full-frontal Aussie assault on Manhattan. There will be Aussie wine, Aussie revellers, a slightly delirious Aussie author (something about that trans-Atlantic flight just knocks me out every time) and - with a bit of luck - a band of indulgent (if bemused) locals.

The recently-opened Idlewild Books on West 19th St has kindly donated its event space for the night. My ever faithful friends at the West Australian winery, Thompson Estate are helping to provide liquid refreshment and the good folk at Random House/Broadway Books (my US publishers) will be ensuring there are plenty of copies of A Town Like Paris on hand for anyone who wants an autographed copy.

In all, it should be quite the fun evening. A taste of Paris in the heart of Manhattan served up by an Aussie. Talk about globalisation.

All of which is to say, if you happen to be in New York on the evening of June 19, you are hereby cordially invited to attend.

To those of you in the States who have been buying and reading my book, and sending through such nice emails, I say a heartfelt thank you. It's always gratifying to receive reader feedback. Especially when it's of the positive variety.

Details for the US launch event:

Thursday 19 June
7pm
Idlewild Books
12 West 19th St (near 5th Ave)
New York, NY

RSVP: events@idlewildbooks.com

I look forward to seeing you there.

A Town Like Paris reviewed in the New York Times

2008-06-01T16:45:00.004+02:00

What better start to a Sunday morning could a fella possibly hope for?

Over juice and cereal this morning, as I stared out across the Paris rooftops, an email arrived from a colleague informing me he had just read a review of A Town Like Paris in today's edition of the New York Times.

And it's not half-bad.

In a cover story highlighting this year's batch of summer reading, journalist Josh Hammer calls A Town Like Paris "a refreshing variation on a shopworn theme: the Anglophone at large in the French capital".

While noting the literary effort is "not quite A Moveable Feast", Hammer nonetheless notes: "Corbett’s sharp observations lend the tale a dash of élan".

I'll wear that.

To read the review in full, click here

Paris Book Signing - April 21

2008-04-11T19:21:00.005+02:00

Greetings people.

For those of you who happen to be in the City of Light on Monday April 21, those of you expecting to pass through, or those of you mad enough to make the journey, I'll be the guest of honour at a little literary soirée - to which you are all cordially invited.

Organised by Terrance, the amiable editor of the popular online newsletter, Paris Through Ex-Patriate Eyes, the evening will be a chance to sip a few fine French wines, nibble on a selection of fine French fare and listen in rapt amazement as I read from A Town Like Paris.

It's all happening at Le Select, 99 Boulevard Montparnasse, in the sixth arrondissement (just behind the Jardins du Luxembourg).

Terrance tells me numbers are strictly limited. The best way to make sure you don't miss out is to follow this link and follow the instructions.

To read the interview I gave to PTEE, click here.

Watch this space for announcements of other Paris bookstore and cafe events in the coming months ....

Good Morning America!

2008-04-01T11:56:00.010+02:00

Today is a special day for me. It marks the date on which I have officially become a published author in the United States.
Some would say the fact it is also April Fool's Day could not be more appropriate, but there's no need for us to dwell on that.

And so bookstores all over the US will today start selling A Town Like Paris -- and America will get a flavour of Paris from an Aussie point of view.
To mark the occasion, my publishers in the US, Broadway Books (an imprint of Random House) have been busily organising a few online promotional efforts.
The first is a promotional video, recorded here in Paris a couple of weeks ago, and posted this week on the website: www.booksvideo.tv

The video follows me on a little tour of Paris. For the film buffs among you, you will be interested to learn that all the traveling footage of Paris-by-night was taken from the back of my beloved Vespa. The film-maker, Jethro, displayed nerves of steel to hang one-handed from the back of Mojito as I cruised past some of the city's best known monuments.

To view the video, click here.

The second promotional effort is a guest blog entry on the popular Travelocity blog, Window Seat. To check out my musings, click here.

Bigger than Potter - ATLP has its Paris launch

2007-12-14T14:04:00.000+01:00

It's the morning after the night before here in Paris. The morning after the Paris launch of ATLP -- and I'm feeling decidedly worse for wear.

