A Front Row Seat to Guernica

Quinta da Muradella from Galacia

Pistou of my dreams

Squid cut like Pasta with Green Beans

Peeled Tomatoes, Salt Olive Oil: Perfection

Picasso's ode to war: Guernica 

Anti-Nazi Poster

Help yourself to the Art Work

Blue Candy

We started the day slowly, which is how a vacation at our age should be. We decided to do one thing in depth — two if you consider dinner.

Our one thing was the Reina Sofía Museum. Much like Museum Island in Berlin, Madrid has multiple world-class museums located near each other. Madrid is a museum city.

Cathy is quite capable of walking, just not for long distances. We went for a 1½-mile walk in Paris without a problem. It is actually standing in one place that can be more annoying.

Several years ago, at the Museo Amparo in Puebla, Mexico, I noticed they had a supply of wheelchairs available for visitors. Ever since, I ask at every museum, and they all seem to have them.

There are multiple advantages. For Cathy, no pain and no constantly looking for a bench to rest on. For me, exercise driving the wheelchair. For both of us, it slows us down, and we spend more time actually looking at the art.

There is another unexpected advantage. I have always noticed that the written descriptions of the art are mounted too low on the wall, requiring me to bend over to read them. From a wheelchair they are at eye level. And perhaps best of all, people are wonderfully respectful of someone in a wheelchair. It is almost like having a passport to the front row when viewing a crowded work of art.

Think Guernica.

We would, of course, happily give up all these advantages if Cathy had a better back.

We had the very good fortune to see two extraordinary exhibits in depth, both dealing in different ways with resistance. I assume the curators planned it that way, because they flowed beautifully together, ultimately culminating in Picasso’s masterpiece, Guernica.

The first artist was completely new to us: Félix González-Torres, a Cuban-born American artist who was deeply involved in gay politics and political art.

One of his signature works consists of large piles of individually wrapped candies installed directly on the gallery floor. Visitors are invited to take one and eat it. The artwork slowly disappears, while the museum continually replenishes it — a cycle involving love, generosity, consumption, loss and the fading of the human body.

His own commentary about his work — conveniently mounted at Cathy’s eye level — was profound and moving.

I also never knew the name John Heartfield, although his work was immediately recognizable. His magazine covers and posters were fiercely political, particularly his attacks on Hitler and the Nazis.

One famous 1934 work plays on Bismarck’s phrase “Blood and Iron,” using executioner’s axes arranged to form a swastika. It was political art without subtlety and without apology.

We could use more like him today.

And finally, Guernica, the ultimate anti-war art.

Thanks to Cathy, we had a front-row view of Picasso’s masterpiece.

It is home in Spain, where it belongs.

After all that resistance, fascism, war and human suffering, it was time for dinner.

Angelita is just a few blocks from our hotel. It was a warm Madrid evening, perfect for a stroll. We have eaten at Angelita several times, and every visit has been excellent.

Each time, we build our dinner around the Tomato Pistou. If you can imagine multiple tomatoes somehow reduced down to their very essence, you are beginning to approach this dish. It is sublime.

This time we decided on the tasting menu, and course after course of wonderful food arrived. 

Angelita has an overwhelming wine list, and when faced with an overwhelming wine list, we often put ourselves in the hands of the sommelier. We describe what we like — in this case white, dry and Spanish, of course — and give him a price range.

He returned with three bottles. We chose Quinta da Muradella “Verdello Antiguo,” an exceptional white wine from Galicia.

After a great meal and a wonderful bottle of wine, we happily walked back through the warm Madrid night to The Principal Hotel, our Madrid home.

From Massage Table to Tapas Table

White Tuna on bed of Caramelized Onions and Peppers

Spanish Vegetable Rice

Gazpacho

The Tapas Counter

Its Finally Restored

After our travel adventures yesterday, which did at least culminate in a great meal at Roostiq, it was time to settle in and relax. Relaxation to us means massage, so we knew that would be on the day’s agenda.

