Paris, My Way

by Stefanie Berry

Thank God I'd already visited Mona. I saw her the last time I was in Paris. Seeing her smile was worthwhile, as was visiting the other spectacular monuments, museums and grand boulevards of the city. Truth is, I didn't need to see them again. I'd already paid homage.

This time, my Paris plan is just to be here, to focus on everyday life. I want to wander the streets and check out whatever interests me. This, I decide, is the way to experience the smaller pleasures of Paris and to encounter unexpected surprises that will make my journey intimately memorable.

It begins within my first hour of arrival, when I'm captivated by what I see—from decorative iron lampposts to a dog walker with five poodles of various sizes and colors. Before long, I learn that my approach is actually rather Parisian. To stroll aimlessly through neighborhood streets and parks is a pastime so common here that it's taken for granted. There's even a French word for it. Flâner means to stroll or to saunter without a specific plan; un flâneur is one who does this. So for a week this is what I am, one who soaks up the essence of Paris every step of the way.

Walking and Window Shopping

Wherever I walk, I can't help peering into charming storefronts and boutique windows. It seems that there's always something wonderful to look at—rows of delicious-looking pastries, adorable baby clothes, beautiful fabrics, art galleries, toys and more.

I decide to check out the fabled rue Saint Honoré on the Right Bank, where haute couture shops fill their windows with the latest très chic designer fashions. To get there, I walk down simple, non-touristy streets and pass bits of real-life Paris that not all foreigners see: an unobtrusive dry cleaner, a barber shop, a woman carrying four baguettes under one arm as naturally as if they were her purse. I pass a nondescript café and smile when an unexpected "Bonjour!" and a friendly wave come my way from a man working the take-away window.

Then, suddenly, I arrive—surprised that rue Saint Honoré is not the glitzy Fifth Avenue–like road I expect, but a narrower, slightly winding street with intimately sized upscale shops. Yes, Hermès, Cartier, Christian Lacroix, Yves Saint Laurent, Louis Féraud, Versace, Valentino and Guy Laroche populate this street—but subtly, elegantly. I'm struck by the dichotomy of old and new, given the established feeling of this legendary street and the cutting-edge items on display.

But the shop I can't resist entering isn't filled with high fashion. Back on the Left Bank, I stop at a Latin Quarter storefront so old that I wonder if the door opens and shuts well enough to lock. The sign says François Chanut livres anciens. I peer through crooked wood-framed windows and see stacks of old books, some propped open to reveal gorgeous pictures.

Once inside the one-room shop, a children's book from 1931 called Le Mariage de la Tour Eiffel by J. Roche-Mazon catches my eye. I flip through the book about Parisians trying to find the Eiffel Tower a husband. Notre Dame is too big for her. Place de la Concorde's Obélisque is too small. By the end of this fairy tale, the Tour Eiffel announces, "Je me suis unie au Grand Serpent de Mer." She marries a sea serpent. For a moment, I want to buy the book, but I realize that its charm will be lessened if it's removed from this seemingly perfect home at 41, rue Mazarine (01-43-54-04-70).

Street Food and Market Lunch

There's no denying it—street food in Paris is incredible. Sure, outstanding, upscale restaurants are everywhere, but they can be pricey and formal. As I wander, I'm usually content to grab something à emporter, to take away, when my stomach grumbles.

Not to be missed is the Marais, an old, charming neighborhood filled with boutiques and a handful of gardens and museums worth stumbling upon, including Musée Picasso, housed in an old mansion (5, rue de Thorigny). But it's rue des Rosiers, the heart of Paris's old Jewish quarter, that warms me. It's packed with people and delis, the smell of falafel wafting through the street. I stand in line and order a shwarma sandwich from a chef who claims he's an artist. He carefully prepares my order, and I carry it to the stunning Place des Vosges, unable to keep myself from nibbling on the way. Here, in Paris's oldest, most romantic square, people sit or stroll as if they had no worries. I watch an elderly man, two mothers and their toy-toting children, a couple of young lovers sitting on a bench.

