A café terrace

Two tables, four chairs, two ashtrays.

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In spite of a preoccupation with la santé publique (public health) and the many precautions surrounding Le Covid in France, ironically, smoking continues as before, as evidenced by ashtrays set out on terrace tables at most cafés and restaurants. Before smoking inside restaurants was prohibited I'd been working on a book, "The Non-Smokers Guide To Paris," but while my co-authors and I were still researching and compiling information the ban came into effect and in truth, it was a welcome development.

 

When the law first appeared it clearly stated that besides interiors, enclosed terraces would be subject to the new smoke-free rules. But in no time at all smokers and their smoke invaded all terraces. Owners turned a blind eye; many of their regulars were smokers, as were they. I’d grown up around cigarettes; my father had been a chain smoker for awhile and, it seemed, so were all of his French friends who’d spend hours together all talking at the same time, puffing away. Smoking was not stigmatized, it was sophisticated, a choice, an after-dinner plaisir enhanced by an espresso, and I chose not to take it up, nor was I tempted (deaths in France due to smoking-related illnesses are high but accurate stats are hard to come by). So I shouldn't have been surprised when the prolific tabac quietly showed up on the list of “essential purchases only” establishments allowed to stay open, along with supermarkets, gas stations and pharmacies during the confinement.

 

While Paris, as any large city, has its share of noxious vapors and air pollution, for me, one thing that's come out of all this is that masks can make sense. However whether they make sense for a virus (smoke molecules are much larger yet their fumes go right through the masks) is another debate. - BPJ

Rue du Trésor

Fellow journalists-bon vivants have an apartment on this cobbled "Street of the Treasure," so named after a cache of coins dating from the 14th and 15th centuries was discovered during its construction.

 

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Merci Monique et Stéphane

Most missed

One of the things I missed most during le lockdown? Chaotic sharing meals around a table, with friends.

  

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10 things I missed most
July newsletter

Balloon boy

Graffiti in relief partially down a Montmartre stairway.

Caramel wonder

It's buttery. It's flaky. It's infused with salted butter caramel and there's nothing else like it. Anywhere.

Where is it?

July newsletter

 

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Merci Renée

A week in Provence #7

 

One of the most delightful market outings imaginable was the Sunday morning marché at Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. The market runs along the river, with no shortage of cafés and restaurants.

Above: fragrant herbes de Provence and lavender; regional olive oils and vinegars

Below: leisurely start each day with breakfasts of homemade confitures and cakes, fresh orange juice, coffee, fruit; still hot-from-the-oven artisanal croissants with chocolate filling; arriving for dinner in Lacoste to sweeping views with village of Bonnieux in the background 

A week in Provence #6

For much of this road trip before heading out each morning we'd map where a village market would be on that particular day, getting us up and out early.

Above: stalls at the compact Thursday morning market in the village of Ménerbes, home to British author Peter Mayle of "A Year In Provence" fame

Below: the obligatory stop-to-refresh in nearby Lourmarin followed by a summery lunch

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As friends and I recall when we get together and exchange stories from what we call our "Cadaqués days," a time of adventure, misadventure and intrigue, there was the time I'd been invited by "Captain" Peter Moore and Catherine, his Swiss wife, to their home for lunch. The  house was an architectural wonder on the tip of a sort of peninsula surrounded by security cameras and stunning views of the Mediterranean. Inside, the walls dripped with paintings and, incredibly, enormous Salvador Dalí wall tapestries, something I'd not realized existed. An effervescent Irishman, Peter had served in the British Royal Navy prior to becoming Dalí's personal secretary and business manager, accompanying the maestro all over the world for years, and was to become embroiled in an international art forgery scandal. But on this idyllic day it was just me, daughter Danielle (quite small back then), Peter, Catherine, and their guest and dear friend, Lyle Stuart, publisher of a controversial children's book by a certain Peter Mayle called, "Where Did I Come From?" Just before we left, Lyle, enchanted with Danielle, disappeared for a moment and soon emerged with a copy of the book, which he duly signed and dedicated then and there, a cherished gift and memento of that wonderful afternoon now buried somewhere among piles of books in our Montmartre home.

 

Meanwhile Peter Mayle, who I never did get the chance to meet, was working on "A Year In Provence," published not that long after, in 1989. the year of Dalí's death. In 2018 he was to pass away in his beloved Provence. - BPJ