After a few stops for grooming, we headed up to the hotel’s rooftop spa for a 90-minute massage. Cathy and I agreed it was exceptional. We asked for a relaxation massage, and that is exactly what we got. We emerged thoroughly relaxed and convinced we had made excellent use of 90 minutes. We returned to our room and prepared for the next strenuous activity of the day: drinking wine on the hotel balcony.

The balcony overlooks the finally completed Metrópolis Madrid Hotel across the street. Over the years we have stayed at The Principal, we’ve watched the restoration slowly progress, so I’m glad to see it finally finished. Metrópolis is marketing itself as super-exclusive, and I doubt it will be frequented by our kind of people, but Jaimie insists that we scout it out. Maybe a drink tomorrow—if they let us in—is in order. I’ll try to dress appropriately.

For dinner we made reservations at one of our favorite Madrid restaurants, Celso y Manolo, a wonderful neighborhood take on a tapas bar. It is a very short hike from our hotel, which after a 90-minute massage was about as much exercise as we were prepared to undertake.

As far as I could tell, we were the only non-locals in the restaurant. The food is terrific and the dishes are seasonal. Look at those tomatoes! They serve them with four different Spanish olive oils, which seems excessive until you taste them and realize four might not be enough.

The gazpacho was perfect. We wiped the bowl clean with our bread. Not a drop was going to waste. The highlight for us, though, was the rice dish, loaded with vegetables. We kept trying to figure out how they managed to give it such a deep, dark color and intense flavor. I don’t want to get obsessive about the food—although longtime readers know that ship sailed years ago—but the white tuna sat atop the most delicious caramelized onions.

Madrid is a city for food lovers. In fact, we are now inspired to try some Spanish cooking when we get home. Cathy is a great cook and I serve as her sous chef, so between her expert execution and my chopping and following orders, I think we have a pretty good chance of bringing a little Madrid back to our kitchen.

Tomorrow, some culture. Madrid has some of the greatest museums in the world, and we intend to take advantage of them. We can’t spend the entire trip eating. Or at least we probably shouldn’t.

Madrid: Wheelchairs, Martinis and the Great Five-Euro Crisis

Best Cheese Cake Ever

Birthday Girl

A decent Martini

2 Slices of perfect Tomato

Confit of Artichoke

Mushrooms if you know to ask for them

Piquillo Peppers

This has been quite a day.

After checking out of the hotel, we headed to the airport. Ours was an inter-EU flight, and the terminal was bare bones. No club room. No anything.

Cathy had requested wheelchair assistance, and it was different from anything we had previously experienced. They wheeled her, with me tagging along, to a very unusual-looking vehicle. It drove out to the plane and parked on the opposite side from the stairs. Then the entire cabin of the vehicle rose into the air until it was level with the service door of the plane. The door opened and we simply walked onto the plane. No stairs. No struggle. We thought it was quite ingenious.
When we landed in Madrid, things didn’t work quite as smoothly.

We assumed—incorrectly—that wheelchair pushers would be waiting when we exited the plane. Cathy would plop into a wheelchair and off we would go to collect our luggage.

Wrong.

We walked down a very long ramp looking for wheelchair pushers. None. We kept walking. Still none. By now this was becoming quite a hike.

I happened to look back through the windows and saw one of those strange vehicles approaching our plane. It suddenly dawned on me: we never should have gotten off the plane. Of course, nobody had bothered to tell us that.
So we walked all the way back and boarded the plane again, just so we could get off the plane again—this time through the service door.

The vehicle lowered us to ground level, where we were transferred to yet another vehicle. This one seemed to drive endlessly through tunnels underneath the Madrid airport. I began to wonder if we were actually being driven to downtown Madrid. Eventually we emerged somewhere near baggage claim.

I’m skipping parts. Trust me, you’re welcome.

By the time we finally collected our luggage, escaped the airport and found our driver, we were exhausted.
We arrived at The Principal Hotel, where we have stayed many times. At reception they asked for all our details. I explained that they should already have them.
“They changed computer systems and lost all their customer history.”

Wonderful, we were chopped liver.

This was beginning to be not quite the Madrid arrival I had envisioned.

