I woke up to the cart clanking down the aisle. Time for breakfast and our descent into Paris.
I sat my seat up, reached to pull the tray out, and it started squishing me. I tugged again, no luck. I had to ask a stewardess for help. She poked around for a minute and discovered my seatbelt, the very one I had tucked rebelliously under the blanket the night before, had jammed the whole seat mechanism. Karma, on Air France. She fixed it, I shook off the embarrassment, and we settled in for breakfast.
We landed at Charles de Gaulle and customs was crazy. The line was long and the booths were few. Thankfully Sky Priority saved us a long wait.
We grabbed our bags, Mom still loyal to her trusty old red, and headed out to find our driver.
Our driver this year was a different guy. We had his phone number but no name. He had texted me at 6:43 a.m. saying he was at the passenger exit with a board. Then a minute later, a follow-up: “Sorry, what is your name please, I don’t have it.”
Off to a great start.
The car ride had three little chapters. At the start, Mom forgot how fast you have to buckle in over here, so the car was dinging at us while she fumbled with the belt. As we got close to the city, the buildings started to shift. Flower boxes. Cafés. That unmistakable Paris charm. We were both smiling, so happy to be back.
In the middle of the drive, our friendly driver gave us his best tips for museums on the rainy days we apparently had ahead. He said the Rodin Museum is a must, and he was nice enough to send the whole list via WhatsApp.
At the end, as we pulled up to the hotel, he was coaching us about paying quickly because the hotel road is one-way and moving traffic. Mom asked if he had tap to pay. He said yes. So she reached into her wallet and handed him her driver’s license.
I quickly whipped up my phone, opened Apple Pay, and saved the day. We jumped out at Hotel Pas de Calais.
We walked in and were thrilled to see Valerie. She gave us a warm welcome and shared the secret. She had been the one quietly handling all of our reservations for the week. Of course she had been.
We headed straight to breakfast. The very nice woman at the breakfast room could not quite understand my order. She brought us each a decaf with a smile. I told Mom we would get it straight tomorrow.
Our room this year was Room 15, on the first floor. We got to walk right up the stairs and skip the elevator drama from last year entirely. The room was actually an upgrade. Bigger bathroom, a real window in the bathroom, and a little table with chairs.
Then we came back upstairs and committed to a nap. And by nap I mean we put on our PJs, brushed our teeth, turned on the sound machine, nodpod and slept for three solid hours. Not a nap. A full reset.
By 1:45 we were heading to Sensation Spa for our 2 p.m. 90-minute massages. Not a minute to spare.
The massage guy was super nice but had no memory of us from last year. The massage was exactly what we needed. We came out floating, right into a downpour.
Ubers became our best friend. Ubered back to the hotel, showered, got ready, then Ubered to Allard for our 7:15 dinner.
Allard was wonderful. The tables are pushed close together, which we discovered immediately when we made friends with our neighbors from New York. She was a hoot. Widowed, traveling with her partner this time.
We told her we had ordered the duck to share. She made a face and said, “I don’t know that I would want to try that.” I said, “I know. I am only doing it because why not.” I am not really a duck person, but we were splitting it, and how do you skip Allard’s signature dish.
The free apps came out and we were already smiling. Cucumber, and a light, puffy cheese biscuit that I could have eaten ten of. The asparagus appetizer was so good.
Allard’s signature is the Challans duck with olives, and it has a story. The bistro was founded in 1932 by Marthe Allard, a mother-cook from Burgundy who brought her family recipes up to Paris. She passed everything down to her daughter-in-law Fernande, who is credited with the duck recipe that has been on the menu for nearly a hundred years. People come from all over for it.
When the duck arrived, our neighbor looked over and said, “Oh my god, that is so rare.” I told her the chef had recommended it that way and that we could send it back if we wanted more cooking on it, which is exactly what we did. They were lovely about it, but the skin never got crispy and it just was not the magical duck we thought it would be. Mom nicknamed it a rubber duck!
When we asked for it to be taken away, they came back a moment later with a doggy bag. A complete misunderstanding. Our New York neighbors howled. We all laughed about it.
That cracked the door wide open. After the laughing died down, she told us her partner had ordered the pork tenderloin and it was great. Of course it was. I told her about Monet’s garden in Giverny, that it is a must, and she was disappointed she could not fit it in this trip. And we spent a good chunk of time workshopping what to order at breakfast tomorrow so we wouldn’t end up with two more decafs. It took a lot of discussion and a lot of time, but we landed on a plan.
Dessert finished off the night. I had the chocolate mousse, which Allard serves in a way I love. They bring a giant freshly made bowl of it to the table, and for a glorious second you wonder if the whole bowl is for you. (I am pretty sure they enjoy the moment.) Then they scoop a few generous spoonfuls into your bowl on top of a layer of Chantilly cream and something else to tone down the richness. The chocolate scoops sit on top.
Mom had the chocolate profiteroles. She said they were one of the best she had ever had. Finally she was happy. She had not been happy about the duck.
I stood up to leave and somehow my napkin caught the tablecloth, and the whole thing started coming with me. My new friend held the entire tablecloth still, as the wine glasses wobbled, the candles wobbled, my dignity wobbled. Not a graceful exit.
Back at the hotel, we climbed into bed full, happy, and back where we belonged. Day 1 in Paris was already shaping up to be a story.
(Postscript: the magic word turned out to be Caffè Crema. Got it right the next morning.)
Happiness is Possible 