CARPACCIO: THE EUROPEAN TOURS, VOL. I



Note the portion size, but the tartare was quite dense.

 THE MOOD was set early, a Sunday morning walk on a 77-degree day through the Jardin Tuileries, then along the right bank of the Seine. The iPod provided the mood music: John Coltrane, Live in Antibes, 1965 – a phenomenal performance, nearly 50 minutes of “A Love Supreme” capped by a sly finale on soprano sax by Coltrane and special Pharoah Sanders.

The housekeeping came first: the Boy wanted a photo of L’Tour Eiffel, and mission accomplished. The harder part, the underestimated part, was navigating the gastronomic brick and cobblestone streets of Paris.

If “No” is an international word, when it comes to food, the most fitting international phrase is “Can You Vouch?” I hadn’t been to Paris since November 1999, and had not cultivated a list of restaurant stalwarts. I scoured the Internet for recommendations, but was reduced to recommendation, the always dangerous, always tricky, always uncomfortable space where Friends Go on Trial.

The first day was easy. Tennis at Roland Garros rolled into the night, making it difficult for true adventure. I chose conservatively, Bar Tuileries, otherwise known as the hotel bar at the Westin Paris. The Westin represented something of a haven for English speakers. It was a French-free zone best illustrated by a late-night scene in the elevator during the trip, where reserved Parisians (and reserved foreigners) heading up were awoken by a big, booming American voice and his giggling female companion. “EVERYBODY HAVIN’ A GOOD TIME? WHO’S GOT SNACKS?”

(A point of information here: I was suffering from the severe, self-inflicted handicap of not speaking French. A general exchange for me went something like this:

“Bonjour, monsieur.”

“Bonjour. (whispering lower) Um, do you speak English?” (weak, helpless smile).

“Oui, monsieur. How may I help you?”

Only begging for a piece of bread would have been more embarrassing than my attempts at French).



I settled in on the beef tartare, salad and French fries. To add to the odd mix was a mojito, or perhaps it should be called an “18-euro mojito.” It wasn’t overly adventurous, but in the States, I never order beef tartare because few places do French food well. Paris was the place to make the leap.

It was a welcome score. The mixture of capers and mustard was interesting and the beef was robust instead of looking like it was headed for the dumpster until it was rescued by some idiot ordering the tartar. Things were off to a good start.