They showed us to our suite. Unfortunately, it had two single beds. It was Cathy’s birthday, and I was not going to let her sleep alone on her birthday.
I called downstairs. “You need to move us. We want one large bed.”

They called back and explained there were no other suites available. But not to worry. Go out to dinner, they said, and while you are gone we will replace the two beds with one king-size bed.

Really?

When we returned, there it was: one large bed. How in the hell they did that I have no idea, but as far as I was concerned the hotel had redeemed itself. And just to make sure we forgave them, they had also left a bottle of Champagne and a birthday cake for Cathy.

All was forgiven.

There was still the Martini test. I have been through Martini hell in Spain trying to get someone to make me a dry gin Martini. Nevertheless, I decided to risk it. I am happy to report they produced a perfectly decent Martini.

Then came the Great Five-Euro Crisis. I only had €10, €20, €50 and €100 notes, but I wanted some €5 notes for tips. I asked the front desk for change. They didn’t have any.
So I devised what I thought was a brilliant plan. Rather than charge my Martini and Cathy’s wine to the room, I would pay the waiter with a €50 note. Voilà! Smaller bills as change. The waiter took my €50 and disappeared.

And stayed disappeared.

We had dinner reservations. Cathy was hungry. Other people at the bar were looking around wondering where the waiter had gone because they wanted another drink. Apparently my attempt to manufacture €5 notes had brought the entire bar operation to a halt. My clever plan was not playing particularly well with Cathy. Finally, I gave up. I told the receptionist we had dinner reservations and had to leave. She explained that the waiter was still trying to find change and promised they would leave it in our room. When we returned from dinner, there was my change, waiting for me on our dresser.

More kudos to the hotel. But I still don’t understand why it is so damn difficult to get a €5 note.

Dinner was at Roostiq. If Roostiq were in Los Angeles, we would be regulars. They have their own farm and raise their own pigs and vegetables. They bake their own bread, which has one of the greatest crusts ever created. We have eaten there several times before, and this visit was every bit as good. God, I wish they were in LA.

I won’t list everything we ate because it was a lot, but there were incredible artichokes—and who would have thought we would get excited about artichokes, although we had eaten them here before—tomatoes from their farm, chicken, Iberian pork, mushrooms that weren’t even on the menu but that I asked them to prepare anyway, and what I consider the best cheesecake ever. I hope you get the idea Roostiq is a must if you are ever in Madrid.

And one final observation: the entire bill, including a bottle of one of our favorite wines, was about half of what we had been paying for dinner in Paris.

We love Paris, but Madrid is making a very strong case for itself as a dining destination.

How a Volcano and a Mispronunciation Sent Us to Madrid

Sometimes plans get completely upset. The question is how you deal with them.

Last night, after our very unsatisfactory dinner at L’Ami Louis, we did our final packing, set out the clothes we would wear on the plane to Sicily, and went to bed.

I woke up this morning and read an email from our airline. Our flight had been cancelled and we had been rebooked for tomorrow. Mt. Etna had blown its top and the airport was closed.

Not a great message to wake up to.

The airline had rebooked us for the next day, but who knew what the volcano was going to be doing then? Apparently Mt. Etna does not consult airline schedules. Tomorrow’s flight could just as easily be cancelled again. Update: the flight we were rebooked on the next day was also cancelled. Our intuition was right!

At the other end of Sicily is Palermo far away from Mt.Edna. We checked flights there, but nothing was available. Then another thought dawned on us: What if we did manage to get to Sicily and then couldn’t get off the island in time to fly back to Paris for our flight home to Los Angeles?

Suddenly Sicily was beginning to sound less like a vacation and more like a hostage situation.

In the back of her mind, Cathy had always said that if we couldn’t make it to Sicily, we would go to Aix-en-Provence. We had been there before and it is charming. So we began a frantic search to figure out how to get there, where to stay, and, most importantly, where to eat. The internet hummed with our research.

We finally narrowed the hotels down to two. One was Villa Gallici Hôtel & Spa - Relais & Châteaux.

I kept calling it “Galicia.”