Another day, I go to an outdoor market in the Latin Quarter. While there are supermarchés in Paris, Parisians still shop at food markets scattered throughout the city, most plentifully on the Left Bank. My travel companion is my sister, who used to live in Paris. She takes me to her old neighborhood market, marché Seine-Buci. It wraps around two streets, rue de Seine and rue de Buci, and is open every day but Monday with siesta-like midday breaks. I'm charmed by the fact that markets like this, with individual vendors dedicated to a particular product, are such a part of Parisian daily life. I watch locals gather dinner staples and wish such markets existed back home. The produce looks unusually fresh and natural—little boxes of kumquats, grapes the size of whole walnuts, and bundles of radishes still sporting leafy green tops. Definitely no genetically altered foods here. If I had a Parisian flat with a kitchen, maybe I'd buy a bundle of fresh asperges blanches (white asparagus), bigger than I've ever seen. Then there's the fromager, displaying more cheese choices than I knew existed, the boucherie, the pâtisserie...oh, the feast I could make!

Before long, we have a lunch bag filled with baguettes, a few cheeses, a slice of foie gras, bright red strawberries and perfect little macaroons (strawberry, pistachio, chocolate and café). We walk a short distance to the Seine, past les bouquinistes lining the riverbank, old books and posters on display, and down some steps. Then we situate ourselves in the little island garden at the tip of the Ile de la Cité. We spread our cheese on the baguette, eat impossibly sweet strawberries and watch boats pass by on either side. It's our simplest yet perhaps favorite meal of the week.

Café Lounging

It's raining the morning we go for coffee and a croissant at Café de Flore at 172, boulevard Saint-Germain (01-45-48-55-26). The famous café opened in 1913 and soon became the meeting place of famous poets, writers, philosophers and actors interested in exchanging ideas and thoughts. You must check out this place at least once while in Paris, despite the fact that you may see a few other tourists.

As soon as I'm inside, I'm glad the weather is dreary. I sip my coffee, which is good and strong, while my sister is warmed by her thick and creamy chocolat chaud (the taste is like a thousand chocolate kisses on your tongue). We hang out, as is expected, enveloped by a soothing buzz.

There is, of course, plenty to watch. A Frenchman tells visitors about the café's history, a woman in a leopard print dress walks in with her dog, passersby peer in at us as they scurry by under large umbrellas. A newspaper salesman enters and offers a selection of papers. Two women to our left pull out a shoebox and set it on the table between them. Out come a pair of lavender stiletto high heels, and the two examine them carefully, speaking quickly and dramatically. Then I see plates of perfect-looking salade Niçoise passing by and I know what I want—to move on to lunch, and to continue the day's activity exactly where I am.

A Real Meal

No one should miss the quintessential steak frites experience, which my sister and I stumble upon by accident one rainy evening. We come upon le Relais de l'Entrecôte at 15, rue Marbeuf (01-49-52-07-17) and know it must be good—people are waiting in line outside, getting wet. A half-hour later, despite our somewhat soggy shoes, we know that we made the right decision. Once inside, we simply sit down and tell our waitress how we want our beef cooked. That's it. There's one dinner option here, and it's salad and steak frites. Plates of lettuce dressed only with walnuts and mustard vinaigrette are placed before us. Simple but divine. The steak, topped with a "secret sauce," comes with a mound of perfect French fries. The combination is incredible. And that sauce—it tastes like a blend of cumin, mustard and olive oil to me, but there's no use in asking. We're told that the family-run restaurant guards its secret well. Indeed, a family member supplies the base of the sauce to cooks, who only know how to finish it off. It's so good that, if they bottled it, I'd buy it. But since they don't, my sister and I go back a second time during our weeklong visit, this time to the new Left Bank location at 20, rue Saint-Benoit (01-45-49-16-00).

Au Revoir

After a week of doing nothing but walking and wandering, my feet hurt and I'm tired. But I take one last walk through the glorious Jardin du Luxembourg. I'd walked here a few days earlier, on a glorious weekend when sunshine warmed a host of chess players, little children launching toy sailboats on the picturesque pond and seemingly every soul in Paris. Everyone and everything seemed relaxed and content.

This time, early on a workday, I study the scene: beautiful flowers, an occasional statue, empty chairs strewn every which way. There are no toy boats today, but the garden isn't empty. Art students sketch, an older man with his feet propped up on a chair reads the newspaper, a couple smiles and chats. Their laughter wafts toward me. A woman with a few shopping bags rests her feet, an older couple stroll hand in hand and a little girl with outstretched arms chases pigeons until they fly.

I don't want to leave.

Since her return, Senior Editor Stefanie Berry has considered opening Washington's first street-cart crêperie.