Badaude

Badaude's Paris Address Book - Hotel Particulier Montmartre

Most people know Montmartre for its hoards of tour groups with big butts searching endlessly for the Butte while street vendors try to sell them friendship bracelets. It's hot, it's sweaty and it smells of fried food.

But if you get off the main drag and walk down the avenue Junot, you'll find yourself in another world: fairytale villas down leafy side-streets; hidden staircases winding up the Butte Montmartre;  a boule pitch where the voyous (goodfellas) of the quartier still congregate to boast about their 10-year stretches between games.

And, if you wander down one of those magical alleys, (just turn left by the Sorcerer's Stone - a mystical relic of old rural Montmartre) you’ll find one of the hidden jewels of the quartier - the Hotel Particulier .

Morgane Rousseau, the magically-named former curator of the Chateau Bionnay, famous for her conceptual art installations, has woven a spell in this former townhouse. A year ago, she invited five artists to participate in the creation of five individual suites - each different. Her purpose was to create the ultimate luxe b&b, where guests can feel at home to come and go as they please.

The garden, designed by Louis Bénech, who recently revamped the Tuilleries, continues the principles of the hotel; a series of secret spaces where guests can be as public or as private as they wish. When I stayed, one of the guests had taken over the terrace to host a private candlelit dinner which went on late into the hot May night.

The hotel, which doesn’t usually offer dinner, has a chef service bookable 24 hours in advance; a daily sumptuous French breakfast; and an honesty bar in the lobby, which is furnished with 20th century classics (all for sale) and all the art books and movies you could wish to borrow.

I stayed in the arbres et oreilles (trees and ears) suite (photo below) with its fabulous hand-printed, Japanese-influenced wallpaper by designer and illustrator, Pierre Fichefeux; family-sized bed and a separate, chaise-lounge-d reading/tv area.

After a bath in the massive rectangular tub, I put my ear to one of the rubber apertures in the wall, each marked 'press this button to hear a secret'. I wonder what it will whisper to me.

Maybe it will tell me more about Morgane's future plans: a private members’ club in the hotel during the Winter months, and another hotel in Paris. Where? That will have to remain one of her fairy secrets...

 

No badaude today

It's my birthday and I'm on holiday...

Badaude's Paris Address Book - Le Restaurant at L’Hôtel

Can't get a room where Oscar Wilde fought his famous last battle with the wallpaper? Why not just go for lunch at the restaurant of L’Hôtel, which gained a Michelin star in March 2008, is one of Paris's foodie bargains and, I've been told, attracts famous regulars such as Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis (who, sadly, couldn't be there the day I visited).

The carte is an light and inventive take on classical French cuisine. and, as it's nearly summer, the menu du jour has a Provencal accent.

As I ordered, I was brought an amuse-bouche of chilled sea-foamy cucumber soup and the restaurant’s own breadsticks made with truffle oil.

This was followed by a tartare of crab, sprinkled with gold leaf and tiny flowers (‘You can eat it all,’ my waiter assured me), then a brique of meltingly soft tuna with girolles (wild mushrooms) cooked to preference (ask for ‘rose’ if you like it a light pink; a point if you like it fully cooked or if, like me, you like sushi, you can order your tuna bleu or uncooked inside). Dessert is a work of art which must be ordered at least 15 minutes in advance. Mine was a delicious medley of strawberries and fraises de bois -  mini strawberries that taste of vanilla.

Coffee arrived with a selection of house petits fours; the caramelised cannelles or cinnamon pastries were particularly good: crusty with sugar on the outside an meltingly light within.

Wines and champagnes are available by the glass or half bottle for lone or relatively sober diners. Service is  relaxed, friendly but immaculately professional and knowledgeable. After recommending a wine for my main course, my waiter asked me, ‘would you like another glass of rouge with your dessert?’ ‘Well...’ I ‘Just a half-glass, then?’ he suggested, pouring me a small measure which somehow didn’t find its way onto the bill.

Prices are around 28 Euros for a starter, 15 Euros for a dessert and 39 Euros for a main course but don't panic, the 42 Euro 3 course set lunch is a Michelin-starred bargain. It's always popular so book by phone or via the website. It’s particularly lovely in the summer months when you can dine in the courtyard to the soft sound of the fountain. And if that's good enough for Johnny and Vanessa, it's good enough for me.

 

13, Rue Beaux Arts
75006 Paris, France
+33 1 44 41 99 00

http://www.l-hotel.com/

It's better for you that way...