Cathy corrected me: “Galicia is in Spain.”
A bell immediately went off in my head. Spain!

Why were we putting ourselves through all the stress of inventing an entirely new substitute vacation in Aix-en-Provence when there was a city in Spain we already knew and loved? “Let’s go to Madrid.”

Bingo.

Much less stress. We know Madrid. We love Madrid. We know where we like to stay, what we like to do, and — most important — where we like to eat.

So tomorrow we fly to Madrid, all because I couldn’t pronounce the name of a hotel in Aix-en-Provence correctly.
The stress level immediately dropped. We got our flights, secured an extra night in Paris — never exactly a punishment — and tomorrow we head for Spain.

I know we will have some cancellation issues to deal with at the hotels in Sicily, but a volcano seems like a pretty good excuse.

Tonight, for our unexpected bonus night in Paris, we went to one of our friend Jaimie's favorite brasseries, La Rotonde. We had a classic French dinner: oysters, snails, Dover sole, a great bottle of wine, and a wonderful dessert. The restaurant looks like a movie set — mirrors, red velvet, brass, and even a mirrored ceiling.

After a day that began with a volcano blowing up our vacation, it was a pretty damn good way to end it.

And tomorrow: Madrid, Spain not Aix-en-Provence, France.
All because I said “Galicia” instead of “Gallici.”

Dreams Turn to Nighmeres

 

Typical Marais Street

Checking Out the Local Market

Champagne at our hotel

We finally made it!

Slabs of Foie Gras

Potatoes with Duck Fat

Chicken

We started the day quite late, but we are on vacation, so who cares? The Pope’s big events were today, and Paris was pretty locked down—streets blocked, Métro stations closed, and police everywhere.

Cathy thinks Paris sometimes feels like a movie set, and she is right. It is almost too perfect: beautiful architecture, sidewalk cafés, people walking and bicycling everywhere, and seemingly everyone looking as though they belong in Paris. The Marais, where we are staying, is especially congested, but in a good way. It feels alive.

We took a long walk and bought some gifts for friends back in the States, then returned to the hotel to prepare for dinner.

But first there was the matter of the bottle of Champagne the hotel had given us. We obviously weren’t going to take it home, and wasting Champagne would be irresponsible, so we brought it down to the courtyard and drank it. Problem solved.

Then it was time to head off to my dream restaurant: L’Ami Louis.

Cathy claims I have been talking about eating there for only 20 years. I think it has been much longer. Either way, she has had to listen to me talk about it for far too long, and tonight the quest was finally going to end.

L’Ami Louis is tiny and wood-paneled, and it reminded both of us of an old-fashioned train dining car. It was recently bought by Bernard Arnault, the chairman of LVMH and one of the richest men in the world. His empire includes Louis Vuitton, Dior and a large portion of the things people buy when they have considerably more money than they need. He is also behind the Fondation Louis Vuitton, the spectacular Frank Gehry-designed museum that, unfortunately for us, is closed while they install a new exhibition.

And now he owns L’Ami Louis.

Cathy chose a great wine, a Volnay Premier Cru Clos. Spoiler alert: the wine was the best part of dinner.

I ordered exactly what L’Ami Louis is famous for: foie gras, potatoes and, of course, the chicken. I knew dinner was going to be expensive. I just assumed it was also going to be great.

The foie gras arrived in several enormous slabs. It was rich and good, but there was far more than any two normal human beings could possibly eat. There was one very nice touch: halfway through they replaced our bread, explaining that the new bread was hot and therefore better with the foie gras. They were right.

Rather than critique every course, I’ll get to the point.

We have had better chicken at Zuni Café in San Francisco and at numerous restaurants in Los Angeles like Republique or Henryetta.

For years I had read that people fell into two camps about L’Ami Louis. Half thought it was one of the greatest meals of their lives. The other half thought it was wildly overrated.

Put us firmly in the second camp.

The meal wasn’t bad. It was ok. But after 20—or possibly 30—years of anticipation, “ok” was not exactly what I had in mind.

