Christmas Night in Paris

While in Paris, I had the bright idea to research something “local” to do on Christmas Eve. I was delighted to stumble upon an internet posting for an event called “Christmas on the Bridge” in one of the arrondisements found in northeast Paris. I meticulously researched the best metro train to take, determined which stop was closest to my destination, dressed warmly and embarked on what I hoped would be a grand adventure of the local variety, my favorite kind.

I walked from my hotel to the Orsay metro, only to learn that the stop I needed was not actually found within the Orsay stop, but rather was connected to it. “Connected” meant that one must climb the stairs, walk outside and aim in the general direction of the place where the other stop was supposed to be, with nary a sign along the way to let you know if you are getting it right. My saving grace was that a backpacked guy appeared to be headed toward the other stop as well (few people were at this stop on nightfall on Christmas Eve), so I followed him.

My travel to the far-flung stop was relatively uneventful, though the people-watching opportunities were excellent. For some reason, the only folks I saw who inspired me to grab my beloved Moleskine notebook (small, black cover, lined pages with tiny pocket in back) and make a note were a middle-aged couple wearing matching Land’s End-type coats, one dark green and the other mustard-colored. Each had horn-toggle type closures. I remember thinking that they looked like a pair of small children wearing matching clothing selected by mom who had been jolted forward into middle age without being given the opportunity to change clothes.

Before long, I jumped off the metro at my appointed stop and emerged into the cool, crisp night air. Outside, I was faced with a dilemma, in that all of the streets converged into two traffic circles and none of the streets were marked. I kept turning in a circle, trying to match my map to the direction and configuration of the streets, but with little success. No one offered to help and those who I approached backed away in what appeared to be suspicion or even fear. This, of course, caused me to wonder if I was in a dangerous neighborhood, or if this was such a far-flung suburb that they had never met a tourist before.

At long last, I took a chance on an unknown street and found I had chosen correctly. However, the importance of the notation “this map is not drawn to scale” became immediately obvious to me, as I saw that my route was much longer than it appeared on the map. I wouldn’t have minded this, had I not dressed up a bit in anticipation of the Christmas Eve dinner I would go to directly after the Bridge event. Sweating despite the cold, and with feet bitterly complaining about my route-planning skills, I finally reached the location of the bridge—or, put more accurately, the place where the bridge was supposed to be.

And there I found neither bridge nor a bridge-based event. All I found was one of the small children’s carousels that had been scattered throughout the city as a holiday treat. There was a small forest nearby, and it occurred to me that the bridge was probably found within it, but there were few people going into that forest and I did not feel comfortable plunging in on my own when I wasn’t sure of the safety of doing so.

So, with exhausted feet and a sigh of disappointment, I turned toward what was obviously the nearest metro station (not the one at which I had arrived) and enjoyed the strings of lights hanging between the shops and the festive air of the people window-shopping and scurrying to their Christmas dinners.

I was relieved to reach Le Grand Colbert, a restaurant I selected based on its good reviews and on my interest in seeing the place Diane Keaton’s character loved so much in the movie, “Something’s Gotta Give.” (This is where Jack Nicholson interrupts her romantic birthday dinner with Keanu Reeves). The desk clerk at my hotel had been kind enough to make a dinner reservation for me. I left my camera at home that night, but thanks to some other fine photographers, you can still get a glimpse of the outside of this lovely restaurant:

(photo Courtesy of Jerry and Sara Steele)

Here is how the inside of the restaurant looked . . . isn't it beautiful?



(photo courtesy of Philip Greenspun)

From my white cloth-covered table in the front of the restaurant, I can see the front door. This disappoints me at first, as I love nothing more than surveying an entire dining room, with all of its entertainment options, but a banquette and common decency prevent me from doing that here. So my sight line is limited to a couple I know to be American (the only wild card is which Midwestern state they hail from) and two French guys waiting for a third friend who is very, very late.

A red velvet curtain hanging in the door way keeps most of the night air out; it is manned by a very friendly doorman. When he opens the curtain, I can see a dark brown wood coat rack circled by a brass ring. The doorman opened the door with a flourish and a laugh and I already know he’s a likeable and fun guy. His confidence and joie de vivre remind me of a Parisian artist my friend Amy and I once met on a bridge across the Seine, who took us on a great little adventure tour of the Eiffel Tower and a lovely dinner place on a hill with a view of the city.

Here is what I order for dinner:

2001 Chateau La Bienfaisance (Bordeaux), demi bouteille (mmmmm)

Goat cheese with greens in a light mescaline dressing (delicious)

Terrine of duck (more food than any one human being could eat)

Crumble aux pommes et la glace vanilla (apple crisp with vanilla ice cream, just wanted to try it)

As you can see, the dinner was not quite what I had hoped, especially the entrée and dessert. To be fair, I ordered more food than I could ever eat, though my excuses are: (a) the terrine of duck surprised me with its vast size; and (b) I really wanted to try a dessert to satisfy my sweet tooth. But even with those caveats, I do not believe the duck was close to being on my “favorites” list, and I consider myself quite the finder of duck to write home about in European restaurants.

Here is a note I wrote about my people-watching during dinner—I’m not sure who I was talking about: “She was blonde and uber German-looking, the kind of woman who orders steak tartare.

I then caught a cab and took it to a movie theater in the Latin Quarter that I had noticed. Woody Allen’s movie “Match Point” was playing (having, unusually, opened in Paris before the U.S.) and I was just in time to see it. I settled into my nice aisle seat in the tiny theater, feeling happily buzzed and full from dinner, and enjoyed a very good film. I also noticed that no one in the theater was eating anything—a vast difference from American theaters, in which people munch and chomp their way through the most soul-wrenching of movies. The driver of the taxi I took back to the hotel was very nice and permitted me to practice my French on him for the entirety of the 10-minute trip.

And thus ended my Christmas night in Paris.