The big launch soirée was a rip roaring success, if I say so myself. With almost 200 people in attendance (the biggest turnout for a launch event that WH Smith have ever had - bigger even than for the launch of the Harry Potter books), an impressive pile of books sold (hoorah for that), Lido dancers in costume and a stirring launch speech by the Australian Ambassador to France, the book had as good a hometown launch as I could have hoped for.

My left hand is on ice after two solid hours of book signing and the large pile of empty bottles of Thompson Estate wine bear testament to the festive mood of the evening.

Highlights for me? A great speech from the Aussie Ambassador, Penelope Wensley AO (which I have copied below), a touching message from my publisher in Oz, Vanessa Radnidge (read aloud with finesse by the Showgirl), and posing for photos with the Lido girls on the Place de la Concorde.

Special thanks once again go to the serially-amazing Carla Coulson - photographer extraordinaire - for operating in sub-zero temperatures on the Place de la Concorde and coping as a forty-strong gaggle of Italian teenage tourists snapped away on their mobile phone cameras over her shoulder.

It was a memorable night - and one that finished in the wee small hours of this morning at Le Tambour - still my Parisian all-night eatery of choice.

Now I must crawl back under the duvet -- adieu.

Ambassador Wensley's Speech:

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Bryce,

It’s no easy task to launch your book … your ‘universe of beer’ is, well … remote from my universe of key messages, key outcomes, key figures, key indicators and …metaphoric listening at key holes! (and for those of who you who don’t get the reference, buy the book and check out p.183 in the chapter ‘all aboard the international gravy train”).

Those of you who have not yet read the book – and I do recommend it as a very readable and entertaining journey through the ups and downs of living (and loving) in the city of lights – would perhaps not realise to what extent my Paris does not really resemble your Paris. Although I, too, spent four formative years in Paris, as a single person in my early twenties, on my own journey of discovery - of France, of Paris and of myself - I was already a bureaucrat, conscious of the responsibilities of my position - and confess to feeling somewhat shocked by the gulf you describe between your ‘work experience’ and your ‘life experience’ - and your attitude to your employer and the ‘gig that paid the bills” (p.181). One suspects - indeed hopes, given your obvious talents - that despite the colourful tales and serial bagging of your employers at the ICC, between the long lunches, there was more between the lines and times when that professional ying actually did hold sway over the leisure time yang (p.181).

Yet even if we part company on some things, there are also some similarities – including coming to terms with the complexities of a new culture and mastering the language, or more accurately, the acronyms, of international bureaucracy (about which Bryce is very funny). And whilst the roads we travelled are different, we do arrive at a similar conclusion. When Bryce describes (on p.178) a yearning for Australia that is ‘more cultural craving than cultural cringe’ – as someone who has lived for considerable periods outside Australia, promoting Australia’s interests in many different countries, I can readily identify with his feelings and share the firm conviction that Australia is a fantastic place to come from, and a great place to return to.

I am here in a representative role, obviously in France generally, but specifically tonight in WH Smith, representing an Australia proud of her talented children – of which Bryce is literally one in a million – who have left Australia to seek … life, experience, opportunities that may not be available to them or are different from those available to them back home. Yet these expat Australians remain, proudly – and in Bryce’s case – loudly, Australian.

To some extent tonight, I am also representing my predecessor, Ambassador Bill Fisher, who was not only responsible for launching the popular working holiday visa at what, from all accounts, was a hell of a party, but through it, for Bryce meeting the woman he was to marry – the lovely Shay.

So on behalf of Australia (on behalf of Bill) and surrounded by Bryce’s friends (and future fans), by Bryce’s ‘babes’ and Bryce’s ‘bruisers’ (p.111), I wish a long and happy life to both the book and the bloke and herewith launch ‘A Town like Paris – living and loving in the City of Light”.

- H.E MS. PENELOPE WENSLEY AO

Paris frocks up for A Town Like Paris launch

2007-11-27T23:22:00.000+01:00

Just wanted to share with you some of the preparations for the Paris launch of A Town Like Paris.

With a little bit of help from my friends at The Lido, and thanks to the indulgence of the good folk at WH Smith on the Place de la Concorde, the main window of this venerable English-bookstore-in-Paris has been transformed into an ATLP shrine.

Costumes from a former Lido stage show have been brought in to add a bit of Parisian glamour to proceedings as we gear up here in the City of Light for the big launch event on December 13.