Still, I am happy I finally went. The quest is over. I can cross L’Ami Louis off the list and look back fondly on a very good bottle of Volnay.

We had plenty of leftovers, and my original plan was to take the chicken back to the hotel and ask the chef to make chicken sandwiches for us for lunch the next day. We left the restaurant carrying a large bag containing chicken and a considerable amount of foie gras.

By the time we reached the hotel, however, neither of us wanted to eat any of it again. Why spend tomorrow’s lunch being reminded of tonight’s dinner?

Then Cathy remembered that in an alley adjoining our hotel there were two tents where homeless people were sleeping.

So I took our large bag of L’Ami Louis chicken and foie gras over and left it between the two tents.

Hopefully, tomorrow morning someone will wake up, unzip their tent and discover that breakfast has been catered by one of the most famous restaurants in Paris.

The world is going to hell, so on any realistic scale an overpriced, disappointing chicken dinner ranks pretty low among life’s tragedies.

But I am still left with one question.

What were all those people who raved about L’Ami Louis thinking?

Maybe it is the history. Maybe it is the exclusivity. Maybe it is the status of being able to say you ate there.

Or maybe they had more Volnay than we did.

Rising to the Ocaccsion

Verjus

Place de Voges, where we are staying

Casey Casey, a favorite of ours

Living room of our suite

Avocado Toast or is it Salmon with Avocado?

 

Beans with Verjus Sauce and Raisins 

This was a very slow-starting day. I stayed up late and woke up early. Jet lag is a bitch. I think it gets harder as you age. Of course, last night’s excessive dinner and all the wine we drank might have been contributing factors. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to tonight’s dinner.

Spoiler alert: I rose to the challenge.

We finally managed to crawl out of bed and head downstairs to eat. In honor of Lynn, whose mission in life is apparently to try every avocado toast on earth, I had to order it. It arrived buried under smoked salmon. I began to wonder if, in France, salmon is cheaper than avocado. No matter. It was good.

I had done some research and wanted to buy Cathy a custom cane. Because of her back, a cane is a godsend for long walks. She doesn’t need one around the house, shopping, or going out to restaurants in Los Angeles, but for an extended walk it is a must.

Naturally, I researched canes. There probably aren’t many people who come to Paris with “find the ultimate cane store” on their itinerary, but I found it: Galerie Fayet.

I wish I had taken some pictures inside, but either due to my slow recovery from last night or the excitement of finding myself in the Louvre of walking sticks, your faithful photographer missed the moment.

The store was filled with hundreds of canes, made from different woods and with every imaginable kind of handle—leather-covered, silver, bone, and who knows what else. I expected Cathy would choose a cane, they would custom-make it for her, and several months later a French walking stick would arrive in Los Angeles.

Wrong.

Cathy picked a beautiful red cane with a two-tone handle. The saleswoman measured her, took out a saw, and cut the cane to exactly the right height.

That was it.

Who knew? There is an advantage to buying a wooden stick. No software update. No app. No waiting for FedEx. Just a saw.

From the cane store we went to Casey Casey. Cathy and I both like Casey Casey clothing, and their Paris store is their only retail outlet. We looked around, Cathy found something perfect to buy and then we returned to the hotel, where I was exhausted from jet lag, lack of sleep, and the previous night’s overindulgence.

A nap was in order.

Later we went back out shopping and eventually returned to the hotel for a drink. Apparently I was recovering, because I was now faced with another tasting menu, this time at Verjus.

I really wondered: Could I do this again?

It turns out I could.

We eventually found the restaurant, our Uber driver had to ask for assistance her navigation was failing her. In retrospect I forgive her and Google, the restaurant had no sign we were actually there. Our driver lowered her window and called out to a woman sitting on a flight of stairs: "Where is Verjus"? The woman pointed up toward the stairs, we hiked up and there it was. The restaurant was a delight. The tasting menu was only four courses, with four different pared wines. After some of the marathon tasting menus we’ve had, four courses almost seemed like diet food.

The food was great. This is a restaurant I’m very happy to recommend.