There's nothing like a new trouser shape to sucker me. I've tried them all. The stranger the concept the more likely I am to wear them. I have shorts (for over tights), harem pants (am I the only person to find this term just a teeny bit racist? I live in a Moslem area and see lots of women wearing wide flowing pants with an elasticated ankle who wouldn't take at all kindly to the notion of being part of a harem). I have knee-length cropped, leggings with leather patches on them and  high waisted, very skinny jeans. The only trouser I can't do is wide all the way down which makes me look like I'm trying to escape from a bolt of sailcloth. Inevitably, when sarouel came along, I was prime for fleecing. And knee-length sarouel - a trouser that looks like a skirt! What could be better? I like my garments tricksy, which may be cool in fashion terms but in is very rarely a good thing in normal-people-walking-down-the-street terms.

So I was suckered again by a piece of Kookai publicité (I can't find a copy to scan, but she's all over Paris, in magazines, on billboards...). She's looks so business. And yet not. She's wearing my favourite jacket already. The whole look is so cool, so fresh, so original. Surely it'd suit me?

I went straight to the Kookai counter at le Bon Marché. After about 15 minutes' fruitless searching I started to panic. A million other girls had obviously seen exactly the same magazine ad and there'd been an unexpected run on pants that look like nappies. The sales girl was helpful:

<<The sarouel? Ouais. We have them somewhere. I think. Have you looked?>>

<<Yes.>> (She's seen me looking for the last quarter of an hour.)

She wanders around for a bit, prodding the rails with all the enthusiasm of a guard frisking an unwashed traveller for dynamite at airport security. I follow. Suddently, I see what I'm looking for. I grab them. I grab the next pair. and the next. None of them in my size.

<<Do you have any in a smaller size than these?>>

<<I think we have your size in imprimé Liberty.>>

<<But I don't like imprimé Liberty>>

<<Imprimé Liberty will be better for you. What size are you?>>

<<I ususally take a 36. These are 38.>>

<<Madame, you should try the 38. It will be better for you.>>

There's no answering that. What would be the point? If I argue, I'll look like a vain size obsessive. Especially if she's right. Maybe Kookai cut small.  I take the 36 Liberty and the 38 grey into the changing room...

...and, would't you know it. The size 38s drape on my with all the style of a condom on a pencil. The 36s are fine, but I still don't want to go around looking like I sowed a garden in my pants.

<<How was it, Madame?>> the sales girl asks.

<<The 36 were better, but I still don't like the print.>>

<<You should take the 38.>>

<<But they don't fit me.>>

The salesgirl shrugs. <<It's meant to be a loose fit. On the hip. It will be better for you that way.>> 

So I leave without buying more strange trousers. Looking at my wardrobe, this is probably a good thing...

Abouve : this year's most dangerous trouser shapes: short sarouel; full sarouel; denim shorts without tights...

Badaude's Paris Address Book - Poilâne

One of Paris’s oldest boulangeries (bakers),dating back to 1932. Still uses a wood fire (a fire hazard in the built-up 6e?) to bake some of the best bread in the quartier. Try their pain au levain (the French equivalent of sourdough) or punitions (punishments? How can butter cookies be punishment?).

 

 

I went in for croissants, but this is what caught my eye the last time I visited. I picked it up. It was suspiciously light for a loaf. Then I realised it wasn't.

 

 

Oh, yes. They even sell a Poilâne cushion shaped exactly like one of their round loaves, marked with the trademark Poilâne P.

8 Rue du Cherche-Midi, Paris, France. Tel: 33-1-45- 48-42-59.

http://www.poilane.fr/

 

Where do you buy your baguette? Tell me below...

The Crise Right Now...

Le Parisien reports that the French are buying fewer yoghurts, luxury chocolate bars and lignettes, those disgusting use-it-once-and-throw-it-away wipes. There’s a new magazine for comsum’acteurs* called Tips, selling at the introductory price of 0.9 Euros and containing coupons to clip as well as, of course, tips: the French are enjoying their crise.

 

I eat, un-crise-ingly, at Mamashelter Restaurant, where I'm staying, in hipster Belleville. In the lobby, French women air-kiss making an inward suck of air sounding like a crackle of electric static. The hotel sells La Crise m'a volé mes Pépitos (The Credit Crunch stole my comic books?) kids’ T-shirts. Naturally they cost 35 Euros.  We smoke on the restaurant's external terrace overhanging the railway lines. Later, we miss something across the street at ex-railway station club, La Flèche d’Or.

 

From the terasse in the spring dusk, I can see the Belleville skyline. Someone (perhaps planning a crise-time mariage?) has set a mini-marquee on a roofgarden. A minute bus called la traverse de charonne, about the size of a people carrier, turns a corner by the Casque d'Or historical sign. I've seen these buses in Montmartre, where they wind through the tiny streets unserved by other public transport, but never in Belleville. I guess it's here for the same reason.

