I saw this bathtub at Printemps and almost lost my shit. I stood there glued to the spot, staring at it in silent awe. It was the single greatest thing I’d seen in at least half an hour. It can be yours this Christmas for 7,200€. You’d be crazy not to. But if your friends and family are mean and miserly, one of these other gifts might do.
Paris is for drunks. Why else would wine be cheaper than Coke?
Sometimes, after spending an evening at La Perle (the Marais haute spot where John Galliano made drunken little bitch faces) it’s only natural to want to continue the night in the company of other drunks.
Well thank heavens for Le Connétable, the inconspicuous, rustic little after hours bar where the curtains are drawn and the party continues ‘til dawn. When La Perle closes its doors at 2am, Le Connétable inherits a peculiar mix of red-faced old men, young models, tortured artists and hot Guillaume Canet look-alikes. But most importantly, they’re all drunks. You’ll find nice drunks, mean drunks, over talkative drunks and quiet, moody drunks making love to you with their eyes.
Last week I had a laugh with an Australian drunk, an argument with a handsome French drunk, an involuntary waltz with a 60-year old drunk and I became BEST FRIENDS with a Scandinavian girl whose name I can’t remember. Ingrid (placeholder name) if you’re reading this, we must do it again!
Admittedly, the next day is never easy. But it’s nothing that a croque-monsieur can’t fix.
[Note: It has a cozy candlelit restaurant upstairs that serves a superb 3-course menu for 21 euros. Not a bad idea to eat there while you wait for the other drunks to arrive]
Le Connétable, 55 rue des Archives, 3éme
We all know that the best way to lose weight is to starve yourself and exercise like a maniac. So why is it that Parisians can eat rounds of Camembert larger than their heads, never step foot in a gym and still manage to fit neatly into one single metro seat? Now, it is true that they cook with fresh, seasonal ingredients, don’t overdo portion size and take time to savour every bite. And you certainly won’t see them sitting on their butts circling a multi story car park for half an hour. But even so. I call bullshit.
The real answer is…STAIRS. Beautiful, old, windy, timeless, I-can’t-possibly-have-another-floor-still-to-go stairs. In a city where real estate is nuts and an elevator comes with a big price tag, it’s not uncommon to trudge 106 stairs up to the charming shoe box you call home. And God help you if you have suitcases. That’s after attacking endless flights of stairs in the metro. And for some, there’s a stepladder still to climb to get to bed! Putain! That’s a lot of stairs, and two very skinny legs. And you know what? It’s worth every torn ligament. I’m massaging mine now with cocoa butter.
Guy de Maupassant once wrote, “A lip without a moustache is like a body without clothing.” So today, instead of celebrating Le Beaujolais Nouveau, let’s celebrate stylish Parisians with moustaches. No-one rocks a moustache better then the French. I captured these unshaven gentlemen strolling around the Marais, unaware that they were doing their part for Movember.
And look – I even found a boutique devoted to the cause. [Actually, it’s just a pet shop with a funny name.]
…become goats? In my intro post, I referred to an odd fellow that rides around the Marais on a bicycle pretending to be a goat. Well, yesterday I got a call from my good friend Thomas Chase, French interiors extraordinaire, who lives a couple of streets over on Rue Charlot. “Mel!” he says, “I got ‘im!”
“Got who?” I say. “Him! The goat guy!” to which we start laughing like excited kids. So, courtesy of Thomas’ excellently timed iPhone footage, we present to you – the goat guy. Is he just an exhibitionist? Or has he been drinking too much of that South African plonk ‘Goats do Roam’?
I once saw a T-shirt that said, “no-one gives a shit about your blog.” It made me chuckle. Let’s face it, anyone with a keyboard and an opinion can start one of these things. The guy that just delivered your pizza may have a blog. The lady who got in the 10 items or less queue yesterday with clearly more than that may have a blog. Justin Beiber’s love child may one day have a blog. So why not chronicle the exuberant highs and devastating lows of life in Paris?
I live in the notorious labyrinth of le Gai Marais, the postcard-perfect 3rd. I could write about designer boutiques, hole-in-the-wall bars, handsome men in tight jeans or the lunatic that rides around on a bicycle pretending to be a goat. He’s something else. Or I could just post pictures of camembert. Don’t pretend you won’t try and eat them.