More importantly, there was a bean dish we loved, so we asked about it. They actually told us how it was made. The secret was a verjus sauce with raisins marinated in it, giving the sauce a wonderful combination of sweet and vinegary flavors that was perfect with the beans.

Now, of course, we have to try to reproduce it at home. This is should lead to some fun cooking experiments.

Tomorrow night will be the culmination of all my Parisian food desires. There is one restaurant I have dreamed of going to for over 40 years, ever since I first read Patricia Wells writing about it: L’Ami Louis.

Forty years is a long time to build up expectations for a roast chicken. We finally have our chance to decide for ourselves.

Tomorrow we find out if the chicken can transform itself into an ultimate dining experience.

Would Picasso Approve

 

Garden behind Dove Street Market

Picasso Museum

Cliff Back

Tom's new favorite Bean Dish with Caviar

All the wines we drank tonight

Our friend Lynn from San Francisco contacted us to tell us she was in Paris. She keeps following us around, the last time we saw we were in Tokyo when she popped up saying she was also there. Now Paris, we expect to see her on our next overseas jaunt. We immediately made arrangements to meet for breakfast and spend the day together. Still suffering from jet lag, we told her to come to our hotel at 10:00. Ten o’clock now qualifies as an early start.

Lynn joined us for breakfast and then we headed out shopping. Our first goal was to walk to Dover Street Market, the fashion-forward store with branches we have visited in London, Tokyo and Los Angeles.
The store is a maze—and amazing. It is less like shopping and more like visiting a museum devoted to clothes you would never actually wear. You wander around looking at things and asking yourself, “Who wears this?” Apparently somebody does, because Dover Street Market continues to thrive. We may simply not know the right people.

From there we went to a Japanese pop-up clothing store near the Picasso Museum. I successfully resisted buying anything, an accomplishment that apparently did not interest Cathy or Lynn. They had a very good time.

Behind the store was a beautiful garden, and we stopped for a while just to sit and take it all in. One of the pleasures of Paris is that you can go shopping and suddenly find yourself sitting in a beautiful hidden garden. In Los Angeles, you are more likely to find a parking structure.

We then went to the Picasso Museum. It is housed in a gorgeous old mansion, and Cathy and I had visited it years ago. Since then it has been extensively renovated. We were disappointed.

We don’t want to sound like hometown chauvinists, but after seeing the new Geffen Galleries at LACMA, with their beautiful concrete walls, the stark white galleries at the renovated Picasso Museum seemed sterile. Of course, we realize we are Americans visiting Paris and complaining that one of their museums isn’t as attractive as ours. This may be grounds for deportation.And we certainly aren’t criticizing Picasso. Just his newly remodeled home. Picasso remains blameless.

After all this culture and shopping, we returned to the hotel to rest. We needed to prepare ourselves for the serious business of dinner. Dinner was at Septime.

We arrived at 8:00 and ate and drank until 11:30. Three and a half hours. This is not dinner. It is a commitment. Septime serves only a seven-course tasting menu with an optional wine accompaniment. “Optional” seemed like an odd word to us, so naturally we had the wines. You can see in the picture just how many. By the end of the evening, we had received quite an education.

The highlight for both of us was a bean dish topped with caviar, layered over an ajo blanco sauce. It was terrific. (Are you reading this, Tom? We know about you and your bean fetish.) Apparently even beans can become haute cuisine if you put enough caviar on top of them.

There was also a wonderfully complex mushroom dish with pickled grapes. Pickled grapes? Who wakes up one morning and thinks, “I know what these mushrooms need—pickled grapes”? Whoever it was, they were right. They were delicious.
The service was wonderful, with detailed explanations of every dish and every wine. There were quite a few explanations. By wine number whatever, we were still listening attentively—or at least trying to look as though we were.

Septime is a must for any food lover. Excellent food, interesting wines, terrific service and enough surprises to keep you entertained for three and a half hours.
Tomorrow may present a different kind of entertainment.The Pope is in town. Roads will be closed, security is intense, and getting around Paris may be a challenge. We survived seven courses and all those wines. Surely we can handle the Pope.