If you happen to be in Paris on the evening of Thursday December 13 and want to drop in to say hello - or meet one of the Lido dancers who will attending (in costume, no less) - please feel free to do so. Numbers will be limited, so be sure to RSVP by sending an email to books@whsmith.fr.

The Showgirl is dusting off her glad rags in anticipation, the Thompson Estate wine is chilling as we speak and every Parisian ex-pat and his or her dog is shaping up to join the throng. It should be quite a night.

Paris Book Launch - Thursday December 13

2007-11-09T15:54:00.000+01:00

Hello people,

Back in Pareeee after three weeks touring the homeland launching and promoting the book. It all went swimmingly. Some great in-store events, a champagne-soaked launch soirée in Sydney, a couple of book signings and a whole lot of media interviews. Lucky I never tire of talking about myself ;)

Now that the book has been well and truly launched in Australia, it's time to give it a good ol' launch event here in Paris.

The good folk at WH Smith - the English bookstore on Rue de Rivoli, near the Place de la Concorde - have kindly offered to host the launch soirée, my new best friends at Thompson Estate Wines are very kindly providing alcoholic refreshment on the evening and the Lido de Paris have come to the party with the provision of a handful of Lido dancers for the event and a special two-for-the-price-of-one voucher to see the Lido revue for every book launch attendee. Oh - and I will be there signing books, with the Showgirl in tow.

All in all, it's shaping up to be quite the shin-dig. And you are all cordially invited to attend.

For those of you who live in Paris, or those of you passing through in the weeks leading up to the book launch, be sure to check out the "A Town Like Paris" window display at WH Smith that the creative types at the Lido are creating - using old Lido costumes and assorted other glamorous bits and pieces.

WH Smith are also taking pre-orders for the book - for those of you who wish to reserve a copy. Visit www.whsmith.fr.

Details for the Paris book launch:

Thursday December 13
7.30pm
WH Smith - 248 rue de Rivoli, 75001, Paris
Nearest metro: Concorde

RSVP: books@whsmith.fr or 01 44 77 88 99

Look forward to seeing you there!

Australian Book Launch & Tour

2007-09-19T00:01:00.000+02:00

As I type the wife is running around the apartment, deciding which of her countless pairs of shoes she won't be packing for the trip back to Australia next week.

We leave Paris mid-next week, endure the world's longest plane flight and arrive back in the homeland just in time to get stuck into the Aussie launch of A Town Like Paris.

The good folk at Hachette Australia (my publishers) have organised a three-city book promo tour - complete with book signings, cocktails and canapés. I'll be variously bunkering down in bookstores or propping up a bar in a city centre near you - it would be great if you were able to pop by and say hello.

The details of my bookstore signings - plus the details of my Sydney launch event - are listed below:

BRISBANE
Monday October 1
Mary Ryan's Bookshop
40 Park Road
Milton
6.15pm
I'll be reading from A Town Like Paris, chatting about life in the City of Light and hanging out with the in-laws (Shay hails from Brizvegas) - please come and join the fun.

SYDNEY
LAUNCH EVENT - Hosted by Angus & Robertson
Wednesday October 3
Pacifica Bar, The Eastern
Oxford St, Bondi Junction
6.30pm
My new best friends at Angus & Robertson are very kindly hosting a cocktail party book launch fiesta. See the Angus & Robertson website (below) for details on the event and how to get yourself on the guest list.
http://www.angusrobertson.com.au/events/index.asp?sState=NSW

MELBOURNE
Thursday October 4
Reader's Feast Bookstore
Midtown Plaza, Cnr Bourke and Swanston Sts
6pm
I'll be reading from the book, signing copies and generally making myself available for anyone who wants to pop by.

To blog or not to blog, that is the question

2007-09-14T19:08:00.000+02:00

With so much drivel floating around on the world wide web and so many people blogging about so much of utter inconsequence, I had to think long and hard about whether to include a blog on this website.

Finally, I decided it was the quickest and easiest way to communicate news or info about the book to the largest number of people. So here it is, the Bryce blog.

Mindful of the inane musings that make up most blogs, I hereby vow to keep blogging entries as succint and informative as possible.