A tale of two quartiers

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!

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

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

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

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..

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

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.