 

Next morning, I leave the expensive candy in the hotel lobby to look for a café. I glance into the hotel restaurant and see the banks of breakfast lying unattended. Hotel breakfasts always a) too expensive, b) too filling, and c) too depressing. The sadness of Hotel life is particularly apparent at in daylight. I just had to look once at the glum American family who were the only people eating to leave. Too much food plus too few people is always a depressing equation. Gimme a destination populaire...

 

I find a local café, l’Abribus*  on rue de Bagnolet, which I immedately adopt as my temporary café de coin. They play 60s Rolling Stones at 9am. Cool. "Non, Madamoiselle." says the waiter - note the '-oiselle': must be my new leather jacket - "Nous n'avons plus des croissants".

 

So no croissants: so much money saved. I order a crise crème. Possibly the cheapest crème I've ever ordered in Paris. At least in a bar I'd like to sit in.

 

 

 

 

comsum’acteurs* - consumer activists. I found this in the Parisien. Has anyone heard it elsewhere or did they coin it?

L'Abribus - the bus shelter.

Badaude's Paris Address Book - APC

APC is Paris style - so French you’ll think you’re in a Jean-Luc Godard movie.

For the last 20 years, Jean Touitou has designed sober clothes for men and women with an edge of underground cool and has never yet put a foot wrong. He takes classic shapes: v-neck sweaters, straight-cut jeans, lumberjack shirts and does - well it looks like nothing, really, but that’s his secret.

The label has frequently works with guest designers including Brits, Eley Kishimoto and Jessica Ogden. This season there are a lot of smocks (the Japanese love his côté kawaii and there's a store in Tokyo) which I'm feeling a little long in the tooth to wear, but I'll be buying the classic navy and white stripe 'french' t-shirt with long sleeves.

 There’s an APC general store selling the label’s eclectic cds and subtle scented candle, and also a children’s collection and 

The label's famous unwashed denim jeans start at 130 Euros.

I'm posting a pic of the rue Madame shop so you don't walk past it without noticing. It's a bit subtle, quoi?

 

Main boutique

38 rue Madame, 6e, St-Germain-des-Prés, Paris

Phone: 01-42-22-12-77

Other locations  see website

www.apc.fr

9am Café de la Mairie...

The waiters in the Café de la Mairie have such an outsize helping of amour propre*.

There's this waiter, a torreador. He studies himself in the mirror at the back of the room that makes the place look bigger, inflates his chest, pulls down his waistcoat, goes into battle.

There's this English guy sitting at the next table (not a tourist). The waiter goes over to him, says, "Bonjour Monsieur." The man doesn't answer. He's talking to his friend (I think a buisness contact). Waiter waits. Man doesn't answer. Waiter, insulted, bellows, "BONJOUR, MONSIEUR!". Man orders.

Waiter returns to the mirror, inspects himself, pulls down his waistcoat, gets the order...

amour propre*. - self respect

Badaude's Paris Address Book - Romain Colors

On Romaincolors website, a silhouettes fairy guides you through Romaine's range of organic products and his natural haircare philosophy. His non-fairyland salon’s located in 6e, in the smart quarter between Montparnasse and the Eiffel Tower.

The salon is relaxed and welcoming if slightly cluttered (wooden Buddhas, dried grasses, trellis fencing and real trees are just some elements of the décor) and is divided up into small spaces, so that each client can relax in private. There’s also a treatment room where a therapist provides massages and other treatments from the Doux Me range.

Romain will discuss your hair history in English or French.

I tell him I want an ash-tinted  dark chestnut. He disagrees. “A base of ash, yes, but you need some highlights in copper.”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Trust me,” he replies.

I have to admit I’m nervous. I’ve had some bad colour experiences in the past, particularly with conventional chemical dyes, so I really want to know what goes into Romaine’s colours. He doesn’t need to tell me: he shows me the cabinet where he mixes them by hand for each customer from natural pigments with a clay or olive oil base. He can whip up a totally natural temporary colour or add the tiniest touch of artificial ingredients if you would like your hair lightened or coloured permanently.

As he paints my head with sinister-looking blue clay, I worry about the highlights while Romain brings me a coffee. The clay hardens. I become rigid with terror.

"My hair won't be this colour when you wash it off, will it, really?"

"No." says the guy at the baisin. "Ne vous inquietez pas." (don't worry).

A post-colour head massage with mint oil leaves my head tingling.

A cute bouledog, who seems to belong to the salon, waddles over to watch my blow-dry.

“What’s his name”

“Nestor. Scratch his head. He loves it.”

“Does he have his hair done here? He’s a smart dog.”

And the result?

Well, Romain, you were right about the highlights. They look natural. My hair is shiny and in great condition. Probably the best colour I ever had.

37 Rue Rousselet, Paris
+33 1 42732419
www.romaincolors.fr