Sit-down Saturday

 

Alone at his regular spot, an elderly gentleman enjoys his morning coffee.

 

Flashback Friday

Festive feasting in the English countryside.

 Above: roasted wild pheasants; savory stuffing; fresh (apple-raisin-orange-zest) cranberry chutney; creative salads; home-made tartes

Below: chestnuts for the stuffing; a chai-obsessed chicken; glorious sunrise on a country road 

 

 

 

 

3 hours (or less) from Paris

Eurostar

 

London

 

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Years ago, living in London and invited by friends to the Cotswolds, I was surprised to discover that in the modern English countryside game birds regularly appear on tables ready to carve, and some say are more abundant than ever. These birds, trussed with rosemary, roasted til golden, skin crackling, have earned their place in the kitchen. The majority of pheasants and partridges survive the season to breed wild. Hedgerows are planted and managed specifically for them, cover crops of kale and quinoa stretch for miles and predators are legally controlled. The result: on a good estate you’ll see thirty or forty pheasants strutting along a single lane at dusk, tails flashing, while coveys of partridges whirl up from the stubble like brown fireworks. Soon the birds are plucked, seasoned simply with sea salt, cracked pepper, butter, rosemary or thyme sprigs and laid breast-up on the rack. Glasses are filled with good red wine or a local cider, and the company - cheeks flushed from laughter and gathering chestnuts - falls upon the feast with the honest hunger that only a day in the cold can give. Welcome to the enchanting rhythm of the countryside. - BPJ

 

 

Next newsletter

An English country Thanksgiving

 

Thursday thoughts

 At café Les Deux Magots Paris pauses between present and past.

 

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Paris, the city where time does not merely pass but folds back on itself, like the Seine curling around Île de la Cité. The same cobblestones that felt the heels of revolutionaries in 1789 now support the hurried sneakers of tourists chasing that perfect Instagram of Notre Dame Cathedral. Inside Les Deux Magots, the café tables where Hemingway nursed vermouth and Simone de Beauvoir black coffee (while scribbling pages that would one day shake the world’s conscience), today hosts twenty-somethings who stretch five-euro coffees like it's a full-time job, and, like a mille-feuille, centuries collapse into a single afternoon. Stand on the Pont Neuf at dusk and watch lights flicker on along the quais, and suddenly understand that this city is not old or new but perpetually now - an eternal present tense where a medieval past and electric delivery scooters all occupy the same breathless moment, because Paris refuses to let anything truly end. - BPJ

Windmill Wednesday

Montmartre at night, where almost every corner feels like a painting.

Above: Le Moulin de la Galette

Table Tuesday

 

 

Golden leaves carpet the ground at the Renoir Gardens, one of Paris' quiet treasures.

 

 

Mocha Monday

 A café crème to start the week.

PAUL

corner of rue de Seine / rue de Buci 75006 

 

Sit-down Saturday

 

 

Looking back to warmer days.

 

île-de-Ré

3 hours (or less) from Paris